#if i look at you now ill turn to stone and guard your tomb

[777durt777]

I'll live as long as my little lungs last

Haunting the depths of the flooded earth

Will be my skull

Found in water bound grass

Will you bring flowers to my grave?

#DUCKBOY #after further reasoning I'm going to bed #tragic love songs to study to [vol.5] #Can i at least keep your skull? #if i look at you now ill turn to stone and guard your tomb

[lunarastrobabe]

Rafe Adler x F!Reader- “Mr Adler”

(Warning: NSFW) (Some fluff/a little angst) 

Scotland 

“Nadine, it’s bad enough the Drake’s are involved.” Rafe said in frustration, walking alongside Nadine on their way to the cathedral. He clutched his handgun in his gloved hand, the snow crunching underneath his feet.

“You’d be surprised at how skilled she is, including knowledge on the treasure. Just give it time.” She replied, ignoring his tone of voice, she didn’t much care about his opinion, his funding to Shoreline was of the utmost importance to her. 

“Alright. Fine.” The snow gently falling in his hair and covering his shoulders like a blanket. 

“Good.” Satisfied, she made her way through the doors, following behind him into the cathedral and holstered her gun. 

You were invited to Scotland by Shoreline to accompany Nadine, your long-time friend and her partner into looking for Henry Avery’s Treasure, a 17th Century pirate who was known for pulling off the biggest heist in history back in 1695, known as the Gunsway. Rafe, now her partner in this hunt, you had only met him a few times, mostly at fancy events such as auctions and to make business deals considering how close him and Nadine were, she brought you along every time. 

You pulled your black furry jacket around you as tight as possible to stay warm as you waited in a room for Nadine to arrive with Rafe. It was dark, with a stone tomb in the middle of the room - quite small in size, and a map of the area. A large light stood in the corner of the room near the door, shining directly on the map, and a Shoreline soldier stood next to you. Multiple Shoreline cases piled up around the room, most likely filled with climbing equipment, ammunition and explosives, as you had known from working with Nadine, they’ll find any excuse to use dynamite. 

Hearing muttering outside the room, you darted your head back towards the sound, trying to stop yourself from shivering from the dropping temperature. Cold wasn’t even the right word to describe it, your limbs were numb and you just wanted to be home, curled up by the fireplace and watching tv or reading a book. 

Nadine walked through, pushing open the heavy doors and grinned at the sight of you in front of her. 

“[Y/N]!” She walked over to you and opened her arms and pulled you in for a hug, the sound of her boots echoing. “Nadine! I’ve missed you!” You were glad to see her again, it had been so long since you had seen each other, she was the one friend you could always count on whenever you had a problem. 

While you two were catching up, asking about each other and what you were both doing with your lives, and Rafe slowly walked in, an ill-tempered look on his face, completely ignoring your presence. You paused your conversation with Nadine and you both turned and look in his direction. 

“Rafe, any luck with those manuscripts?” She asked him, looking down at the map.

“Can we have a minute?” He lifted his head and stared at the wall, sounding calm. You looked over at Nadine and shrugged, as she gestured for you to leave while she spoke with him. The Shoreline soldier escorted you out and you waited patiently outside the door, trying not to eavesdrop but you also wanted to know what they were discussing. 

“Did you hear? They found a whole annexed area under the cathedral.” Nadine’s voice muffled because of the stone wall blocking your hearing. His voice was quiet, so not much could be heard coming from him, along with the sounds of explosions in the distance. The Shoreline soldier left your side and went to attend to an apparent disruption in the graveyard. You easily guessed who that could be.  

Thinking about what was going on outside, you hadn’t been listening to half of the conversation, until you heard him raise his voice, which caught your attention. 

“Well, I didn’t think he’d show up.“ You furrowed your brows, getting lost in your thoughts until a few minutes had passed and Nadine had left the room, shutting the door behind her. 

“I’ll come by later and we can go over everything.” She laughed a little. You could tell she didn’t like working with him, just from the stressed look on her face when she walked over to you. 

“Okay, wish me luck.” You said jokingly, giving her another hug before she left, two soldiers standing either side of her for protection. 

You turned back to the door, taking a deep breath and knocking first. Last time you had seen Rafe was at an auction in Paris. He was dressed in a black suit and a bow tie, handsome being the perfect word and the rest of that night, you had enjoyed the company of each other. 

“Come in.” His voice was soft, it made your heart skip a beat as it always had whenever he was around. 

Stepping back inside the room, letting the door close itself, noticing the map and the photographs were laying on the floor beside his feet. He sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. You kept quiet, slowly walking over and bending down to pick up the mess. He watched your every move, not taking a single eye off of you, then relaxing his muscles as he realised who you were. As you gathered up the pictures, he crouched down beside you, and as he did, you looked in front of you and met his. They were still a beautiful blue, green colour, just as you remembered. 

“Here, I got it.” His voice quiet and deep. He kept his eyes on you, snapping out of your trance from getting lost in his eyes, stuttering to find the right words to say. The way he looked at you, or when he’d speak to you or say your name, it always gave you that butterfly feeling in your stomach, everything about him made you weak. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t in love with him, because goddamn, you definitely were. 

“Long time no see.” You said, standing up with him, watching him put the pile back on the stone tomb. You couldn’t help but admire his features, his slicked back dark hair, and that smirk that made you swoon. 

“Nice to see you too, [Y/N].” He spread out the photos and made sure the map wasn’t creased or damaged. He was always polite and kind towards you, more so than he was with the people who worked for him. He took a quick glance over at you then back at focusing on what he was doing. 

Flashing him a smile, “So, I see you’re looking for Avery’s treasure, huh?” You rested your gloved, frozen hands against the stone, raising an eyebrow. 

He chuckled with slight anger in his voice at the slow progress he was making, “For the past fifteen goddamn years, yes.” Turning his body to face yours. “Although, I heard your knowledge could be of great use to me.” You two were extremely close, you could almost feel the heat radiating from his body to yours in the distance that was between you. Now it was his time to admire you, his eyes travelled up your physique, scanning every inch of you, looking at your neck, then your lips, then your eyes once again. 

Rafe never really fell in love with anybody throughout his life, maybe once or twice, but his mind and motivation to focus on his parents business and now hunting for Avery’s treasure was something that he now had pushed back and instead, keep his view on you. That night during the auction in Paris, seeing you all dressed up and elegant, he had feelings he hadn’t felt for an extremely long time, feelings he couldn’t describe, and keeping up his mean, tough exterior, he had a soft, loving side to him, which he kept to himself. Being around you, he was able to let his guard down. 

“You could say that.” You smirked at him staring at you, his eyes fixated back onto your lips, silence filling the room. 

“Cat got your tongue, Adler?” Whispering, you moved a step closer to him, feeling his clothes brush against yours. With no hesitation, he immediately snaked his arm through your jacket and around your waist, the smell of his expensive cologne was intoxicating. A stray hair fell from his head, hanging over above his eye. 

Reaching up you gently moved it and pushed it back. “Kiss me.” Was all that he said in that moment, leaning in, your lips gently pressed against his, very lightly at first but then getting used to the sweet taste in just a few seconds. His free hand met his other, pressing his body against yours and deepened the kiss. After a few minutes, he pulled back and licked his lips. 

“Sorry. I couldn’t resist.” He leaned down a little to meet your neck and left soft small kisses on your sweet spot. A quiet moan fumbled from your throat. 

“Rafe-” Closing your eyes, melting into his touch and how his tongue danced around. “We have work to do.” You tangled your fingers into his hair at the back of his head, scratching lightly, relaxing the both of you. 

“Hm. It can wait.” He lifted his head from your neck and caressed your cheek with his thumb, then delicately tracing your lips letting the tip of your tongue come into contact with him. You grabbed the fabric of his clothing and pulled him to you, slamming your lips into his. He slid his hands under your thighs and lifted you up, placing you on the map, not caring about his mission due to the feeling as if he was under a spell. You wrapped your legs around his hips and pulled him close to you, the feeling of his erection pushed against your core. 

“Fuck.” His breath shaking at the adrenaline rush and the arousal he was feeling, the grip on your thighs with his large hands getting tighter, as you were rubbing yourself against him. 

Pulling back from the kiss, you shuffled back removing your jacket along with your gloves and throwing them on the floor, moving his work out the way and grabbed his belt bringing him closer to you, all you wanted was to feel him hold you, feel your skin touching, to feel emotionally connected to the man you were in love with. Rafe settled in between your legs, his arms either side of your body looking at the black soft sweater that hugged your figure so perfectly, he undressed you with his mind. 

Hovering over your body, his muscles tensing up he opened his mouth to say something but hesitated. You looked at him with a sympathetic look, biting your lip you asked him, “Is everything okay?” You rested your hand on his cheek, then running your fingers gently through the side of his hair. 

A small smile appeared on his face, he shuddered, starved for affection as it seemed, you’d think with all the parties he attends and gala’s, he’d be surrounded by multiple women, but he chose you. 

“Can’t keep your hands off me, can you?” He smirked. 

“Who said I want to?” Leaning up on your elbows you reached over and moved your hands to undo his belt and zipper and sliding them inside his jeans, making sure to keep eye contact with him the entire time. You felt his soul burn through you, as if he was looking to you for answers to a puzzling thought that plagued his mind. He grunted a little once your cold hand found its way to his hard, throbbing cock, ready to break free from its cage. Your fingers stroking his length through the fabric of his boxers, feeling your panties getting wet at the thought of him fucking you in this room right here, right now, knowing someone could walk in at any moment made it all the more exciting. 

“Don’t stop until I say so.” He hissed, his cock twitching every time you ran your finger to his tip, the pre-cum slipping through your fingers. Getting the impression that Rafe was the dominant type, turned you on, your clit tingling and begging to be touched. You gave him a wink and continued stroking him, taking it fully into your hands, sucking in a breath he pushed you down and laid you down on your back. 

“My turn.” He said darkly, unzipping your jeans, lifting your body up to pull them down revealing the black lace underwear you were wearing. At first he rubbed your soaking wet clit with two fingers through the fabric, your hips bucked along with the movement of his hand. Your hand working on him, pumping him till he grabbed your hand with his free one gently and said, “I think that’s enough.” and pinned your arms above your head. You whined at how much he was teasing you. 

“Fuck. Rafe.” You breathed, your eyes rolling into the back of your head, he now had inserted his fingers inside your entrance, the pre-cum dripping onto the stone block that you were laying on. Your legs shook as he pumped in and out, a few loud moans coming from you filled the room. Rafe didn’t care how loud you both were, he didn’t care who could hear you or what everybody else thought, he wanted them to listen to the sounds of him pleasuring you. 

“Don’t come for me yet babe.” You obeyed and he removed his fingers from you and licked his fingers, tasting you, his eyes never leaving yours. He sat up and kept in a kneeled position, you felt a spark ignite inside of you, unknown to you, Rafe had felt it too. You sat up to meet his gaze, he took your face in his hands and pulled you in for a hungry kiss, your tongues attacking each other for dominance. You pulled his pants down, his cock standing up, mumbling into his mouth, “I want you so fucking bad.” 

He laughed a little at your comment, and pulled back from the kiss, moving his right hand to hold your back. “You ready?” Nodding at him and licking your lips, enjoying the flavour of him settling on your tastebuds. He steadied himself and lined his cock up with your entrance, gently pushing himself in, careful not to hurt you as you got used to his large size. You winced a little but then relaxed, another moan emitting from the both of you. He placed the palm of his left hand firmly beside you, as he guided his hips and continued pushing in and out, as he closed his eyes, enjoying the euphoria. A strong feeling of love and passion struck his heart. 

“Goddammit-, shit, I love you.” He expressed in between sweaty breaths. 

His pace now at high speed. Shocked at the words he just said, you wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed his hot, flushed cheek and spoke, as you were about to reach your high. 

“Harder. Please.” And with that he pushed deep into you, quickly pulling out as he released himself over your bare legs, now shaking from the aftershock of your orgasm. 

Beads of sweat saturated your forehead, his hair fell and hung down, loosened from the wax and gel he had used earlier that day. Catching your breath, you sat up and grabbed some clean tissues from your jacket pocket, cleaning yourselves up. You pulled your panties and jeans back on, buckling your belt, and watching him do the same as he stood in front of you, 

“Hey, Rafe?” You slid off the surface you were sitting on and walked over to him, shoving your hands in the back pockets of your jeans. 

“Hm?” He hummed, sliding on his black jacket and zipping it up then looking at you as he smoothed his hair back down to it’s original position. 

“Why did you say that to me?” A confused look on your face, a nervous feeling in your stomach. You had so much love for him, worried your heart would break at anything negative he’d say. 

He scratched his chin and grabbed your hips holding you close to him. He chuckled. “Because I’m in love with you. Isn’t it obvious?” Now waiting for an answer. 

You let out a shy giggle, your cheeks blushing a bright red and sharing another kiss. “Well, aren’t you lucky that I love you too?” 

#rafe adler #x reader #rafe adler x reader #uncharted #uncharted 4 #uncharted a thiefs end #a thiefs end #uncharted 4 a thiefs end #smut #fluff

[waiting4inspiration]

Darkness before Dawn  XIII: Call her Name

Summary: When you’re stuck in a death-like sleep, Malla states the one thing that can wake you and it’s something that your father does not like. Geralt is reminded of his job, and of his place. 

Warnings: angst, horror elements, magical elements, strong language, small fluff, mentions of torture, mentions of curses, things are getting interesting...

Word Count: 2,202

Darkness before Dawn Masterlist II The Witcher Masterlist 

The night seemed peaceful to Geralt and you seemed to have gotten some sleep. Ida changed the protective circle around the bed to prevent any other spirits from pulling out like they had done previously. To the Witcher, it seemed to be the first peaceful night since this curse was laid on you. 

But for you, it was a completely different story. Because Geralt can’t protect you in your dreams and Kurst knows that. There’s nowhere to hide from him in the tomb you always find yourself trapped in. 

When the sun rose, Geralt was sure to move out from behind you in the bed, to make sure that no one walks in and sees something they shouldn’t be seeing. He didn’t want to disturb you, so he left you sleeping. 

You seem peaceful. The most peaceful he’s seen you in days. He’d be a fool to wake you now. 

The door opens, making his head turn away from you and he stands when Charlotte walks into the room. She gives a small smile, something Geralt hasn’t seen since he’s been here. “She still sleeping?” Charlotte questions in a whisper as she gently closes the door behind her. 

Geralt hums, glances down at you as he steps away from the bed as Charlotte walks forward. “She needs all the rest she can get,” he mentions, earning an agreeing nod for the princess that sits on the bed beside you. 

Charlotte remembers how tired you seemed to be yesterday when she brought you that tart to cheer you up. She’s only glad that you seem to have had a peaceful night for once. Maybe it’s the magic Ida’s teaching you that’s helping keep those spirits away from you, she thinks. 

Reaching up to touch your arm, she gasps and flinches away at the feeling of your skin. Her action makes Geralt’s head snap up to her and he immediately goes on guard. “Her skin is like ice,” Charlotte says, standing to move to the side as Geralt rushes forward to take her place. 

He touches the side of your face, strokes your cheek and waits for your eyes to open. But they don’t. He turns his head over his shoulder to look back at Charlotte, who stands a few feet away from him, staring at you with wide eyes and a scared look on her face. She didn’t seem to care this much about you when he first started this job he was hired to do. It seems that she’s really changed. 

“Get Ida. Now,” he orders, making her nod and quickly turns around to race out of the room. He looks back at you, moves his hands to your shoulders to gently shake you as an attempt to wake you, but your eyes remain shut. “If you can hear me, please, just open your eyes,” he whispers, taking your face in his hands and stroking your cheeks. 

You hear Geralt. His voice gives you some strength to push Kurst off you and take a step back. He glares coldly at you as you pant, gripping the sarcophagus behind you. “Do not touch me,” you weakly order, making him chuckle and confidently lift his head as he steps closer to you. 

“What are you doing to do, little princess? Are you going to be a queen now and order me around?” he asks, taunting you just as he had been this entire night. You swallow hard, take a step back only to end up walking around the coffin. “Are you going to show me a little magic trick?” 

Running your tongue over your lips as you carry on walking backward. “I am not afraid of you,” you mention, putting the coffin between you and him. 

He laughs darkly, stops walking and leans over the coffin with his hands on the stone. “Come on then, princess. Show me what you’ve got,” he growls, his fingers turning to those claws that you hate so much, egging you on. 

Biting the inside of your cheek, you glance down to your hands and try to muster as much strength as you can for the spell Ida taught you as a means to defend yourself, not only from spirits but from anyone with ill-content towards you. 

Kurst thinks you can’t do anything, that you don’t have the strength to do that. “That’s what I thought. You are weak because of your fear,” he sneers. 

Seeing the light around slowly fading, his shadow growing bigger, you know he intends to attack again. And that’s when you take the chance to use the spell. Whispering the Elder incantation and holding your hand out, you knock him away from you and he hits the stone wall behind him. 

Your spell comes out stronger than you thought, and you end up knocking the top of the coffin off, exposing the corpse inside. Panting as you stumble backward, you glance down to the open coffin and take in a deep breath when you see the corpse. 

It wears the same clothes Kurst wears now, the same clothes he has been wearing the entire time. With the top off of the coffin, Kurst slowly stands from the ground and glares coldly at you. “You bitch,” he sneers, his eyes going dark and his face changes to the demonic look that haunts you. 

You hear Geralt’s voice again, calling to you with a plea to wake up. And when you blink, you think of him and of being back with him. 

Geralt doesn’t expect such a great group to burst into your room. Ida, Dominic, Charlotte, and Jaskier walk into your room, dread on their faces that your curse - the Curse of Death - has finally run its course. 

Ida moves closer when Geralt steps away from you, takes his place beside you and reaches up to touch your cheek. Dominic walks closer to you, staring in fear at your pale features for a moment before looking to Ida who shakes her head. 

“She is not dead. There is still life in her,” she whispers, making everyone breathe a small sigh of relief, All except Geralt because you’re still not awake. It cannot be a good sign. “Something is keeping her from waking and the longer she remains asleep…” 

“The more chance Kurst has to drain her,” Malla says, her sudden appearance makes everyone turn to face her. 

This is the first time Charlotte sees the ghost, and seeing the deadly bruise around her neck makes her gasp lightly and her eyes grow wide in shock. Malla walks closer, ignoring the surprised gasp from the princess and keeps her gaze on you. 

“How do we wake her?” Dominic asks, making the ghost look at him before she looks to Geralt. 

“Someone close to her must call her name. Someone who cares deeply for her, and who she cares deeply for,” Malla speaks, her words make Geralt turn his gaze back to you.

Ida looks up at Geralt too, knowing the meaning behind the ghost’s words. Dominic steps forward, but Ida stops him when she holds up her hand. “Geralt,” she whispers, nodding to him to encourage him to walk closer. 

Dominic turns to look at the Witcher coldly, narrows his eyes when he steps closer as if to challenge him to dare come near you. But Ida pushes her brother back to let Geralt sit down beside you again. “Let him do this, Dominic,” Ida whisper, keeping a hand on his chest to stop him from doing something stupid. 

Everyone watches as Geralt reaches up to cup your cheek, Dominic shifting in distaste at the action, and Jaskier smirking to himself. “(Y/n),” Geralt whispers, moving his hand down your shoulder to take your hand in his. 

You take in a deep breath, making your shoulder draw up to your shoulders as your eyes flutter open and you breathe out a long sigh. Blinking for your eyes to adjust to the light around you, your gaze lands on Geralt and a weak smile grows on your face. 

“Geralt,” you whisper, your grip on his hand tightening. 

He strokes his thumb over the back of your hand, allows himself to be happy to see that you’re still alive and he smiles down at you. What he wouldn't give to kiss you, but he knows that would be unwise to do that in front of your father. He’s already treading on thin ice holding your hand like a lover. 

You can barely keep your eyes open, don’t even bother trying to push yourself to sit up because you know that you would fail. You can feel that strength evades you today. You doubt very much you will be leaving bed today. 

“Witcher,” Dominic roughly calls him, breaking the moment between you and him and making him pull his hand out of yours. “May I speak with you? In private?” It’s not really a question, but an order.

Before you can even try to protest, Geralt stands and marches towards the door, followed shortly by your father and Ida, who you know will dampen Dominic’s anger. 

Turning your gaze to Jaskier as he sits on the edge of the bed and Charlotte beside you, you give him a gentle smile. “Jaskier, perhaps one of your stories will make her feel a bit better,” Charlotte mentions, making the bard smile and nod his head as he shifts to make himself comfortable. 

Dominic runs his hand over his face, waits for the sound of your door closing before turning around to look at Geralt. “You grow far too close to my daughter, Witcher. You forget you have a job,” the king snaps, turning around to look at Geralt, ignoring Ida when she steps closer. 

“I thought my job was to protect her-”

“It is not your first priority!” Dominic cuts him off, takes a step closer to him and narrows his eyes at the Witcher. “You are to find the witch and end this curse. And you will stop any provocation you have with my daughter,” he sternly says.

Ida steps forward and pushes her brother backward away from the Witcher. “I am sure Geralt is capable of completing his duties without you pestering him,” she mentions, glancing over her shoulder to Geralt who nods his head stiffly and glances away. “And it is not for you to decide who it is (Y/n) chooses to spend her time with,” she whispers to Dominic, making him roll his eyes. 

“If it makes this conflict end,” Malla speaks, making the three people turn to find her standing a few feet away. By now, they have gotten used to her just showing up when she pleases. “I can lead the Witcher to the witch to try and end this curse,” she mentions, looking between the white-haired Witcher and the King. 

Dominic nods his head and looks at Geralt again. “You will go. Kill the witch if you must. Anything that ends this curse and sends you out of my kingdom,” he sneers before walking away.

Shifting on his feet, Geralt takes in a deep breath as his jaw tenses. Ida steps forward and rests a hand on his shoulder. “I can create a portal for you. So you don’t spend too much time away from her,” she says with a smile on her face. 

But he doesn’t smile back. “I doubt Dominic will allow me to go near her again. Nevermind be alone with her,” he grumbles, turning to look at your door after it closes to stare at it. 

Ida shrugs her shoulders and takes a step closer to him. “He might not, but I will,” she mentions, making him look back at her in slight confusion. “She’s grown very fond of you. It would be a mistake to try and keep you two apart.”

He gives a small smile and nods his head in thanks to her. She clasps her hands together and looks to Malla. “So, where is it you need to go?”

Although Geralt doesn’t like traveling through portals, he will take Ida up on her offer because the quicker he can get to the witch, the quicker he can end this curse. The quicker he can save your life. 

Thinking about how all he wants is for you to be safe, he remembers the object he asked Jaskier to find for him. He still has it and hasn’t found time to give it to yet. If he comes back and Dominic refuses him to see you, the least he can do is give this to you so you can protect yourself without magic. 

He reaches for the knife at his side, looks down at it to stare at the intricate floral pattern on the handle - something that looks like the flowers in your paintings. He remembers Jaskier complaining how hard it was to find. “Will you give this to her?” he whispers, looking up at Ida as he holds the knife out to her. “In case she needs it,” he adds, making Ida smile as she takes the silver knife from him and nods her head. 

Even when he’s going away, he’s still protecting you, Ida thinks to herself.

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#geralt #geralt of rivia #geralt x reader #geralt of rivia imagine #geralt imagine #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt x princess!reader #the witcher #the witcher x reader #the witcher imagine #witcher x reader #witcher imagine #the witcher imagines #witcher netflix #darkness before dawn

[nothingofvaluewaslost]

STORY: The Princess and the Snake-Leaves

A short story based on the Grimms’ fairy tale The Three Snake-Leaves, expanding on the story from the antagonist’s perspective. Princess Gertrude wakes up in a crypt after her husband Gabriel, who was buried alive with her body, miraculously found a leaf that resurrected her. They are restored to the world above ground, but the harmony is soured when they cannot decide what to do with this new cure for death, eventually driving Gertrude to desperate thoughts.

Dark fantasy. No objectionable content.

The Princess and the Snake-Leaves, by Christina Nordlander

No-one else in our age can tell the story of her death, so let me begin from that moment.

I say that I can tell, but when it comes to it I do not remember. If my soul were somewhere else during the interval of darkness, whether in Hell or Purgatory, I have no memories from there. The only difference from sleep was that it took much longer to wake, as if I were sunk many thousand fathoms beneath a nocturnal sea and had to let myself float upwards. If it were not impossible, I would say that it required years.

There was light, flickering firelight, but it felt as though it took several hours before I could see anything by it. By that time I had regained enough of my old spirit to be able to be impatient; I would have wanted to claw my way up through the swathes of darkness. That was not the only thing driving me. Some memories had returned, and I realised where I must be.

I saw Gabriel stand bent over me. He held a tallow-candle, and its light served only to show his head, as if it shed its own light: his golden hair, his face like that of a boy early coarsened under his martial beard. He had a large tangle of dirt in the hair on the side of his head, and the whites of his eyes were tinted red as if he had been weeping. As I watched, they glistened with new tears.

“Gertrude,” he whispered. “Can you speak? Say something, if you are awake.”

The candle-flame quivered in his grasp.

I flinched when he touched me: not from revulsion, but because my skin in the first moments was as sensitive as though it had just grown on me and could hardly bear the touch of my garment. The movement dislodged something, and I had a sudden stiff pain that cut into the sides of my throat. I coughed and the pain began to give, but whatever it was instead filled my mouth so that I could not breathe. Gabriel, who had not taken his eyes from my face even when embracing me, saw it and fished it out of my mouth. It looked like just a dry hard leaf, of which tree I could not tell. He put it on his person even though it was still covered with slime.

He said:

“I put it in your mouth... for the consumption.... You were dead.”

It was several days before he told me everything. Just then I understood so few of his words that my senses might still have been clouded by the dark.

Now, when I could speak, I did not find the words. The light was poor and the dark outside thick. I could feel the damp-sweating cold of a stone wall, but for all I could see it might have continued upwards for many leagues. The white garment around me was not a gown but a winding-sheet. What was more, over the odours of candle tallow and my husband's hair and skin, I felt the smell that the soul abhors, and when Gabriel raised the candle I saw sarcophagi and corroded name-plates. I had never before been in the charnel-house of my fathers.

“I'll call for help,” Gabriel said and turned to the door, which was armoured with brass plates. “Lie still.”

He spoke as though he thought that I were still weak, but where I lay I felt my strength returning. I could not remember when my lungs had last been so empty and dry and opened so large. The last months they had stitched up with phlegm until every breath was like lifting some heavy object, until I was weary with the difficulty of dying. He had sat by my bed and I had not looked at him, because I had known that my death would doom him. When the end approached and the pain began to depart I knew that I ought to have tried to hold on to life, to give him more time.

Gabriel beat on the vault door with his free hand and called, then took a pewter plate and used it to strike. Between the periods of blows he turned to smile at me, his hair curling in his forehead with sweat.

“If you hadn't demanded that of me, this miracle couldn't have happened,” he said. “You would have been dead still. I would have lost you.”

I could not yet take it in in any way. Steps clattered out in the passage, then we heard the guard's voice:

“Stop, Your Highness must stand by your choice. Don't make this harder for us.”

Not until then could I bring myself to speak:

“But I'm alive! Open the vault!”

I did not know whether it was strong enough to be heard outside, and I had half sat up to go to the door, but then I heard a yelling outside, then the stone-dry scraping of the lock.

What is gained by telling with what emotion my Father and Mother embraced me, still in my winding-sheet, when any who have lost a kinsman can imagine it? What is gained by telling how they honoured Gabriel, more than when he had come to court from the battlefield where he had taken up the standard when the Ensign fell and held it against all attackers? It was at that time my Father asked him what he most desired, and he had been engaged to marry me. What is gained by telling how Gabriel and I felt the warmth of the sun again and the scent of grass?

It is not of that which my story treats.

Gabriel told me in few words. He, the soldier who had not faltered on the battlefield, did not want to return in memory to the vault for longer than he was required.

After the reading of the funeral service they had carried my corpse down to the charnel-house, and he had stayed in obedience to his vow when they locked the vault. Guards had kept their eyes on him in the chapel, and other guards had stood by the castle gates. He would not have been able to break his vow. When they locked him in they gave him a pitcher of small beer and a loaf of bread. That would last for three or four days, if you overcame nature and only ate what you needed to stay alive, but on the fourth day he would have felt the first beginnings of hunger. The candle would have guttered out by then.

Apart from his provisions he had a fire-steel, and a trestle-table and chair. He did not say how long he had been sitting there when he had heard a rustling, and a long snake had slithered out from a crack in the wall. It had been about to attack him, or start gnawing me, but Gabriel had his sabre with him and chopped it into three pieces.

A while later a second snake slid out of the crack. I do not know why he did not attack it. It carried a dry leaf in its mouth and laid it between two of the sliced-off pieces. He looked on as it returned with a new leaf and laid it in the second cut. He waited, he did not know how long, but he must have guessed that something was about to happen.

Then the snake healed together. That he described in more detail than any other thing that had happened since my death.

“All the pieces twitched, like when I chopped it off,” he said. “A twining movement came in them, as it were, so that I could not see them clearly, and when it grew still it was whole again. The tongue moved in its mouth. It looked around and darted back after its mate.”

He had struggled to hew the crack larger. It had left notches in his sabre and given him an ache in his shoulder that had not yet healed, but now he had a goal. On the other side he had found a nest of leaves.

“I put one down your throat,” he said, without looking straight at me. “I thought it might be able to get to your lungs.”

That was where his tale fitted with my memory.

*

I wrote down what I remembered of my life before the interval, to be certain that there were no gaps. I wrote of how I had been taught to trace the letters by my schoolmistress, Mistress Sapientissima, who had let me sit for long hours and write nonsense syllables, ca, ce, ci, while the sun shone outside the schoolroom windows. I wrote of the first time I was allowed to walk alone in the castle, when I had got lost and realised that the silent and mirroring halls were an image of death, and of the moment when I coughed up thready phlegm and the physician turned his face from me and hesitated before saying what it was. I wrote of when Gabriel asked for my hand. He was taciturn and hardly older than I, and at the time I thought he was fair – but what was distinctive in his appearance faded as the murk in his eyes cleared, the murk of gunpowder-smoke and reeking puddles of blood.

He was not my first suitor: I had had to sit on stiff chairs facing princes and dukes since I was so young that I thought it was a kind of dull game. For the ones my Father accepted, I stated my requirement: that if I died before my husband he would be buried alive with me, and if the opposite happened I would go quick in his tomb. I said that it was fair; that if he loved me he would not want to survive me. I do not think that I expected that my husband might die first. If I had thought that it might fall on me, I might not have made the requirement. I was afraid of dying. (I no longer am.)

I had thought that if I found a suitor with whom I felt some affinity, I would not tell him my requirement. Now I never had the occasion, because Gabriel said yes. He hesitated when he did, but I admired him the more for it.

When I lay in the grip of the illness I should have released him from his vow. I cannot remember whether the thought occurred to me. You who read this should know: I am not a good woman.

There are some things I do not remember. I do not remember how the snake-leaf tasted, but that is understandable if I was dead when he placed it in my mouth. I often imagine that it tasted fresh, like the mint or lemon-balm I used to chew in my herbal garden, as fresh as if it had never grown from the dirt in the soil.

I cannot remember whether I loved him.

This is the reason I started writing down my memories: I remember as much of my life as anyone, but the memories do not feel like mine. They might have been memories of something I have read in a book. I suppose that it is understandable. If I have indeed been dead, I am a different woman now.

Gabriel said that I was more beautiful since I awoke, but he had said that I was beautiful before. I do not like to speak of my appearance, because regardless of what I say it will sound like vanity, but I was no beauty before I died, unless you agree with those who call all high-born ladies fair. If I look in the mirror I think he is right. My skin has become clearer, my features cleaner, my corpulence seems like strength rather than shapelessness. Nothing about me is unrecognisable. Perhaps I am closer to the Gertrude I should have been.

I felt nothing of substance for him while he courted me. I said yes because he was shamefast and I might not get another young suitor, and because he agreed to my requirement. He had many good attributes. Why cannot I say it? He was a good man. Even if he had been the most vile husband, he was the one who saved me. I believe for certain that he loved me.

One thing remains to tell: I said to him that we needed to use the leaves for our subjects. I thought that must have been why Providence had shown them to him. The leaf he had used on me was still there: they would not be used up.

He sat, brow furrowed. In the shadows of the hall both his face and hair were too bright, as if he were the one who had returned from the dead. I myself was just a column of healthy flesh.

“Can we do that?” he said, and from his tone it did not sound like a question. “Would that not go against God's will for mankind?”

Later, I would think about how he had never shown himself pious before, but nor did he sound like he was thinking of God's personal love or justice. Rather, he spoke as if of some vast pattern that might not even have been created by an intelligence.

“It was God who created the leaves,” I said. “Ought he not to wish for something so good to be used?”

I had had an image of how we would send processions of monastics with the leaves to the dwellings and manor-houses where they were needed. They would be white-clad, since they carried life.

“All is not permitted, just because God created it.” He shook his head while he spoke and did not meet my eyes.

Then I found my trump-card.

“My lord husband,” I said, “you used them to restore me to life. If using the leaves is a sin, you sinned when you saved me. Do not begrudge your subjects the same mercy.”

His expression barely changed, but he gave a shudder.

After a while he said:

“Gertrude, do you want to keep men from Heaven for eternity?”

Then it was my turn to quiver and almost falter, because I saw before my mind's eye a world of many desiccated men and women, like in a painting of the Dance of Death, deprived of grace. (Yet I looked at myself and saw no signs of degradation.)

I returned to my argument.

“If raising someone from the dead is a sin, you should never have... tried to save me. But using the leaves to save your wife but not the common people is not virtue, it is hypocrisy.”

Finally he had to appeal to his marital authority over me. Even then I would not have had to give in, but he had placed the leaves in some hidden strongbox. He said that it was because they were brittle. They were dry leaves, little flakes would wear off every time they woke someone. I might have been able to find the hiding-place if I had searched, but he would have known that it was I.

Shortly afterwards Gabriel asked my parents for a ship so that we could visit his father. When he wedded me, my parents had granted his father a manor-house and a pension so that he could pay his farmhands, but Gabriel had not seen him since he signed for a soldier.

I was grateful to get something else to occupy my thoughts, and Gabriel was impatient to leave. After the charnel-house he was more fond of the open air and sky than before. He was abroad as often as his duties as Crown Prince permitted; rode or hunted. When he had to go to bed he often drank until he stumbled.

He begged my forgiveness for it once. The wine had made him outspoken.

“I can barely stand to be in a dark space otherwise,” he said.

I did not understand why he needed to explain; I was used to men drinking. I did not have the same fear.

I suppose that he wanted to see his father again, but that the thought of the sea also drew him: blue, wastes. I do not think that he had been aboard a ship before we married.

Now it turned out that a sea-voyage meant sitting cabined in the centre of an infinity that glared with sun and confused the senses. That was insofar as we were allowed on deck, where the crew needed room to work. I was not capable of much. The sea made me ill and weaker than I liked to be after the consumption. That is something no-one can know what it is before he has undergone it, to lie ill for days without hope of relief. Gabriel was tender towards me, I want you to know that, but it was hard for him. He stayed on deck for as long as daylight allowed, or until the seamen sent him down to have him out of their way, and in the cabin he sat staring up at the beams and picking at the hem of his doublet, or at his own fingers or whatever he found that might distract him.

The skipper came instead. At first he only held the bucket when nausea overcame me, and never spoke, as if he had been taught that a member of the royal household was some reverend object with whom you could have no rapport. It was I who had to start talking to him, because I had no other way to pass the time.

Now you will believe that I loved him – but why should I excuse myself on that point, I who have done more terrible things? Believe then that I am an adulteress.

It happened that I complained to him over what Gabriel had decided concerning the snake-leaves, and between one moment and the next he said:

“Your Highness does realise that it would be easy to get rid of him?”

The look in my eyes must have been terrible, because he withdrew as quickly as he could excuse himself. He did not speak to me for a day or two, until I could convince myself that he had proposed something innocent, perhaps that I should have Gabriel sent on a long journey, which I had misunderstood.

When I came above deck I could see land in the distance, still no more than a strip of fog, and the next time the skipper and I were alone together, it was I who brought it up.

We did it under the cover of night, and only after he stopped struggling in the waves did the skipper raise his: “Man overboard!” None other than us know.

Does that mean that I am safe? We live in a world where the dead have woken. The skipper suggested that we tie weights around his ankles and hide him under the depths, but that particular cruelty was what I could not countenance. Perhaps I will regret that.

As the crew reefed the sails to turn back, I looked towards the coast, as if I might see his father's house.

THE END

#fiction #fantasy #dark_fantasy #fairy_tale #short story #resurrection

[whatzaoverwatch]

The Reaper of the Opera Chapter 10: Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again

This was always such a beautiful scene in both productions. Makes it all the more hectic that I have to write an action sequence.

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Dawn/Graveyard

You couldn’t take another second within the theatre. Just when you had thought all of your troubles were over, the Reaper had taken over your life once more. All you wanted was to just go away and live the rest of your life in peace. Those silly dreams of wanting the spotlight were tainted by his games. Now you were being forced to sing for him again. It wasn’t even him that wanted you to, now Genji and the rest of the crew needed you to draw the spirit out of hiding so they could capture him.

It was the last thing you had wanted to do. Your mind was already weak to resist Reapers call. If you had went through with the plan, who knows if you would ever escape from the dark again. Reapers words were clear, he still believed you belonged to him. Genji could see that as well, so it was understandable that he wanted to take advantage of Reapers desire and turn it against him. He was supposed to protect you from this madness, but you were no further away than you did when this all began. There was only one place that you could clear your mind from all this madness. Everytime you found yourself in sorrow or distress, it was always your sanctuary. Rubbing your eyes from your sleepless exhaustion, you looked towards your destination.

An iron bar gate stood before you, barricading a graveyard on the other side of the fence. Tombstones and statues as far as the eyes could see, waiting for the sunrise to peak against its stone. Fog lingering on the ground below to cover your steps. Cloaked in a black robe, you passed the gates and followed along the trail. Wearing a more suited gown for such a location. Looking at each grave with various names and gifts displayed to honor the dead. Memories and signs of mourning plastered on each stone. Shivering from the cold air, you strode through the dawn until you found what you were looking for.

A black marble gravestone carved with the words “[Fathers Name/Last Name] Beloved husband, caring father. Let your song reach the heavens.”. Below the text was a music measure, with notes from a song you remember from long ago. You felt the peace and melancholy of the display. Kneeling before the grave with a sigh. Pulling out a bouquet of flowers to set upon his grave. Red roses that spoke neither of Reaper or Genjis presence.

“Father, it has been so long. Are you well?” You spoke as if he was right there, knowing that you would not receive a response in return, “I wish I could say the same thing. The reason why I am alone this time is that I am lost.”

Resting your hands on your lap, you tightened your fists to compose yourself. Feeling the tears already building from your eyes. Hanging your head low from the grief you had held onto.

“I am haunted by a spirit, a man who wishes to take me away. But I am struggling to hold onto the light with my fiancé. I don’t know who to turn to anymore,” You quietly sobbed, watching your tears fall onto your dress. Shaking as you tried to compose yourself, “I wish you were here Father. You meant everything to me, it hurts to not hear your music again. I need you here Father. To help guide me like you said you would. To hold me and comfort me like you did long ago.”

Covering your mouth from your weeping, your tears carried into the silent graveyard. Leaving you in your emptiness as you exposed the sadness you had held within. Body shaking from the hiccups and pain in your heart. Trying to relief yourself by the gentle humming of the song engraved on the stone. The lullaby he played to you upon his violin.

Recalling when you rested in your bed, smiling up to him as he played his music. You always asked for an encore, and he always did it for you. To him, you were his little angel of music. As he was to you in return. It wasn’t fair that he had died to his illness. Watching him slowly silence his music forever. No one could play that song as well as he could. He promised that even when he was gone, he would have someone watching over you. Wanting you to continue his song in his place. In your grief, you suddenly heard a gentle whisper from afar.

“Wandering child, so lost, so helpless. Yearning for my guidance…”

Lifting your head, you looked around you to find the source of the voice. Finding no one around, you rose from the ground with caution. Furrowing your brows as you wiped your tears away.

“Who’s there? Is that you Reaper? Or is this someone else?” You called out. Feeling the gentle wind against your face as you heard someone sing your fathers music.

Eyes widening as you could hear the song from one of the mausoleums. Guarded by angel statues to the torch lit tomb within. Its song pulling you closer as you stepped away from your fathers’ grave. Was someone mocking your pain? Or had you truly lost your mind?

“Is this some sort of trick?” You demanded to the music, hearing its song grow louder when you reached the staircase to the mausoleum.

“Have you forgotten about me, my child?” The voice spoke to you, filling your heart with the warmth that your father could once give to you, “Still wandering, still disheartened. I never would’ve left you in such sorrow [Name].”

“Father?” You whispered, stepping up the staircase towards the entrance. Watching the gates open to you ever so slowly. Halting your steps as you felt uncertain about his calls.

“My dear child, you still deny me. I promised you that I would watch over you. Turn away from your doubts, I bring you no harm.” Feeling the longing comfort of his words, your tears returned as you walked up the steps slowly.

“Please, never leave me alone. I need you; I miss you.” You quietly begged through your tears, no longer pulling away from the music. The music slowed ever so gently, leaving just the whispers in your mind.

“I missed you too, my dear. I promise you that and more. Come to me. Come to me my Angel of Music.” Finding yourself at the top of the steps, the gates just before you to slip into. Those last steps were halted by someones shouts.

“[Name], WAIT!” Snapping yourself out of the trance you had found yourself in, you turned behind you to find Genji running to your side, his blade in hand as the other held you from moving. Keeping you from following the voice.

“Genji??” You mumbled, finding him pulling you back from the mausoleum. The song falling silent from your beloveds presence. Standing between you and the gates you were drawn to.

“Stay back! Whatever you may believe, that voice is not your father!” He told you, the protection in his eyes still intact. His back towards the gate to keep his attention on you. Blinking in confusion, you shook your head in disbelief.

“What?” Just as you asked, your eyes looked up to the roof of the tomb.

Perched above was the very mask you had feared to see. Shrouded in his  black cloak and guns in each hand. Looming over the both of you like an owl on the hunt. Your alert stance caught Genjis attention, turning around fast enough to guard himself from Reaper as he leapt down from above. Aiming for a shot, Genji knocked him back with his blade. You hurried away from the two men as they glared each other down. Reaper standing at the top of the steps while Genji remained on the bottom steps. The masked man looked over at you then to his opponent beneath him.

“I should’ve taken care of you when I had the chance, Sparrow.” Reaper growled, watching as Genji took on a fighting stance with his sword.

“As I should’ve with you. We end this here.” Genji stated, the green on the blade glimmering against the peaking dawn. Reaper let out a chuckle as he raised his gun.

“Agreed, this will be your final resting place!” He proclaimed, pulling the trigger to take his shots.

Genji, quick on his feet, used the blade to deflect some of the bullet to the various statues around them. Leaping down the steps with a gentle land. You hid yourself behind one of the statues, watching as Reaper followed suit. Firing more towards Genjis direction. The younger man quick on his feet to every shot, letting the bullet ricochet against the steel and onto the fog plastered ground. Leaving Reaper to prepare his shots, the opening enough for Genji to lunge forward with his blade. His sword hitting against the armed guns, protecting Reaper in the crouching position. Leering at his opponent, Reaper kicked Genji back brutally to gain the range to shoot again.

The shot scrapping past the sword to sink straight into Genjis arm. He shouted in pain as spots of blood stained his white sleeved shirt. A grin plastered on Reapers face as he prepared for another shot, caught off guard as Genji rolled to the side to recover. Taking advantage of the lower ground to knock Reaper off his feet. Slamming Reapers back onto the ground as he now found himself at the disadvantage.

Genji leapt from the ground to act swiftly. Kicking away Reapers guns before he could recover. Leaving the spirit vulnerable to his final strike. He could faintly see the dark eyes behind the mask as they drilled into his soul out of fury. The young Shimada steadied his blade over Reapers face. Intent on stabbing into his throat. The anger seen in Genjis eyes as you had never seen them before. Realizing that he truly meant what he said about this being Reapers end. Looking down at the masked man, watching his breath quicken as he struggled against the victor.

Why did he still carry guilt in your heart? Ever since he said you reminded him of himself, it was as if you could understand his struggles. To be murdered in a graveyard is not the way he should go. What he had done to you and everyone else was not forgivable, but it was not the way it should end. To see him near deaths door was too much for you.

“It’s over, Gabriel Reyes,” You looked up while Genji spoke. His hands gripping the blade firmly, “Your haunting ends here.”

He merely chuckled at Genjis threat. His laugh raspy and deep. Narrowing his eyes with a smirk.

“So, she told you who I was. Tell her that man is no more. There is only The Reaper you see before you and I will never be forgotten.”

“We shall see about that.” Before Genji could make the strike, you approached him quickly with a hand over his. The touch drawing his attention away to see you pleading eyes.

“Genji no! Not like this...” You begged; the disbelief seen on swordsman’s face. Reaper even looking at you with a bit of surprise on your act of mercy.

Your eyes set on Reapers first, watching him catch his breath slowly. A faint smirk forming on his lips, something that left you uncertain on what he is thinking. Genji tugged away from your hold,confused by your abrupt request.

“After all that he has done!? [Name] you cannot think that I will let him get away with this,” He demanded, suddenly feeling the presence below him disappearing. The both of you turn to find that the Reaper slowly slipped away into smoke and shadow. Genji stabbed the ground, only to hear the laughter of Reaper, the fog and smoke lifting away with his voice. Frowning deeply, he stepped away angrily, “dammit!”

“Genji.” You stepped towards him, watching him wince in pain from the bullet wound.Trying to help with the injury, you brought him towards the steps from where it all began.

“We could’ve had him [Name]. Why did you stop me?” He asked you with bitterness, watching as you inspected the wound thoroughly, “Is it because you love him too?”

“What??” You were startled by his question. Seeing the envy that was written in his eyes. Giving you the answer as to why he was so determined to kill him so swiftly. Shaking your head, you placed a hand over his lap, “Genji, if you killed him here and now, you would be worse than him. I don’t ever want for you to kill for me.”

“[Name], he almost took you away again. I cannot have you spare him so freely.” He huffed, lowering his gaze to the ground in defeat. You reached over and cupped his cheek. Tilting his head to face you as sunrise became evident over the horizon.

“Then we will go with the plan,” You told him, watching his eyes widen at your acceptance. Nodding as you gave him a smile, “We will capture him, and we will end this nightmare once and for all.”

“But like you said, what if the plan fails?” He reminds you of the hesitation on the plot, leaning into your touch with a gentle kiss to your palm. His breath shaky as you responded.

“It wont, because I have you,” You tell him, his body releasing its tension at your trust. You took his hand gently with a look to the wound, “Come, I cannot mend to this here.”

He followed you suit, taking his blade with him to return to its sheath. Leaving the graveyard in a hurry and closing the gates. The shadows from before lingered against your father’s gravestone, its flowers decaying slowly before the smoke shifted into the mausoleum with a hiss.

“Now, it is a war upon you both.”

To be continued

#Overwatch #overwatch x reader #overwatch au #overwatch scenarios #overwatch imagines #Reaper #reaper x reader #phantom!reaper #gabriel reyes #gabriel reyes x reader #genji #genji shimada #genji shimada x reader #only a Shimada can control these tags #low key cried writing the father memory scene #hello action scenes my old nemisis

[ladyideal]

This is Us Chapter 3

Pairing: Legolas x OC!Reader

Word Count: 3414

Summary: When the One Ring was found, it becomes a journey across Middle Earth to destroy it. Watch as the Fellowship is formed, and crossed the continent, where loyalty will be tested, and love will blossom at the most unexpected places.

A/n: Look at that, 2 chapters in one week! This one is thankfully longer, same with the next one. And the next, and the next after that... Also the cave troll fight was a pain in the ass to write.

Chapter 2 ~ Chapter 3 ~ Chapter 4

"The Mines are no place for a pony, even one so brave as Bill," Aragorn spoke the moment they arrived in front of the Doors of Moria.

"I'm gonna miss him," You spoke, watching fondly as the Ranger unhitched the pony's bridle.

"He'll be missed," The Ranger agreed.

"Buh bye Bill," Sam called out.

"Go on, Bill, go on. Don't worry Sam, he knows the way home," Aragorn spoke, watching as the pony clip clopped down the shore. By the time the Fellowship climbed from down the mountain, night had fallen. 

Legolas sidled up to you. "Yare indóme tye nimeár- ilquen i tye're a Melain?" (When will you tell everyone that you're a Valar?)

You didn't answer, couldn't answer as Alena had shuffled up close to you at the exact same time the elf spoke. Not able to answer, you shot a glare at him and shook your head. 

Not yet. Not this early. 

"The Walls of Moria!" Gimli explained, halting in front of the doors. He frowned immediately when his axe clanged against the stone, not exactly knowing how to open the tall slab of rock. "Dwarf doors are invisible when closed."

"Yes, Gimli, their own masters cannot find them, if their secrets are forgotten," Gandalf huffed out, tapping his staff too.

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Legolas rolled his eyes, making the dwarf grumble wordlessly. You shared a grin with Alena at the bickering. 

"Now let's see. Ithildin-," Gandalf thought out loud. As the company relaxed, you watched as Frodo's leg splashed loudly into the pool of water just outside the supposed doors of Moria. 

"Careful Frodo," Aragorn warned. 

"It mirrors only starlight and moonlight," The wizard suddenly announced, turning to you with a knowing look. 

You nodded, and avoiding Alena's questioning glance, looked up at the sky. Almost immediately, the dark clouds parted away for the moon and the stars above. For a moment, you let yourself be homesick as the lights in the night sky danced happily in their brilliance. The silver lines grew bright, outlying a door formed of two columns beneath an arch, with a star in the center.

"Wow," You heard someone say. 

"It reads 'The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter," Gandalf translated. 

"What do you suppose that means?" Merry piped up.

"It's quite simple. If you are a friend, you speak the password, and the doors will open," The grey wizard paused. "Annon Edhellen, edro hi ammen!" (Gate of the Elves, open now for me!)

Nothing happened. 

"Fennas Nogothrim, lasto beth lammen," He tried again. (Doorway of the Dwarf-folk, listen to the word of my tongue.)

"Nothing's happening," Pippin frowned. 

You too were stumped. One glance around the Fellowship, and you could tell that you weren't the only one. 

"I once knew every spell in all the tongues of Elves, Men, and Orcs."

"What are you going to do then, Gandalf?"

"Knock your head against these doors, Peregrin Took! And if that does not shatter them, and I am allowed a little peace from foolish questions, I will try to find the opening words," Gandalf huffed out in annoyance.

Sitting on the shores of the water, the Fellowship sprawled around in relaxation. While Gandalf muttered different phrases, Merry and Pippin took turns throwing stones into the lake. Alena sat beside you, sharpening her sword, as you fiddled around with your arrows. 

"Ando Eldarinwa, a lasta quettanya, Fenda Casarinwa" (Gate of Elves, listen to my word, Threshold of Dwarves)

"Stop Merry, Pippin," Aragorn ordered, observing the lake as it rippled.

"What?" The hobbits paused.

"Do not disturb the water."

"Oh, it's useless!" Gandalf sat down beside Frodo, done for the moment.

"Aragorn!" Boromir called out in warning, as the rest of the company glanced at the increasing ripples of the waters. 

"It's a riddle," Frodo suddenly stood up. "Speak 'friend' and enter. What's the Elvish word for friend?"

"Mellon," Legolas answered.

The stone doors slowly swung open, rumbling deeply. Curiously, the Fellowship entered Moria through the newly gaping entrance. As the wizard reached into his robes, you stopped him by placing a hand on his shoulder. 

"Use mine, it'll glow longer," You offered a crystal. 

Gandalf regarded you for a quick moment, but gently grabbed it from your palm. Placing a crystal into the top of his staff, the rest followed the wizard in. Aragorn followed last, casting one last distrustful glance at the water.

"Soon, Master Elf, you will enjoy the fabled hospitality of the Dwarves! Roaring fires, malt beer, ripe meat off the bone. This, my friend, is the home of my cousin, Balin," Glimli excitedly spoke. "And they call it a mine. A mine!"

"This is no mine," Boromir slowly spoke. "It's a tomb!" 

The light from the staff glowed brighter, illuminating the space around them. Cobwebs and bones covered every part on the floor, old and withering weapons littered around, dried blood could be found, and a filthy smell lingered in the air.

"Yuck," Alena muttered.

"Goblins!" Legolas examined an arrow from a fallen Dwarf, pulled it out, and casted it aside in disgust. The four Hobbits back towards the door. Something stirred in the water behind them.

"We make for the Gap of Rohan. We should never have come here," Boromir shook his head. 

"Now get out of here, get out!" Alena shouted from the back. 

The rest of the company ran for the door. Suddenly, Frodo was grabbed from behind and pulled off his feet by a long, snaking tentacle. "Help!!"

"Aragorn!"

"Frodo!"

The watching creature at the gate released Frodo, and feigned disappearance under the waters. Suddenly, many tentacles sprung out of the water, slapping the other Hobbits aside and grabbing Frodo around the leg. He was pulled out and over into the air.

You cursed, and headed back the way you came in, ready to help. Yet, Legolas was faster than you. He ran back out onto the shore and started shooting. One of his arrows pierced a tentacle that was wrapping itself over Frodo's face.

"Strider, help!" The hobbit cried out.

Boromir, Alena, and Aragorn rushed to the water and started attacking the beast. It flung Frodo wildly in the air. Despite the Fellowship's efforts, the Hobbit was lowered towards a gapping maw in the water, ringed by fangs, set in a gilled face.

Finally arriving, you joined in the fight, aiming your arrows towards its head, in a futile attempt to injure the fell beast. Aragorn sliced through the tentacle holding Frodo, who fell into Boromir's waiting arms.

"Into the Mines!" Gandalf roared.

"Legolas! Y/N!" The Captain called as he and the two Rangers retreated. Running with Frodo in his arms, he ran into the gates as as a huge tentacle uncoiled a hand-like appendage, snaking after them. 

You and Legolas both aimed, and watched as the two arrows both hit their marks. With both eyes of the beast struck, it recoiled with a painful roar of pain and anger. 

"Run!"

Needing no other encouragement, you pulled Legolas towards the entrance. As the sea creature reached out once more, it teared the gates shut. Slabs of rocks dropped and the roof of the passageway caved in. The Fellowship stared back at one another as the last rays of moonlight disappeared behind.

"We now have but one choice," Gandalf spoke as the group caught their breaths. "We must face the long dark of Moria. Be on your guard. There are older and fouler things than Orcs, in the deep places of the world."

You sucked in a gap, understanding his words. Could there be older enemies from even all the way back when the First Age started? Nodding anyways, you followed the wizard as he started his trek. "How long does it take to reach the other side?"

"It's a four-day journey to the other side. Let us hope that our presence may go unnoticed," The Maiar answered quietly. You shook your head, it was going to be a long walk of silence filled with only your own terrified thoughts.

It was awhile, you didn't exactly how long had passed, before Gandalf halted the group in front of a cavern that led to a crossroads in the mine: three doorways loomed before them. The wizard glanced from one to the other and back.

"I have no memory of this place."

You groaned silently, but indicated for the company to sit and rest. 

Seeing a small figure leaping from stone to stone, a startled Frodo walked over to where Gandalf was leaning against a boulder.

"There's something down there!"

You rose an eyebrow.

"It's Gollum."

"Gollum?"

"He's been following us for three days."

"He escaped the dungeons of Barad-Dûr!"

"Escaped? Or was set loose?" Gandalf eyed the creature. "And now the Ring has drawn him here. He will never be rid of his need for it. He hates and loves the Ring, as he hates and loves himself."

Some of the company, including you, watched as Gollum raised his head, eyes piercing through the darkness of the hall.

"Sméagol's life is a sad story. Yes, Sméagol he was once called. Before the Ring was found, before it drove him mad," The wizard quietly explained.

"It's a pity my uncle Bilbo didn't kill him when he had the chance!" 

"Pity? It was pity that stayed Bilbo's hand. Many that live deserve death, and some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them, Frodo?"

"Do not be too eager to deal out death in judgment. Even the very wise can not see all ends," You spoke out from beside Alena, watching as the young hobbit studied the floor with a sudden interest.

"My heart tells me that Gollum has some part to play yet, for good or ill before this is all over," Gandalf spoke over Gollum's songs. "The pity of Bilbo may rule the fate of many."

"I wish the Ring had never come to me. I wish none of this had happened, Gandalf."

"So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us. There are other forces at work in this world, Frodo, besides the will of evil. Bilbo was meant to find the Ring, in which case you also were meant to have it. And that is an encouraging thought," Gandalf glanced at you again, but stood up. "Oh! It's that way."

"He's remembered!" Merry spoke.

As the Fellowship started down a dark stairway that the wizard pointed at, he placed his hat back on. 

"No, but the air doesn't smell so foul down here. If in doubt, Meriadoc, always follow your nose."

You rolled your eyes at the words, but followed after Legolas to descend the stairway. 

"Behold! The great realm and Dwarf city of Dwarrowdelf."

His staff illuminated a giant stone hall with tall pillars and arched ceilings.The Fellowship walked forward and through the hall, peering around a column. Seeing a ray of sunlight shining through a chamber, Gimli gasped and ran towards it without another thought.

Bodies and weapons scattered about it. The Dwarf stopped and kneeled by a crypt in the center of the room. A shaft of light illuminated through. Gandalf peered curiously at the tomb's surface, while the rest of the Fellowship observed the white bones of dead dwarves and enemies.

"No! No! No!" Gimli wailed, sobbing.

"'Here lies Balin, son of Fundin, Lord of Moria.' He is dead then. It's as I feared," The wizard grimly translated the runes, looking around the small chamber.

Giving his staff and hat to Pippin, he bent down, and took a large and battered book from a corpse's hands. He opened it, clearing the dirt from its pages.

"They have taken the bridge, and the second hall. We have barred the gates, but cannot hold them for long. The ground shakes," He read out loud, as Gimli peered up at the tall Maiar.

Pippin backed away slowly, as Gandalf continued. 

"Drums, drums, in the deep. We cannot get out. A shadow moves in the dark. We cannot get out."

You glanced nervously at Legolas, then at Alena, then back to the elf again. Even he held a grim look on his face as he nervously grabbed his bow as though for reassurances.

The silence was broken by Pippin. Curiously, he reached out and lightly twisted the arrow within the corpse. The skull slipped off, falling into the well with a resounding crash, dragging with it a chain and bucket. Gandalf whipped around at the sound, including everyone else and towards the guilty hobbit. Noise echoed from hall to hall far below, as Pippin winced at each wave of noise.

You groaned, and threw your hands up in defeat. The others shook their heads, and scowled.

"Fool of a Took! Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity!" Gandalf roughly slammed the tome shut. Pulling his hat and staff from the Hobbit's hands, he turned away. Pippin stood still awkwardly.

Until the drums sounded. 

"Orcs!" Legolas notched an arrow as the team scrambled to get into position with their weapons. 

"Hobbits, stay close to Y/N. Alena, with me," Aragorn ordered, drawing his own sword.

As Boromir rushed to the doors to have a look, arrows hissed into the door near his face. Too close of a comfort, as a matter of fact. A bellow was heard from just outside.

"They have a cave troll," He announced in sarcastic relief.

"Wonderful," You grumbled, grabbing an arrow from your back and readied your aim at the door.

Creatures began hacking the doors down. Weapons crashed through splintering spaces, creating little gaps just small enough for an arrow to sing through. When the first clear gap was gashed in the door, Legolas let go of his arrow, earning himself  a shrill cry from the other side. The Elf quickly notched another to his bow as you shot another.

Suddenly, the fell beasts broke through and the battle begand. A wave of armor-clad Orcs charged towards the Fellowship, who happily engaged the Orcs head on. While you and Legolas pierced Orcs with your arrows, Aragorn, Alena, and Boromir smashed their swords against the enemy. Gimli caught one in the stomach with his axe. 

With a loud roar, Gandalf launched himself into the fray with his sword, and the Hobbits huddled close to you, swords drawn and ready to fight. Aragorn beheaded an Orc, and black blood spewed forth. Suddenly Sam paused in the heat of battle, his attention drawn upwards.

"Here comes the cave troll, " Legolas shouted cheerfully beside you, as you and him sent endless volleys into the battle. You swung your head back to the entrance just when the cave troll smashed through the hallway. 

"Thanks mellon," You replied cheekily. "Certainly enjoy being dramatic."

Legolas shot the cave troll in the shoulder, growling at your words, while the beast roared and clapped a hand to its wound. Sam continued to stare, frozen, as the troll swung his mace down at the Hobbit. At the last minute, he dived under the troll's legs and crawled in vain away as the troll turned, sighting him again.

"Sam!" You hollered, sliding protectively in front of the hobbit, shooting the troll's shoulders.

As the beast raised his arm to strike, he suddenly fell back. Aragorn and Boromir appeared behind the troll, pulling on its chains. Twisting its arm, the troll whipped Boromir across the chamber, landing in a recess of the wall, dazed.

You cursed under your breath as an orc towered above the Captain, ready to strike him down. When across the room, Aragorn slung his blade into the Orc's neck, and although still dazed, the Ranger pulled him up. While Gimli sliced the troll with his axe, Legolas stood in the corner, shooting another two arrows at the troll, forcing it to reel back in pain. Orcs streamed in, and you slid out your sword.

"Stay behind!" You called to the hobbits behind you. Whether they were behind you or not was one thing, but with the endless enemies, you could only do so much. The troll swung his chains above his head again at Legolas who dodged it. As the chain wrapped around a pillar, the elf shot the troll in the back of the head and jumped off. 

As a result, the troll cringed, flattening its fellow orcs as it stumbled around in pain. Once recovered, The troll brought his mace down at the other Hobbits, causing them to jump aside. Now separated from Merry and Pippin, the troll seeked out Frodo, who tried to evade by hiding behind a pillar.

"Frodo!" Half of the Fellowship yelled, now fighting back in earnest to reach the hobbit.

Not being able to see him, it peered around the other side, causing Frodo to dodge out of its vision. Once it disappeared, the young hobbit carefully looked around the pillar. For now the troll was gone, and took a deep breath.

"Roar!" The troll blasted around the pillar, bellowing in Frodo's face. The Hobbit stumbed, and fell into a corner of the room. The troll grabbed him, and dragged him off of the edge of a recess. "Aragorn? Aragorn!"

"Frodo!"

Remembering that he still had Sting in hand, the hobbit wildly slashed the troll's hand. The fell beast instinctively dropped him to the ground, twisting his injured hand and staring at it. As Frodo laid on the floor, frozen in fear, his eyes widened at the impending doom.. It raised its mace and began to swing, but Aragorn leaped down into the recess as Legolas let go of his arrows aimed at the troll.

Although Pippin and Merry did their best by throwing stones at the troll's head, it swung his arm down. This time, hitting Aragorn, which sent him flying across the room. 

With an oof, he collapsed onto the floor. Frodo raced after the fallen Ranger and tried to rouse him, but to no avail.

"Aragorn!" Alena screamed, pushing back the orcs with her dual bladed swords. 

"Frodo no!" You echoed, slitting an orc's throat without another thought and trying to slog over where Aragorn laid.

The hobbit began to run, but the troll blocked his path with its spear, throwing him back. As if in slow mo, you and the company watched with wide eyes and half uttered screams, as the troll took aim and stabbed Frodo in the chest.

As the company stared in shock, the troll too seemed amazed at its own work.

Merry and Pippin glanced at each other and their faces appeared resolved. They leaped onto the beast, stabbing him mercilessly. "For Frodo!"

"Frodo?" Sam rushed to the fallen hobbit. "Frodo!"

Broken from their shocked trance, Aragorn, Alena, you, Boromir, and Gandalf fought with mad vigor in order to reach the Hobbit.

The troll flailed at its head and grabbed Merry, swinging him around and throwing him to the ground. While you, Gandalf, and Gimli took turns stabbing at the troll and dodging out of range, Legolas took aim.

With Pippin stabbing it in the head, the troll opened its mouth. Taking the chance, Legolas shot his arrow upwards and into the brain. With a long, pained moan, the troll collapsed to the ground, finally dead. There was a moment of silence as the remaining enemies fled.

You rushed to Frodo first before anyone else did. Gently, Aragorn rolled the hobbit over, but immediately stilled as he gasped for breath. 

"He's alive!" Alena exclaimed. With that announcement, the company sighed in relief. 

"I'm all right, I'm not hurt." Frodo croaked.

"You should be dead! That spear would have skewered a wild boar," Aragorn sheathed his sword away. 

Gandalf hummed in agreement. "I think there's more to this Hobbit than meets the eye."

Slowly, Frodo lifted his shirt up. Immediately, the mithril chain mail shirt glimmered in the faint light. You raised an eyebrow at the surprise. 

"Mithril! You are full of surprises, Master Baggins." Gimli gasped, taking in the familiar substance that his race grew rich upon. 

"Hate to disrupt," Boromir cut in, at the broken doorway again. "But there are still orcs here."

Faintly in the background, you could hear the movements, and the Fellowship straightened up. After Aragorn pulled Frodo to his feet, he turned to Gandalf.

"To the bridge?"

"To the bridge of Khazad-dûm!"

Permanent Tags: @asraime @mournthewicked

Taglist is open for those interested!

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[leal-5]

Tomb of Time and Destiny: Chapter 8, Part 2

“Do you have a cold?”

“A cold?”

“Well, you are wearing a cape on one of the warmest nights of the summer.”

“Maybe Juvia is coming down with something,” I said, wrapping my cape closer to myself

We moved down through a wide hall and into a massive kitchen, still full of the odors of cooling meat and fresh-baked bread. Mira looked up in surprise at us as she wiped her hands on a cloth. ‘Does she not sleep?!’ “How can I help you?”

“Juvia wants something to drink,” Gajeel said.

“Right away, right away,” she murmured. She took a crockery mug with no handles from a shelf, then went to the wide stone oven where a fire still crackled and embers glowed. She dipped a ladle into a kettle at the edge and poured the steaming liquid into a cup, then waddled back over to us.

“Anything else?”

“No. Thank you. For everything.” I smiled meaningfully at her. I saw her frown a little at that, and realized I sounded as if I were saying farewell. ‘Well technically that's exactly what I was doing…’ I lifted the cup, hoping that would cover up my mistake.

“Oh, Sleep well, Juvia.”

“Thank you.”

Gajeel walked with me back through the Great Hall.

“Well,” I said. “Juvia thinks she can make it back to her room and not get lost again.”

“I’ll see you across the courtyard,” he said, his eyes slightly troubled. He was taking in the bead of sweat on my brow. Probably worrying that I really was ill. 'That darn kitchen was sweltering!! Juvia wants to ditch the cape, but if she does he’ll see the weapons…'

We moved across the cobblestones and reached the corridor hallway. “All right,” I said with a grin. “Juvia is certain she can make it from here.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, his worry turning to teasing. I bristled and pouted slightly. He was getting revenge from earlier.

“Yes, Gajeel-san.” I said exasperatedly

“Good night, Juvia,” he said with a hearty laugh.

I stuck my tongue out at him childishly before easing my way through the doorway and closing the door behind me, ignoring his laughter again.

I listened, and after a moment, heard his soft leather boots take the first few steps away. I let out a big breath of relief just as my guilt comes tumbling back but I push it away and focus on the ropes I had grabbed from the armory. On closer inspection, they weren’t long enough to scale down the entire castle wall, but I’m certain we can jump the rest of the length down.

I hurried to Erza’s room where she was nervously pacing. “Juvia.” She said my name in relief and gave me a bone crushing hug.

“Juvia apologizes, she ran into Gajeel-san on her way back but everything else went well.” I hand her a cape and her weapons and we scurry out.

We ducked through the hallway door and climbed the turret staircase that led to the very top of the wall. On the last step, Erza paused and then peeked out. There was a guard that was just passing through and another guard was moving away from us at a leisurely pace. Erza turned to me and held up nine fingers and I nodded. We had about ninety seconds before he would turn and come back in our direction. Ninety, eighty-nine.

I hurriedly fetched both lengths of rope, tossing one to Erza. We wrapped the long lengths of rope into a figure eight and pulled it over one arm.

We sprinted across to the other side of the wall and tied off my rope to one of the ledges of the wall,  counting off the seconds as I worked. Seventy-two, seventy-one. In quick order, after glancing around the tower to be sure the first guard hadn’t caught sight of us, I let the length of rope drop over the edge. It dangled six feet from the ground. Close enough. Sixty-five, sixty-four.

I hurriedly tugged the rope to check if it was secure, wrapped my hands in strips of cloth to avoid the rope burn to come, and pulled the rope up and made a loop, preparing to rappel.

“So that’s why you needed a dagger this night,” said a droll voice a few feet away.

Erza and I gasped and jumped, nearly losing our balance on the edge of the wall.

Gajeel and Natsu were leaning against the wall, looking down on our intended escape route. “That’s a long drop, why not go through the gate?” Natsu asked, as if he always came across women trying to climb down the castle wall. Fifty-three, fifty-two…

Erza shook her head, in no mood for his humor at this moment. “We can’t go through the gate,” she whispered fiercely, hoping to convince him to just let us go before the guard returned. “They will not allow it at such an hour.”

“Indeed they will not.” Gajeel nodded out to the dark woods. “You intend to return to the tombs?”

I nodded, begging with my eyes.

“That is no place for a lady at night. Do you not remember our encounter this afternoon and the Phantom Lords’ hatred of Fairy Tail?”

“We are not of Fairy Tail.”

“You may as well be. A night spent in the Fairy Tail house makes you a member.”

“Please, we need to go. We need to look for our sisters.” I took another nervous glance toward the guard. He was nearing the end of the wall.

“In the dark of night? You’ll only get yourselves lost or discovered by a Phantom Lord knight. Or worse.”

“Worse? Who is worse?” Erza incredulously asked. I looked to the guards on either end, still unaware of us. The last thing we needed was for them to come running on over here too.

Natsu sighed heavily. “Phantom Lord is not our only enemy. A Bellum such as yourself cannot assume to know where it is safe to go. If you need to go, allow us to go as your guards. In the morning, out the gate.”

“I apologize but we cannot do that! We can’t sleep, knowing that our sisters might be out there!”

Gajeel glanced over the side and raised a brow. “Then we’ll go with you now, through the gates.”

“Your brothers will not let you go.” I countered, nervously glancing at the guard.

“They’re asleep. Come, we’ll take a look, if we must.”

“If we go through the gates, ten guards will be ringing the bells.”

“So you truly intend to climb the wall?” they asked incredulously. “You’ll fall and break your neck. Then what will Gray/Jellal do to me?”

“Juvia will not fall,” I said with a grin, putting my feet over and finding a small ledge. “I wish we had some carabiners and straps, but this will do.” Erza murmured as we gave the rope a quick tug then leaned outward. Thirty-two, thirty-one… The guards were probably turning by now, heading back in our direction. Quickly, I rappelled a foot down.

“Erza!”

“Oi, Juvia!”

“We’re fine,” Erza hissed, not wanting him to draw attention. “Quit worrying over us!” We went another foot and grinned up at them. The poor guys were in total shock. “Look away, both of you. Then you can say you never saw us leave, only that we disappeared in the dark.” We eased down just as I finished saying that, sliding as fast as we dared, half-expecting them to sound an alarm.

But as we dropped, panting, to the soft peat below, I saw that as the silhouette of the guard returned, our rope was already gone, pulled in from above.

I turned and ran, stumbling a couple of times over branches but managing to stay in step with Erza. I heard a shout from the castle but ignored it. Soon We were deep in the forest, on the narrow horse path that led to the creek. There was just enough of a moon out to see it. If we stayed on it, we should be able to find the tomb.

It took me about ten minutes to realize we weren’t alone.

#fairy tail gruvia #gruvia #nalu #fairy tail nalu #fairy tail jerza #jerza #fairy tail gajevy #gajevy #fairy tail gale #gale #juvia lockser #gray x juvia #fairy tail gray #gray fullbuster #fairy tail natsu #natsu dragneel #natsu x lucy #fairy tail lucy #lucy heartfilia #gajeel x levy #levy mcgarden #fairy tail gajeel #gajeel redfox #fanfiction #fanfic #erza scarlet #jellal x erza #fairy tail erza #fairy tail jellal #jellal fernandes

[wizardsnwookies]

POTA100918 - Ghost Stories

Redlarch was large enough that the comings and goings of a handful of strangers were for the most part ignored. They were a Caravan town after all, people came and went all the time. The disappearance of three adventurers meant as little to them as the sudden appearance of four more. It was the way of things. Little more than a few more coins at the inn.

The All-Faith’s Shrine warmed his spirit the moment stepped over the threshold. Something about the home of any kind of faith felt welcoming and safe to him. He enjoyed the feeling for however brief a time it would last, for as always, he was here on his grim duty.

“Master Dion?” A gentle voice turned his attention away from one of the many magnificent tapestries that covered the plain stone walls. It’s soft and precise tone fit its owner well, a slight elf female who stood taller than most men Dion had made acquaintance with. Stature, however had nothing to do with this. She carried herself as a woman of her faith, proud and utterly confident in her movements.

“Yes, Alura of Tempest I presume?”

“It is our pleasure to receive you.” Alura offered a slight bow of the head, sweeping her hand out towards the entirety of the shrine. “We don’t get many of your kind here, it is a rare honor.”

“It is my honor to perform this solemn duty. Please, how may I be of service here?”

Dion fell into a slow stride alongside the priestess. The hall before them was brief, bringing them into the large central chamber with a ceiling that seemed to stretch out to the heaven’s themselves. Pillars of stone rose up to brace the rafters, all long their height were sculpted scenes of great faith towards all gods. More tapestries covered the otherwise bare walls, each more colorful than the next, carefully woven out of luxurious threads and yarn. Alura moved with a fixed gaze as if the splendor of her surroundings were utterly mundane.

“Redlarch is in need of much more than a Doomguide I’m affraid, it is troubled times indeed.”

“Please, my lady indulge me.”

“Some are rumor, but much is beyond the help of anyone. The earth around us seems to revolt; earthquakes, wildfires, storms of rain and sleet, great winds that gust from nowhere. The loss of an important caravan.

However, one such rumor may suit you well in particular. There is a place just outside of town known as Lance Rock. Many youths breath conflicting tales, singularly they might be shrugged off as fanciful tales of children, together they may point at something more substantial.”

“Truth often hides within the shadow of rumor.”

“Well spoken.” Alura finally stopped at the center of the chamber and let her head slowly fall backward, gazing up into the domed ceiling high above them. “I dare not sully this holy place to speak of what floats on the lips of these babes. Go to the Swinging Sword, the innsman there can tell you everything he has heard.”

A sense of foreboding fell upon Dion like a shadow. For a Priestess of Tempest to fall silent on a subject was rare, and often it bore ill tidings. Yet he would not falter, if there was even one soul to be guided into the next world he must be there to aid them. No matter the circumstances.

---

Everyone stared blankly at the strange Priest with a silence that had not fallen on the Swinging Sword since it opened early this morn. The confidence drained from his face as the awkwardness of it all sank in, shrinking him back inside himself somewhat. Speaking with the innsman had filled him with a sense of urgency. Disease, death, and ghostly figures filled the rumors the man had heard from his patrons. Dark things moving in the vicinity of Lance Rock, where their children frequently play. They were still but rumors he admitted, but he would feel much better if someone, anyone, looked into the matter.

Dion wondered why the constable had not followed up himself. The innsman scoffed, seemingly not satisfied with the excuse he was given, that there were far more pressing matters to attend to than a few ghost stories. Admittedly, Dion’s zeal got the best of him. Filled with purpose and duty, he shouted his intentions to the entirety of the Tavenr, loud and precise so that all could hear...and was met with blank faces. Flea chuckled to himself and gulped down the last of his ale.

“Well...that’s certainly one way to get attention.” Aunt Lenore cocked her head somewhat. “I know I’ve been dead for the last twenty years but is that really how things are done nowadays?”

“Not typically.” Flea stood, slamming his tankard on the table. “Which is a shame. People spend too much time dancing around the subject most of the time.

“Aye! I’ll join this task, assuming it pays.”  His voice carried over the heads of crowd, slowly getting back to their own business, a dull murmuring already gaining in volume. He shouldered his way across the floor, splilling drinks as he bumped shoulders. Those so assaulted would turn to accost him, but shrank back upon seeing the half-orc’s size.

“If shouting out your intentions is how you go about things, you’ll probably be needing me.” Dion turned to his left just in time for a slender arm to fall across his shoulders. A pair of golden eyes of a high elf smiled at him.

“Name’s Alura, and you can thank me by buying me a drink.”

“Oh, of course.” Dion blinked, taken aback by the forwardness, but opened his purse to her nonetheless. When joined by the hulking half-orc, the cleric chose a table in which they all might sit and discuss their plans.

“I think you, this is an important undertaking we are to set out on.”

“Aren’t they all?” Elura carefully sipped her wine, sinking deep into the wood-spindled chair. “Not to be crass, but you didn’t answer our good friend’s question.”

“Flea.” He nodded, appreciating the acknowledgement. Too often the religious types got caught up in their own morals and ideals. Which is all fine and good, but they don’t put food on the plate.

“Yes, of course. My apologies. The innsman is of course happy to pay us for our efforts. Though I want for no reward, I would not presume to ask the same of others.”

“Good man.” Elura raised her glass to him. “Do we have anything further to go on besides some wild rumors? Something in the area that might be connected, a tomb perhaps?”

“Not that he is aware of. Although he did speak of caves in the nearby ravine.”

“Caves can hold many things.” Flea offered.

“I was born in a cave, you know!” Great grandfater Oorg raised a gnarled finger and Flea knew if he didn’t stop him now, he would continue on his diatrype for most of the evening.

“So was I Grandfather, so were most of us. Please, continue priest.”

Dion blinked. “Who were you - “

“Don’t worry about it, just go on with it.”

“Yes...well, what I’m afraid of is of course some kind of dark magic taking place. A spellcaster of ill intent, if left to fester, will spread like blight upon this town.”

“Or it could be nothing, like I said, caves can hold many things.”

“I agree, I don’t like the vague nature of it all.” A new voice  made them all nearly jump in their seats. The strange Golden Dragon born sat as the fourth of their table, looking curiously at them.

“How long have you been there?” Elura furrowed her brow, a bit disturbed that a rogue of her class did not detect him in his approach.

“Since you sat down.”

“...and you were just-”

“Listening, I wanted to make sure I had all the details before I offered my aid.” He blinked. “Why? Is that-”

“Weird? Yeah, just a little bit.”

“I apologize, I’ve been at the monastery for some time and social culture is bit lost on me.”

“Clearly.”

“My name is Miv, and I offer you my assistance in this venture.” Dion smiled as the monk bowed from across the table. He had not dared to dream of such a large spread of talent for this. A monk, a rogue, and what he could only assume by the smell, a barbarian. All pledged to aid him in his duty.

“I am Dion, and I welcome you to our group.”

---

“You are of Mirabor? Did you know anyone on that Caravan?” Sir Daniel glady accepted the drink offered to him by the stranger sitting at the bar of the Swinging Sword. He had no worries or suspicions, her armor being of official issue to the guard of Mirabor. Being a Dragonborn of Silver decent didn’t hurt either, their kind were a lawful lot, seekers of justice. Thus, she was a kindred spirit, and he welcomed her company.

“I...yes. I believe I did.” Banshea struggled to answer, while she couldn’t remember anything up until waking up in her own grave, if she was indeed a guard on the caravan than she must have known her colleges. “I heard they disappeared on their way to Summit Hill?”

“Aye, strange thing it is. I come from there myself, truth be told.”

“Oh? Then what gleaming have the good knights made on the matter?”

“We have not I’m afraid, stretched a bit too thin these days. Lady Stormbanner recently received a group of adventurers looking into it not a few days ago.” He paused mid sip, thinking back on the evening they had all shared together. “Strange group, they were.”

“What have they found? If anything?”

“I know not, and I know of no one who does. They went to investigate the Monastery across the river when they left, that was the last anyone had heard from them.”

Banshea heaved a sigh, disappointingly little to go on, but it was more than she had this morning.

“You should know.” Sir Daniel began delicately. “They did find evidence of a battle on their way. It is believed to be the point where the Caravan was ambushed, but not much was found.

“They found many dead Mirabor guards, I’m afraid.” His voice was low and compassionate, offering a clap on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, truly.”

“My thanks.” Banshea offered a bittersweet smile. “What of the antagonists? Were they among the dead?”

“Some of them, a group of Hobgoblins and one of the monks from the nearby monastery. They all bore a strange symbol upon them, the adventurers suspected some kind of cult activity.”

That was more to go on. A solid lead as opposed to a vague assumption of one. She felt her sense of purpose and duty swell in her chest. It was a strange feeling. She held no memories of this life that she once had. No memories of this lord whom she owed allegiance. Yet, she had no question in her heart that she must go and pursue this mystery. She was tasked for a duty to protect the Caravan, and failed. She could at least seek justice for those slain, and perhaps find a piece of herself in the process.

---

“Very well then, it is decided. We leave at dawn tomorrow.” Dion stood to punctuate the end of whatever gathering this was. The four of them had made an accord and were bound to it, as far as he was concerned. “I thank you all for your support, and I shall pray tonight for a peaceful journey.”

“Pray all you want, my hammer will take care of the Peacekeeping around here.” Flea smirked but did not stand. It was early yet, and he could still get some drinking in before the ancestors started their squabbling again.

“I should turn in, if I am to make the necessary morning meditations.” Miv joined Dion on his stride to the door, offering a wave to the half-orc already with fresh tankard in hand.

“Well aren’t you guys a pair of wild party animals.” Elora tipped back her glass of wine and let the warmth envelope her.

The two holy men turned and ran into what felt like a brick wall wrapped in hide and chain. Before them the large frame of a female Silver Dragon born stood rooted in place.

“You, do you still require assistance at Lance Rock?” Banshea’s voice was thundering and shook the pleasant buzz from Elora’s head.

“Ok, people seriously need to stop just popping up out of nowhere.”

“I suppose one more could only further the chances of success.” Dion stumbled backwards, the stern silver face staring down at him.

“I offer you an accord then. I require a group to accompany me South to investigate the loss of several delegates from the Lord’s Alliance. I shall grant you my blade if you would be that group.”

The four looked at each other in silence. They had heard the rumblings of such a thing in town, but had not thought much of it. Something of this importance surely must have been taken care of? Apparently not.

“Lords tend to pay pretty well. I’m in.” Flea shrugged.

“Sounds like fun.” Elora bowed her head with a smile.

“I go where I am needed.” Miv said after a slight pause.

Taking a moment to collect himself, Dion brushed his clerical robes back into place and offered his hand out. “Then, I believe we have a deal miss...?”

“Banshea of Mirobar.“

Buy Me a Coffee

#Dungeons and Dragons #princes of the apocalypse #role playing games #campaign diary

[dsmadmin]

#MarkOfCain

Written By @DeanWinchester_ @KingOfHell_DSM & @AngelicOperator

The air cold around his lifeless body, encased in darkness. Silence and peace for one rare moment. He'd sought relief from the constant pain knowing he'd gave everything he had left to flee it. A red glow slowly lit the tomb his flesh burning as the demanded payment. Moments later he took a breath, eyes opened looking inhuman. Black and lifeless orbs had replaced the hazel irises. Lifting his right hand to peer at the burning mark. He was closed inside something, putting his hands against the stone cover he shoved hard to the left and sent the stone slab hurling off and hitting hard floor cracking down the middle. Sitting up he pulled the gauze away and climbed out of the coffin. Cracking his neck he looked around adjusting to this void of feeling. There was no pain just quiet. @KingOfHell_DSM

Crowley - •Crowley sat on his throne. Demon after demon complaining about something. Lucifer was out, doing hell knows what. But it played his favor. He could run Hell as he saw fit. It was what he wanted. To command and hold onto the power of the tortured souls of Hell. At this moment. He feared nothing, sure there were things that could kill him. But when his plan falls into place. It will be hard to take him out.

A smirk spread across his lips.* And there it is. What I was waiting for. *The mark of Cain had been a perfect plan. He just had to wait. And it looked like he didn’t have to wait long. With the power of his mind he called.* Come home.

Colt - -Instinctively he disappeared from the cavern and reappeared in hell's throne room. Black eyes focused on Crowley not even acknowledging the demons in the room.-

Crowley - Well..well...Colt Winchester. You surprise me. Already got yourself killed. •he chuckled and stood from his throne.• Leave us. •he ordered the other demons away. They bowed and left the room.• You have made my day I must say. •he walked down to him, standing before him. Oh his plan was falling into place. The key piece had always been Colt Winchester. And now he had him. And he wouldn’t let him go.• Follow me, I have something for you. •he walked around him and to the door. Opening it and stepping out.• I do believe you’ll love this gift. The mark is nothing without it. •hands placed behind his back. He walked through the halls of Hell. To the room where all relics are held. Stepping inside he looked through the mess of relics for the first blade.•

Colt- No speaking he turned and obediently followed, the demons they passed moved the fuck bad whispering to themselves. The torches flickered lighting the way of what seemed to be an endless corridor. Walking in behind Crowley he stood watching, recognizing a few items laying around from the many years of hunting. Lucifer came to mind for a split second but he didn't care anymore so he didn't ask if the angel had returned yet.

Crowley - The first blade laid in a box with magical ruins, that only Crowley could open. When he found it, he wasn’t about to let it just lay around. He whispered words of magic. The box, glowed a deathly black and purple. Lifting the lid, there nestled in a blood red cushion was the

first blade. Made from the bone of a donkey’s jaw. Cain had once held it. And now, now it was for the mark bearer. He gripped it, pulling it from the box. Turning he walked back to Colt.• This is what you will use. You will find it will suit you. •offering it to Colt.• Now, you will get to see some very dear people. •chuckling• Oh to see their faces. You, Colt Winchester, are you to bathe in blood. Even the blood of your family. Unless of course they play nicely.

Colt - Keen eyes never left the demon, taking hold of the gruesome looking blade he felt a surge of power. But more prevalent was the desire to kill. The mention of “family” made him look back up at Crowley his face stoic. A dead man has no family.

Crowley - It much of a talker are you? •chuckles, oh it would priceless to see the faces of his family. When the time came.• Let us first leave a little mark on the world. •motioning him to follow.• There is a prophet. That is highly guarded. He has been such a throne in my side. he lives in New Orleans. Care to have a little fun? •smirks• We will go and find him. You, •points to him.• Are going to kill him, in the bloodiest way possible.

Colt - Falling into step beside him.- I’d be happy to oblige. What makes him hard to find? Is he hidden with magic?

Crowley - •nods as the walk back to throne room.• Yes, strong magic that most demons can’t get through. But you, are different from all other demons. He has a family, they will have to be killed as well. Don’t need them running off and telling now do we? You have to brake the through the wards. I might suspect that hunters might be guarding him as well. Those are another pain in my ass. If there are any there. Take them out as well. It will get back to the other hunters in time.

Colt - No witnesses. Understood.

Crowley - nods, with a smirk. Oh this was going to perfect. Getting back to the throne room. He picked up a file, handing it to Colt.• Here is what was able to be gathered on him. •it was a small thin file.• James Conrad, 38. New Orleans, LA. I’ve explained what I know. He lives just outside the city. Once you’re caught up. We will leave.

Colt - Colt listened but didn’t really give a shit. He could finally breathe without some bullshit theatrics. When emotions aren’t a factor anymore life becomes crystal fucking clear. He’d been an idiot for looking for Jake all these years. He’d been an idiot holding on to hope their family would be fixed or atleast somewhat together. Never again would he bother with him or his bullshit. He was beyond done. Maybe a little guilt was left getting Qhuinn involved. Although Qhuinn hadn’t taken no for an answer either, so the guilt wasn’t just his to bear. He disappeared only to reappear with Crowley outside the “prophets” home. As he let go of the shit from his human life he concentrated on the job in front of him. Clutching the blade he looked at the property. Head tilting to the side as he listened and felt the power radiating off the angels on the property.- There’s three. I’ll be back. -With that he tried to materialize right inside the house but they’d put up wards. He tried to push through the invisible wall but it made little difference. So he put his blade away and disappeared, this time he reappeared and held a woman he’d grabbed from the sidewalk in town.- Here little piggy... come out, come out wherever you are! -Colt held the blade to the bitches throat.- Come on you chicken shit douchebags, I’m gonna cut her throat and continue to cut throats till you assholes come out and we handle this face to face... -The woman struggled against his grasp, whimpering and completely fucking pathetic. He wanted to tell her she was absolutely freaking ridiculous but theatrics...- Five! Four! -The woman screamed begging to be let go. - Three! -A high pitched sound rang in Colt’s ears and thrill went down his spine. The blade ran across her throat and blood sprayed from her carotid artery.- Whoops, my bad! You guys really should come on out! She looks like a fish out of water! God doesn’t care and the angels are dick bags... -The woman dropped to the ground trying to stop the blood but to late because her heart was pumping faster now and the crimson spray was relieving her of the vital fluid. Colt listened, to her last gasps.- To late! I can do this all week! -Poofs, this time the local pastor.- Pastor, do you believe in god? Angels? -His eyes black as midnight.- “I do. Let me pray for, God can help you.” -Colt laughed with no true emotion at all.- Sorry, that boat has sailed. You’re going to die by my hand if the angels don’t appear. If they appear I et you go, if they don’t I’m going to use your intestines for early Christmas decorations on this tree right here.

Ethan - -Ethan had heard rumors that Colt had now become a full fledged demon and now he knows it’s true.

With a soft fluttering of wings, he appears a few feet away from him and a man begging for his life. There is a small trip of blood running *trail down the mans neck where the first blade had made a nick in his skin.-

Colt! Put that down! What has happened to you?

-Ethans voice is commanding and firm, although he is falling apart inside.-

Colt - Ohhh fuckin' heaven does have a sense of humor. -Pat's the pastor on top of the head and shoves him away.- This isn't your fight big guy... and I'd -Starting to circle Ethan.- take a fuckin' vacation for awhile. Consider it some good advice from an old friend. -Jerks a thumb towards the house.- See some of your kin is inside and they're pissing me off. I have a job to do. So bug out or tell the rest of them to hand over the prophet... but either way I'm going to kill them all. If they cooperate I promise to make it fast and painless if not... I'm k ill em' -voice-changing to a more demonic tone.- slowly. I like the screams... I hope they fight back. -Smirks-

Ethan - -Ethan glances over at the pastor who is making a fast getaway, running down the street. Satisfied, he turns his attention back to the demon who has taken over Colt who is circling around him. Ethan crosses his arms across his chest-

Frankly, I’m not impressed. I don’t think You can get inside or you you’d already have done it.

How about you nix the badass routine and we sit down and figure shit out?

-Ethan knows he’s wasting his time, but he feels like he’s gotta try.-

Colt - -Laughs- Matter of time, the body count will rise or I'll bust through this magic. I bet I can drag a witch out here to help. It's cute you're trying to stop me. -Moves closer.- Are you hard? Cause I am. Reminds me of all those fights. I don't want to kill you, no I want you to live. -Throws the blade and buries the tip in the ground.- But the question is how far will you go? I have a lot of clarity nowadays. Not burdened with that fucking heart-wrenching love for your ass. It's amazing how liberating being a demon is. -In reach, he looks up at him.- I've not broken anymore, this is me free of all that bullshit. You'd look so fucking hot in chains... wouldn't have to deal with the bitch version of my whining. I can see why you left, no hard feelings. Hell, I'd have left me too.

Ethan - You sure are a mouthy motherfucker aren’t you? I bet you even like to talk to yourself just to hear yourself talk. -shakes his head, not letting the demon get into his head. Eyeing the knife in the ground knowing its part of his strength-

Colt - -Laughs- You like my mouth.... go ahead, try it. You fastest Ethan? I don't think you are and if you're not careful I'll have to cut your throat, drain your grace.... Now there's an idea, Ethan, human just like Andrew had been. -Shoves him back.- Remember that night on the beach all romantic, just us. Well an Andrew... did you feel betrayed your vessel wanted me too? Cause you my deal angel have always been one jealous fucker. His whimpers were softer than yours... I guess that's where we got our tastes for threesomes huh? Andrew watching and feeling what we did to eachother.

Ethan - -Ethan is usually pretty chilled, but the demon’s words cut deep. Without thinking, he balled his fist and hit him hard with a right hook.- Shut the fuck up. Andrew is not a topic you can speak of.

-He’s working on a plan and is buying some time.-

Colt - -The angel wasn't using everything he had yet and Colt's spit blood from his mouth as he picked himself up off the ground and cracked his neck.- Why? Jealous? I always did like the tender, needy fuckers. I mean look at Jake. But you, you Ethan where on a whole other level, under all that bravado is a broken angel... so fucking sweet I could mmmm savor that forever... -Using his abilities appears behind him and throws an arm around his neck tightening down his hold.- Should we go somewhere private? So you don't have to act this way for your kin inside? See, they know I'll fucking kill them so they're hiding like the bitches they are and they're not gonna shed a tear if I put you down. Join us. We can rule this mutherfucker together. Come on baby... you know you like the dark side. -Licks his earlobe.-

Ethan - You have no damn idea what you’re talking about. So...how about you shut the fuck up. -vanishes from his grasp to appear in front of him.-

I’m giving you one more chance to end this peacefully. I’m tired of talking. -He stands as a warrior. He is the angel of strength and he’s going to show him why very damn soon.-

Colt - Peacefully? You’re a prude Ethan, I don’t want to be saved. -Baring teeth he lunged at the angel tackling to the ground. Colt began whaling on him. He was out for blood, the power of the blade was so strong and he held so much pain inside. And this angel represented a life he

[ol-plots-blog]

The dungeons were dark, damp, and silent, and Lysander’s skin was prickled with goosebumps from the moment they entered.

It was strange to walk through Hogwarts castle at night - the stone hallways were so devoid of life. Each footstep echoed, but not with the chattering or laughter of students going to or from class, as Lysander could remember; it was as though a blanket had been laid over everyone and everything, muting it beneath layers of heavy fabric. They’d all been nervous and put off by the nothingness of Hogwarts, instinctively on high alert and wands drawn, even though they knew the castle had been secured, save for one or two persons of question.

It didn’t ease the jumpiness of their demeanour when Corbin Elloway led them down into the sealed-off dungeons, the oppressive silence even more pronounced. Lysander had given the instruction for the dungeons to be evacuated, to make way for their party, as well as to dislodge the great blathering idiot that is Samwell Whitmore, but even still - they’re so quiet that Lysander can feel the back of his neck prickle. He isn’t a man that fears much; he prides himself on being unshakeable, persevering through the worst of it with a grin, and it would take more than an empty labyrinth of dungeons to spook him. And yet - it unsettles him, because Lysander, better than most, knows what’s possible down here.

The solid presence of Henry at his side calms Lysander. He senses him there, rather than sees him, though all of Lysander’s other senses ring with the familiarity of him, too: the smell of him, like wooden sawdust, crushed fall leaves, the salt of the ocean, clinging to him from home, or what’s become home since this whole thing began. The steady gait of his walk, heavy and measured, his long legs always keeping stride with Lysander’s own. And the feel of him, like Lysander’s body and his are in a constant orbit, push and pull, gravitating both toward and around one another. It comes from being life long friends; it comes from being bonded mates within a pack. Lysander needs no other.

But others, he has, filing in behind them in lines of two, their wands clutched at their sides. It’s been years since any of them had a chance to step inside the walls of Hogwarts again; not since their ill-fated attempt at guarding it before the riot in London had they set foot here. Back then, they’d been a group barely out of its infancy stage, still learning how to be together, fight together; they’ve had ten good years since, and Lysander knows all of them deeply, each of them earning their place within his pack and proving themselves over and over again.

And prove themselves they must.

They duck their heads as they enter a tunnel, Lysander in the lead behind Elloway, noticing the way the man seems a little more ragged than when they’d seen each other last. His letters had betrayed nothing of the weariness that hangs on Elloway’s shoulders, the grey at his temples; there had been trials at Hogwarts, but Lysander couldn’t have guessed the toll.

“Straight down, only a little further,” Elloway says, navigating a path through the rocky tunnel, dotted with the misshapen boulders of hard granite, protruding from the tunnel walls.

It’s not the most homely place that Lysander’s ever stayed, and speaking as someone who’s lived out in the open forest for months on end at one point, he knows uncomfortable when he sees it. And the deeper they go, tunneling further under the castle, the more Lysander feels trapped. He’s never been claustrophobic, but then again he’s never been so far from the grass and trees and sky; he’s never had to go without, not like this, and it already messes with his head to feel no wind, carrying the scent of wild prey and the last gasps of winter.

“It’s alright,” Henry says, voice a low rumble as his hand falls onto Lysander’s shoulder. “It’s not forever.”

“Feels like a fuckin’ tomb,” Lysander snaps, eyes darting around, seeing better in the dark than most of the others.

“But not ours,” says Henry, fingers tightening, grounding Lysander.

Lysander’s jaw is tight but he nods, a small jerk of his head to let Henry know he’s alright, that he’ll keep it together, and his eyes have to readjust when they step into a cavernous room.

It looks like its been hollowed out by a giant ice cream scoop, the sides smooth and the room feeling rather circular. Lysander’s eyes trace the walls up, up, to a pointed ceiling somewhere in the distance - but it never touches the ground nor the light beyond. The knowledge of that sits heavy in his gut as the rest of the Order spread out among the space.

“It used to be the Chamber of Secrets,” Elloway says casually, and all eyes turn to him sharply. He doesn’t seem to notice, busy inspecting one of the many tunnel mouths that lead away into the darkness. “Funny that, isn’t it?”

“Hilarious,” drawls Lexie, dumping her large bag down in the centre of the room, where several beds have been set up. “I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather sleep than the same place a giant serpent did.”

“Actually--”

“Not now, Knox,” June says gently, cutting Knox off before he can start.

Lysander doesn’t like it much more than the rest of them, but he keeps his mouth shut, eyeing the surrounds carefully. They’ve got a lot of exits, but each one is also a potential entrance.

“Where do these lead?” he says, pointing to the two in the back wall.

“We’ve yet to complete an exploration of each in full,” Elloway says, bashful, “but as far as we can tell, they lead into the castle. Some are caved in, while others remain functional.”

Lysander drops his things without care and walks toward one of the tunnels, its great, gaping black mouth yawning open, larger and larger as he walks closer. The myths and legends about the basilisk that had once roamed these tunnels doesn’t frighten Lysander, even though he’s not of pure blood. He figures his odds are better than the average.

“We’re going to need a full search of each tunnel as soon as can be arranged,” Lysander says, looking over his shoulder at Henry, who nods. “I want each of them mapped by distance and time taken to travel, as well as its condition and potential entrances or exits to the greater castle beyond.”

“Of course,” says Henry.

“Once we’ve established that, we’ll ward each of them so that students are not able to enter,” Lysander continues, feeling himself get back into the groove of it. “We might also be able to use one or two as a rigged trap.”

Henry nods, and starts taking notes by hand in a notepad, muggle pen scratching across the paper.

“We’ll also simultaneously establish our base down here, with a clear means of communication with the outside world. We’re expecting letters,” he says, adding the last bit to Elloway, who nods.

“If you need anything, we have the usual means of communication,” Elloway says.

Henry keeps writing, and Lysander wanders from tunnel to tunnel, looking at each of them. They’re intimidating, and he’d feel a lot better if he knew where each of them went.

“I should get back, I’m supposed to be patrolling the second floor,” says Elloway, rocking nervously, the dark circles under his eyes catching the shadows. “Georgette said she’d come in the morning, to see how things are.”

“Right,” Lysander says, preoccupied by the twists of one tunnel that make him crane his neck.

By the time he straightens, Elloway’s gone, and everyone is spread among the beds that have been erected for them. They look listless and dispassionate, and Lysander sort of knows the feeling - Skylar and Lexie undoubtedly missing the outside world as much as he.

“Come on, get off your ass,” he calls, and they perk up at the sound of his voice, but only slightly. “We’ve got a job to do.”

Lexie groans, but June makes a show of standing up, wand in hand, and brushing herself off. Always demure and spotless, June competes daily with Henry for most loyal, which makes Lysander smile.

Henry steps in.

“Alright, we’re going to assign each tunnel a number, and you will each be given a number and expected to explore, map, and catalogue it within the hour,” he says, voice authoritative, carrying around the cavernous space.

Lysander folds his arms and watches from the back.

“Lexie, tunnel one,” Henry calls, as though he’s raffling off prizes, pointing with the end of his pen to the tunnel on his right. “Tunnel two, Knox with Violet.”

Knox gives Violet a weak smile, but Lysander’s sure he can see sweat forming on his upper lip.

“Tunnel three, Skylar. Tunnel four, Demetria.”

They don’t look happy to be split up, and Skylar looks as though he’s about to protest when he catches Lysander’s eye. Lysander stares him down until Skylar’s mouth closes and his brow furrows.

“Tunnel five, June. And I’ll take tunnel six,” finishes Henry, looking up from his notepad while pushing up the frame of his glasses by the bridge. “Questions?”

Skylar looks to Lysander, who stares back coolly, and no one says anything.

“Great. Within the hour, people,” Henry says, and everyone jumps to action, wands in hand.

Lysander stays where he is, propped against the cold stone that bites into his shoulder, watching his pack split up, taking their assigned tunnels with quiet determination. Knox takes Violet’s hand, allowing her to help him into the tunnel mouth, while Lexie strides into the darkness of her tunnel without so much as lighting her wand. They’re an odd bunch, no denying, but they’re as close to family as Lysander has allowed himself to get.

Once they’re all gone, swallowed up by the darkness, Henry walks over. He’s taller than Lysander - shot up like a string bean in their third year and hasn’t slowed down since.

“You coming?” Henry asks, jerking his chin to the tunnel to Lysander’s left. “Might lead somewhere interesting.”

“Pass,” Lysander says. “Thought I’d stay and unpack the essentials.”

Henry snorts. “You mean that stash of whiskey you smuggled in? Not sure that counts as essential, Lys.”

Lysander just grins, pushing off the wall and closing the space between them. “That’s for me to decide.”

“And I don’t think it’s going to last you,” Henry adds, a thoughtful frown on his face. “You’ll have to get more from somewhere.”

“Hogsmeade is only a short walk away, and I’m positive I could get a crate or two brought over,” says Lysander, shrugging. “Where there’s a will.”

Henry doesn’t smile, even though Lysander knows he’s being downright charming.

“Stop worrying so much,” Lysander says, bringing his hands to Henry’s robe, smoothing out the lapels. “We’re going to be fine here.”

“I think you’re being a bit too nonchalant about things.” Henry keeps frowning this small little Lysander-specific frown, for when he can’t work something out about him. “Did you forget why we’re here in the first place?”

Now it’s Lysander’s turn to darken, pulling away from Henry. “Stop the bad guy, save the day. What other heroics would you ask of me, Hen?”

“I’m not asking you to do anything--”

“Aren’t you?” snaps Lysander, staring Henry down. To his credit, Henry stands his ground. “Isn’t the whole fucking reason why we’re here because of you?”

“No, we--”

“No,” Lysander says, cutting him off. “You. You wanted this, and I agreed. You wanted to do more. You were the one tired of waiting. You were the one who thought being more proactive is what we needed. Well, we’re here, aren’t we?”

Henry says nothing, watching Lysander, who shoves past Henry to kick open his trunk. From within, he pulls out one of the bottles he’s stashed within, and instead of reaching for a glass, takes a mouthful directly from the bottle.

“You happy now, Hen? Got what you wanted?” he says, taking another mouthful, eyes closed as he swallows, relishing the feeling of his throat burning and lungs screaming for air.

“Lys,” say Henry, coming closer. “Lys, stop.”

Lysander doesn’t.

“Lys--” and Henry snatches the bottle from Lysander’s hand, spilling some of it, and Lysander can’t help but watch the liquid fall to the floor, anger swelling up. “Christ, Lysander,” Henry murmurs, looking at him.

He feels the concern radiating off Henry, but doesn’t meet his gaze.

“Just go,” Lysander says, and when Henry doesn’t move, Lysander turns to look at him properly. “Go.”

It’s not an order - not an alpha order, anyway - but Henry nods, placing the bottle on the ground and walking away, over to his assigned tunnel. Lysander watches him go, slipping into the darkness, and when he turns to look at Lysander, their eyes meeting, it’s Lysander who looks away first.

The silence once Henry’s gone is absolute.

Exhaling loudly, running a hand through his long hair, pushing it back away from his face, Lysander sits heavily on one of the beds. He misses home - the sea air, the sound of the gulls in the morning, the crash of waves whenever there’s a pause in conversation. He misses the woods that butt their home, knowing an escape is always possible. He misses his room, his study, his bed - Henry beside him, the others around.

Lysander never wanted this war - he never wanted to have to do any of this. But the war came to him in the form of Lowell Tegus, a face that had become twisted with revenge and determination, and Lysander knew that he was the only one who could stop this world from imploding. Because Lowell was more than capable of doing everything he did - and didn’t - promise; he would make it happen, because that’s what he did. He got things done.

The weight of it all sits heavily on Lysander’s shoulders, and he reaches forward for the bottle, now lighter than when he’d last held it. Without thinking, he drinks - drinks until his throat burns in that beautiful way, and his lungs beg for air. He drunks until his head rings, and when he surfaces, eyes watering, the ex-Chamber doesn’t look half bad.

It’s just another place, it’s just another job. He’ll get through this, and they’ll be one step closer to finishing the whole thing.

Or Lysander tells himself, taking another swig from the bottle, anything to feel the burn, anything to feel something other than this - the gnawing ache for release, for this to be over. He drinks until it goes, and then he drinks a little more to make sure it stays that way.

He’s drunk by the time the others return, but it’s nothing they haven’t seen before. They’ve come to expect it from him, stumbling, propped up by Henry to make it to the bathroom. Lysander might be their leader, but it’s Henry that takes care of everyone, not him.

There’s a hand easing him into a bed, water pressed against his lips, and then he’s out, the sound of voices bubbling around him, none quite penetrating the fog in his brain.

And when Lysander dreams, it’s of the past, rather than the future - why dream of something and torture yourself with a promise you’ll never keep?

#tw: alcoholism #tno

[extendedtkwrtrilogyend]

Chapter XXII: (EXT) The Death of Súlelenth (Pt. II)

“There was not a cloud in the sky as the sun rose with a mild easterly breeze. It was far too beautiful a morning to bury such a lovely creature as Súlelenth.  Êlúriel silently watched as I was being dressed. She was lost in thought as usual. Soon Fëaluin entered—a solemn look on his face.

“I would bring good tidings if there were any,” he said. “I am afraid that Êlenuil has decided not to attend this wife’s entombment.”

“What does Ardôr have to say of this,” I asked.

“He cannot get him to come out of his chambers,” he answered. “He has locked himself away and ordered the guards to allow no one to enter.”

When my servants were finished with me they bowed and left quickly. After centuries at my beck and call they always knew when my anger would erupt.

“Thranduil,” Êlúriel began. “Do not make a scene. Not this day.”

Without a word, I swiftly headed out my doors and made my way to Êlenuil’s bedchamber with Fëaluin close behind. Once outside his door, Eldôr, Elranduil and Ardôr stood quietly. I gave the guards a menacing glance and they opened the doors.

Inside, the room was in tortured disarray as Êlenuil sat immobile beside his bed.

“What is this,” I asked.

“Leave me, Thranduil,” he said. “I wish to be alone.”

“You have been here for the past three days,” I said sternly. “Is this what you wish you children to see? I know you are in pain, but you must be far stronger than this for them.”

“They have asked for you,” Eldôr said. “Do you not care?”

“No,” Êlenuil said. “I cannot bear the sight of them. They remind me of their mother.”

“Oh no,” Elranduil whispered.

“Thranduil,” I heard Êlúriel say. My anger would not allow me to listen.

“Have you gone mad,” I yelled as I grabbed him up. “They are your children, Êlenuil! Do not speak to me of loss! I have seen more death than you could ever imagine! You have neglected your children for far too long! Today you will stand as their father and a Prince of this realm before you leave them in my care.”

“What did you say,” Êlúriel asked, stunned.

“I will explain later,” Fëaluin whispered.

“I beg your pardon,” Elranduil asked. “What do you mean leave them in your care.”

“He did not tell you,” I asked, letting Êlenuil to fall to the floor. “It would appear your grandson has decided to entrust me and my wife the care of his children and ride on to Mithlond.”

“Mithlond,” Êlúriel asked as she approached me. “Why was I not told of this, Thranduil?”

“Why would you do such a thing,” Eldôr asked horrified. “Have you any love for the children you brought into this world?”

“They have no love for me,” he answered. “Only for Súlelenth. Always for Súlelenth. Since their birth they clung to her and would cry if I held them.”

“Yes, son,” Ardôr said. “Babies tend to do as much until they begin to grow into children.”

“Not even then,” he said. “What does it matter, Father? I am not able to care for them alone, nor do I want to care for them.”

“Have you gone mad,” Êlúriel asked him. “Thranduil, I would like a word with you."

I was angry beyond words and the sight of Êlenuil disgusted me.

“Where are the children now,” I asked Fëaluin quietly.

“They are with Aradúlin and Ninyáre,” he answered. “Shall I send for them?”

“No,” I said. “Have Êlenuil and his room thoroughly cleaned. I want him dressed and in attendance. Where are Arímë and Haldúir?”

“They are with Aradúlin and Ninyáre and the children. In the gardens.”

I took my leave and walked swiftly toward the gardens with Êlúriel lock step behind. The last time I had made my way so quickly was to see Êlúriel.

“You will speak to me now,” Êlúriel yelled. I stopped abruptly and turned around.

“Yes, Êlúriel,” I muttered. “What is it?”

“Why am I always the last to know what is happening in this kingdom,” she asked as she stormed over. “You do not rule this kingdom alone.”

“I know,” I said. “I was going to say something but it slipped my mind.”

“The part about Êlenuil’s children or the part about your Queen?”

“Can this wait,” I asked. “Now is not the best time.”

“No time seems to be the best time, Thranduil,” she whispered angrily. “Either you are too busy to tell me anything or you just do not want to tell me anything.”

“I tell you everything,” I growled back. “When have not told you anything?”

She looked at me—her eyes as flames searing my heart.

“Forgive me,” I begged. “It slipped my mind.”

She brushed passed me and made her way to the balcony overlooking the gardens. I followed her, my face flushed with guilt. Tarthôn was watching Aranduil playing with Nenduîl and Tárimë. Êlúriel made her way down to join them.

“Aranduil is so happy when he his with them,” he said without looking at us. “He reminds me of myself in my youth.”

“When you say that, you remind me of how old I am,” I said as my anger turned to memory. “He has not brought any woodland creatures into the palace, has he?”

“No, Ada,” he laughed. “Not that I am aware. Though do not be surprised should he and Nenduîl decide to do something some day. Just as Legolas and me. But you do not realize Orísil and Ardôr opened the gates for us. Elenadar and Elenatar were just as guilty.”

“Yes, and so was your future wife,” I said. “Has Aranduil gotten over his sister and their cousin being girls. He was concerned there were too many of them.”

Tarthôn laughed with me, then his demeanor changed.

“I know Êlenuil does not wish to see his wife laid to rest,” he said. “I cannot imagine losing Ëariâth.”

“I almost lost your mother a long time ago. I could not begin to tell you the the fear I had when I thought I had lost her. It nearly consumed me.”

“But she lived, Ada,” he said, finally looking at me.

“She lived because of you, Legolas and Isílriel,” I said. “And for me, I suppose though there are days I know I do not deserve her love.”

We watched the children play for a time. I watched Arímë and Êlúriel with them. I knew she would not turn them away. When she looked up at us, she gave me a smile. Before I could walk away, Nenduîl and Tárimë came running up the winding stair and embrace me.

“Where is father,” Nenduîl asked. “Is he ill as well?”

“No,” I said. “You will see him soon enough.”

“I do not wish to see him,” Tárimë said. “He said horrible things to us.”

“Not to Eärluin,” Nenduîl said. “She is too little.”

“What horrible things, Tárimë,” I asked kneeling to her. “What could your father say to you that could be so horrible?”

“He told us he did not love us,” Nenduîl said with a frown. “He said he never loved us.”

“I do not think that is true,” I said. “He is very said your mother is gone.”

“No,” Tárimë said sternly. “He has always said that. Since as long as we can remember.”

“Why would a father say such things to his children,” I asked concerned. “You are very special children.”

“He told Nana that we should not have been born,” Nenduîl said. “That made her sad because we were supposed to be born.”

“All children are supposed to be born,” I said. “Perhaps you heard your father wrong, Nenduîl. I do not think he would say such a thing.”

“He did,” a voice said. It was Aranduil, standing with Tarthôn, his long golden hair and blue eyes looking down. “I heard him say those things. Nothing more.”

I could feel my anger returning as I stood up. Tarthôn seemed to share in my anger. 

“All of you, go find Ëariâth,” Tarthôn told them. “She may have something for you.”

Excitedly they went on their way.

“Ada,” he said. “Do not show anger this day. There will be time enough later.”

“There will never be enough time for my anger with him,” I said. “For Nenduîl and Tárimë, I will say nothing, for now.”

I walked away toward my study—my rage burning within me so fierce, I could feel the heat rushing through my body like the fires of Orodruin.

**** **** **** ****

When the time had come, the procession to our burial grounds began. I would not allow Nenduîl and Tárimë to walk beside their father and this did not seem to upset them. Once again, I was lying to rest someone close to me. I watched her parents grieve as her widower looked on through a tear-drenched face. Before she was locked away for eternity, Nenduîl placed a silver rose in her hands. 

Êlúriel took my hand as several elves shut Súlelenth into her stone tomb next to my father and all was done. We both took a small hand of the twins and led the procession back into the cavernous palace as dusk had started to fall.

“Your Majesty,” Haldúir said timidly, bowing before me. “Your kindness to my daughter I cannot repay.”

“You are family,” Êlúriel said.

“Arímë and I will return to Dale in the morning,” he said. “You have been a most gracious hosts.”

“If you wish,” I said. “I am sure Nimlos will send a proper escort with you to ensure a safe journey.”

I started to lead Nenduîl and Tárimë away without looking back when Linurial approached me.

“May I see the little ones to bed, Your Majesty,” she said cheerfully. “It has been quite a day for them.”

“Thank you,” I said. “How is Eärluin?”

“She is sleeping peacefully,” she said. 

Obediently, Nenduîl and Tárimë went with her as I looked for Elranduil. Before long, he came to me with Nimlos and Elmîr.

“Are you well, Thranduil,” Nimlos asked. “Nenloth wished me to ask this. She is concerned about the children. She knows they are in your care.”

“I am well,” I said. “Nenduîl and Tárimë are as well as to be expected under the circumstances. Do you know where Êlenuil has gone? I wish an audience with him.”

“I know,” Elmîr said. “Shall I get him for you? He is with his brother Elendôr and my son Árelë just now.”

“If you will,” I said. “I want every prince in the realm to be present."––TKWR:BII The Saga of Thranduil (EXT. VER.) by J. Marie Miller 12-10-17

Images: ©2012, 2013, 2014. Warner Brothers Pictures. The Hobbit: The Unexpected Journey, The Hobbit: Desolation of Smaug, The Hobbit: Battle of the Five Armies. All Rights Reserved.

#the kingdom of the woodland realm trilogy #tkwr trilogy #the extended version of book ii #the saga of thranduil #thranduil and eluriel #sulelenth and elenuil #nenduil and tarime #eluriel and arime #halduir and arime #nimlos and nenloth #elendor and aradulin #aranduil son of elendor #elmir #arele #little earluin #tarthon and eariath #tolkien fan fiction #in honor of jrr tolkien #the love of thranduil and eluriel

[magpieandsons]

49 - Grave Observations

As the baron retreats, you wait a moment more beside the statue. Running your hand over the mossy stonework, you see the break that indicates a lid, and you realize he was being literal when he said this was Ithilde’s crypt. The sarcophagus is shaped a bit like a log, but flattened on top to accommodate the figure. Gaps in the moss reveal stylized, regular ridges made to look something like bark. A pattern of carved rosettes and vines curls in and out of the genuine greenery. On a hunch, you circle the bier, looking for signs of inscription. At the head of the coffin you find it, a plaque, discolored with age, but free or moss. The words are in Common, though an outmoded, partially runic version of the language you’ve only seen in mementos from your eldest relatives.

“We the Ithildahnin here vow to honor the memory of she who bore us and willed that we should live free. Though she be at rest, we place her in guard of our gate to her betrayer - for even in her misery she loved those that turned against her.

Our mother

Ithilde

Who, dying, mourned her living children.”

By now you half-expect to find the cuts and gouges and defacement you’ve seen throughout the tomb. However, aside from the crushed poppy at your feet, the coffin and the garden stand undefiled.

“I thought you were as eager as I to get on with this?” Caspin stands beside the door with his arms folded.

You make your way to him, asking as you go just how Ithilde died. The baron doesn’t even seem to hear you as he turns his attention back to the raw, dark stone. “You’ll be gratified to know, the time has come at last,” he says, and places something heavy into your hands.

You look down at the piece of iron in your grasp. The key is actually a bit larger than the picture suggested. You study it, holding up in the false sunshine, and watching the play of light through the portions of dark green crystal in the shaft. You try to find the difference between the metal of the part you recovered, and the other pieces. The sections match up perfectly, however. You ask him how he got his hands on the rest of it.

“They aren’t genuine, I’m afraid. They are perfectly, painstakingly recreated by a-” he twitches his fingers through the air dismissively. “The method isn’t important. It was time-consuming and expensive, and it worked.” He plucks the key from your hands, and gestures toward the set of double doors. You step close with him, taking in the lock, also iron, polished to a higher shine than the key.

“The size, the shape, each detail of its form is precisely recreated. And yet-” The key slides into the lock with ease, and turns smoothly, eliciting a satisfying clunk from some inner mechanism. Caspin reaches up to a pair of handles placed horizontally at his shoulder height. He pulls at them, then pushes and the doors budge not an inch in either direction. He gives a great shove to the right, then the left, and still nothing. Finally he steps back and throws his arms wide in defeat.

“Well? What say you, thief? Have you ever seen the like?”

You study the lock and the space around it carefully. Arrayed about the inset iron are carvings, each a bit larger than your palm, forming a circle of nine symbols. Three pictographic versions of three different languages are represented: Elvish, the same archaic version of Common as the plaque on the bier, and some jagged script you can’t identify but which feels vaguely familiar.

You spin the key back, and remove it to examine it again. You weigh it carefully in your hand, feeling the point of balance like a knife. Peering closely at the odd, barrel-shaped bit with its overly-complex pattern of notches and grooves, you grow more certain of the idea forming in your head.

You insert the key again, and spin it just as Caspin did, getting that satisfying resistance and mechanical sound on a full revolution. You turn it back again. It’s subtle; you understand how he missed it. A person would have to be very familiar with locks in general, or looking for it in this lock in particular. You turn it once more, slower, to be certain. There’s a subtle push and a faint click, one that could easily be mistaken for correctly working tumblers, except that it has the regularity of a combination lock, hitting nine specific points. You wiggle it, trying not to make the motion obvious to the baron. The bit barely enters the mechanism.

You remove the key from the lock.

“Well?”

You ask him if he knows the language of the symbols you can’t identify.

His brows come together. “It’s… a sort of neutered version of Infernal often used by tireflings.”

You press further, asking if he knows the words.

He gives a frustrated sigh. “They aren’t words, they’re syllables. Around in a circle, it should be… “mo-lik-orth.” You might say it’s a powerless word of power in this form. The whole array is something of an insult, really.” He stabs at the Elvish with his finger. “This isn’t even a full phrase - “ill hearts remove.” And the Primary Common: “let it be sealed.” Honestly-” he backs up a step, looking along the wall, “-they built this wall to lock the chamber away, then fill the door with cryptic, meaningless little charms.”

They aren’t charms, you’re certain of it now.

- Elvish

- Common

- Infernal

- Tell him the key doesn’t work.

https://strawpoll.com/6xfk9f34 poll ends 6/3/20 at 10pm

#choose your own adventure #choose your own adventure fic #dungeons and dragons #dnd

[thorndale-industries]

Bad dream.

Ear-battering bell ringing startled the white hairedwoman, as she turned around to find herself in an ancient lookingalley. Streets puzzled together with cobblestones, uneven,spread under her feet like a river wriggled through the gaps betweenthe partially poorly made brick houses. She tilted her head, lookingaround and wondering where she might be. Was she back in her hometown? In Wrexham? No, those streets where not familiar and the bellcontinued to interrupt every of her thoughts. 

Suddenly, a group of people, all dressed in blackrobes from another century and with their heads down they approachedher. The moment some of them spotted the woman in their way, theybecame nervous and narrowed their head  like children who sawsomething they were not supposed to see. Their steps became quicker, arms hidden in their sleeves and their eyes clung to thestones on their path. And as they walked pass her, she could her themwhisper “God save the King.”

Gillian furrowed her brows and watched the group fora while over her shoulder, not understanding what was going on. Acold, unpleasant breeze embraced her lean body and left its mark onher in form of goosebumps. She shuddered, rubbing her upper arms in adesperate attempt to shake of the eerie sensation that overcame hereout of nowhere. And just now she noticed the thick rain clouds aboveher head, like a grim guardian who refused to let any lightin. Something was not right here.

As the torturing ringing continued, Gillian liftedher arm, her teeth pressed together, to check on her watch. Perhapstoday was a special day and a certain event was about to be innated.But to her surprise there was no watch on her wrist as it presentedher in an unfamiliar bare state, only her pale skin was visible. Herheart started to beat faster, hammered on her chest from the insideand for a moment she thought it would break her bones. Her fingerstwitched as cold sweat ran down her forehead and temples, a knotappeared in her throat - taking all her breath away. Whereis my watch?! It cannot be gone! I can’t…I CAN’T..without..no,it must be somewhere,..

She jerked her head to the side and started to countthe bricks on the first she could spot, her eyes wide open as herbreath was heavy and her lungs begged for fresh air. Her handswandered down to her thighs, folded the soft fabric underneath themin hope to feel the missing companion but it was all in vain. 

34 ,35, 36..

And just now she noticed that the soft feeling aroundher sensitive fingertips was unfamiliar, something she never feltbefore and her sight went down on her own body. She was wearing along red dress, pompously decorated with gemstones and andgolden seams, beautifully crafted patterns climbed her torso put intoa tight corset. And just like the clothes of the strangers from amoment ago she felt like she was back in time, somewhere out ofplace. Somewhere she should not be.

“Your Majesty! Oh, your Majesty! There you are!What are you doing in these streets like a commoner?! This is not aplace for you!” 

The voice sounded familiar and a man in fine clothesapproached her - it was her personal assistant Angus, and just likeherself and everyone else he took part of this bizarre masquerade.She smiled, relieved to see a friendly face and amused by theskilfully formed moustache he had. 

“Ah, Angus, it’s good to see you. Perhaps you cantell me what’s going on here? Why is everyone dressed so strangelyand what’s up with this enormous bell? It’s giving me aheadache.”

“Oh your Majesty, it’s all because of the King.Such a tragedy, as you are most aware of of us all.” 

“What… King?” she inquired, her breath wascalming down, yet still confused by the play that was happeningaround her. 

“Oh by the heavens, did one of those peasants hityour head? If so, just say the word and I will get this man throwninto the dungeon! Your husband, Your Majesty. Our beloved KingRobert. He has fallen ill to a terrible disease, some might evenclaim he has been poisoned! No one can find a cure, not even ourbravest scouts in the colonies. Oh, such a tragedy…”

Robert? Sick?! No, this must be  a terriblemisunderstanding The last time she had seen him he was well asalways, no signs of any disease. But when was that last time? Sheeven had no memory of arriving at this place. If this turns out to bea  horrible and tasteless joke, she won’t be the one laughing.Robert was not a man to scare her like that on purpose, he knew shewouldn’t take it well. Swallowing hard, she buried her hands in herclothes to hold on of her self-control. 

“Bring me to him, Angus. Please.” Gillian said inan uneasy calm tone. Her assistant only nodded and bowed beforeheading down the street. Without exchanging much words, they passedseveral medieval houses, some made out of bricks, one just like theother, and some consisted purely out of wood. Every other civilianthat crossed their path was dressed in black, barely anyone had thecourage to look at her. Only slow, eldritch whispers emerged aroundthem, coated them like a choir of a secret order performing anancient ritual, only the candles where missing.  

Long live the King. God save the King. I am sosorry, your Majesty. 

With each passing second Gillian felt moreuncomfortable, eyelids uncontrollably twitching and handscovered in sweat. Her oddly coloured eyes were desperately seekingfor something to cling to, to count, to stay in reality. Her exposedwrist started to itch, it screamed to be touched since its loyalpartner was missing. Nails tried to please its hunger, but they didnothing besides feeding the fire even more. 

But to her relief, they finally arrived at theimpressive and menacing castle, guarded by knights in black armour.They did not move, they did not greet, they were standing there likegargoyle made out of the hardest stone and watching everyone whodared to come to close to this palace. And for a short moment, asGillian raised her head, she thought that the highest towers werehidden in the clouds that chocked the world.

She stepped into a spacious room, the walls made outof glass and offering a depressive sight over the dismal landsaround them. There was no light except for a few candles that foughtagainst the darkness, and Gillian thought she was standing in a tomband in the King’s bedroom. Right in front of her was a oversizedcanopy bed, covered in red blankets and more pillows than she couldcount at first. And hidden under layers of silk was laying a haggardshadow of a man, dressed in white linen - there was nothing left of aproud and leading presence.

Gillian’s heart jumped once again, an invisiblehand slowly embraced her neck and pressed it together, pressed everybit out of her fragile body. Gasping, her tongue dry, she steppedcloser to the bed to see the face of the man she loved before thesight him - or what was left of him - took her last breath away. Hisonce prominent and strong cheeks gaunt, his burning redhair tetherlessly sticking to his anaemic forehead and his onceshining, emerald green eyes turbid like frosted glass. The lips thatgave her so many soft caressing were dry and rough like sandpaper,and his mouth open. He did not even notice the presence of his wife,of his queen, and stared into nothing. 

She had to cover her mouth with her hand, tried herbest to hide and suppress her sobbing as a million needles penetratedher chest, drilling their way right into her heart. The woman kneeledbesides her husband, reached out for his hand, but it was cold likeice, and every touch burned her, harm her, but she refused to let go.

“Robert,..” she tried to say, chocking on her owntears. “Who did ….this to you?!”

“You know exactly why I had to do this.”

A sharp, yet collected voice cut through thick air inthe room like the finest dagger. Gillian turned her head, startled,to the man who spoke up to her like this. Her bloodshot eyes widenedin shock, in disbelief, and her body shaking, as she spotted the manhiding his face in a long, dark hood. But she knew exactly who itwas, she would never fail to recognize this stoic posture. 

“It was necessary. We both know he would havefallen deeper and deeper into his madness, and he would have draggedus all along.” 

#ameasureofpower #(this might not be my best drabble I did this all in one go) #(I hope you are still pleased) #(this turned out to be longer than expected) #//the tale of picus and canens [Ask] #//TI archives [Writing/Drabbles]

[shadowphoenixrider]

(Whilst levelling Zal’ria, the daughter of Draggka and Khadgar in the far, far future, I took her through the Undercity on her way to the Plaguelands. Turned out Zal had some thoughts about it, and that plus some encouragement by my eternal enabler @galleywinter created this fic.)

Zal’ria knew of Lordaeron. Hard not to, when your father came from there, when Dalaran was still rooted to the earth, and you’ve been to the city that sits beneath its ruins. She knew of its role in the Second War. Of its fall to the Scourge, when its king was slain. And now its function as the capital of the Forsaken.

It’s one thing to hear stories. Quite another to walk amongst them.

When she stepped out of the Undercity elevator, into the castle above, a strange feeling settled into the half-troll’s bones, something that made her short fur stand on end. She’d never been to the ‘upper’ city before; her mother only brought her to the Undercity, and then only briefly, to see the city and to get a good idea of it so she could teleport there if she needed to. There was no reason to go above ground, like she was today (the Argent Dawn was calling for help in the Plaguelands again, Zal’ria only too glad to help).

The stones were cool against her bare feet as she walked up the slope into a small room, housing a tomb, large candles standing at each corner. The placard was in Common, and read:

Here lies King Terenas Menethil II -- Last True King of Lordaeron

Great were his deeds -- long was his reign -- unthinkable was his death.

“May the father lie blameless for the deeds of the son. May the bloodied crown stay lost and forgotten.”

The name reverberated through Zal’ria like a bell, a memory rippling to the surface of her mind

“You met the King of Lordaeron?” She’d gaped at her father, turning around in his lap to face him.

“I happen to meet a lot of monarchs, ‘Ria.” He’d grinned at her, crow’s feet crinkling by his eyes. “It’s part of being in charge. Yes, I met King Terenas, after Lothar and I fled Stormwind along with countless refugees after the great city fell. He was a wise man, one of the kings of the Alliance I trusted to do the right thing. Shrewd, too.” He’d reached for the unfinished braid she’d tugged out of his hands. “I suppose he had to be, with Dalaran close by.”

“Did you talk with him?” She’d asked, turning back to let him finish his work.

“A little. Not much.” He’d admitted. “I was not yet important to be able to speak to him when I liked.” She heard his smile. “But eventually, yes. I did.”

She traced the groves of name with her finger. There was something utterly surreal, standing at the tomb of a man, a King who her father knew. Who he had talked to, respected. Long ago. When her mother’s people were being exiled from their lands, when the Horde then was nothing but gangs of blood-crazed, fel-tainted orcs destroying everything. Her father’s people. Zal’ria realized that both sides of her blood were exiles at that point, running from their homes into the unknown.

The half-troll turned out of the tomb and walked up, expecting the corridor to take her outside. Instead, it took her to the throne room, and Zal’ria was struck by...something.

She couldn’t describe the feeling, other than it was big, and it filled up her heart so much it made it difficult to breathe. And then it hit her.

I’m walking with ghosts.

It was the same thing that had happened in Karazhan, when she’d wandered off despite her father’s warnings and become spooked by the spectres wandering the library. Only this time, there was nothing here but memories, yet they hung so palpably in the air that Zal’ria swore that the boundary between then and now is paper thin.

She steps into the room cautiously, her pointed ears straining for the slightest sound, her magical senses reaching out like she’d been taught time and time again. It was as inert as she’d expected it to be, but she couldn’t help but feel as if-

The mage froze. She swore she heard something, just on the edge of her hearing. She closed her eyes, centring herself, listening.

“Your Majesties...” It was a deep voice, far too deep for her father’s, and it was fragmented. “-I have to say. I am no...-my home, Stormwind, is no more...”

Zal’ria’s eyes popped open, and she looked down at the dais in the floor, lit by the light filtering down from the ceiling, merely two paces from where she was standing. Her father had talked of the meetings he’d witnessed between the kings of the Alliance, planning their defence against the Horde. Was this what she was hearing now?

She looked around the throne room again, trying to imagine what the scene would have looked like. Tried to see her father standing in the shadows, watching as the kings bickered and argued. It struck her then; he’d been here! Her father, Khadgar, had stood on this floor, breathed this same air. Zal’ria unfurled her magical senses, trying to grasp even the most minute trace of his magic within the chamber, but of course, she felt nothing.

But she was here, where he’d been, and- her breath caught in her throat. The Lordaeron her father had come from, the one he’d known...it was no more. The room she stood within was just a monument to a fallen kingdom. A kingdom her father had lived in, walked among, had fought to save.

Now it was gone. Wiped out by Scourge and reformed into the Forsaken, who lived below the old, ruined city, as if they couldn’t bear to look upon their past. Her father could no longer return to his homeland, just because he had blood, not ichor beating in his veins.

Suddenly, Zal’ria felt an overwhelming sense of sorrow and loss, that almost pushed her to her knees. A whole kingdom, her father’s home, gone, and here she was, standing in its ashes. Listening to its ghosts. Maybe it was her human blood that cried out at the tragedy that had occurred here, the same as how her troll blood had come alive as she’d walked through Stranglethorn Vale. She, a child of two peoples, of two factions, standing in a city of two faces, stitched together like some repulsive abomination guard.

She glanced sadly towards the throne, and began to leave, when she heard a familiar voice.

“Out of the frying pan...?” Came the echo, somewhere to her right. “-talk you into that. Those clever bastards!”

“Father?” She called, despite knowing he couldn’t respond. But that was him! She didn’t know the context, but she recognised his humour. The weight of the sorrow only doubled, however, and she longed to be able to cast a spell to see the conversation take place. His tales could only give her so much, and she wanted to see him. He’d scoffed that he’d been young once, and the half-troll found herself yearning to know what he’d looked like back then. Had he been like her...?

She strained to try and hear his voice again, but the air was still once more. Zal’ria decided it would be best to leave now, before she became further snowed under by the melancholic sorrow the castle pervaded.

It wasn’t to be, though. The ruined archway with plants digging into the brickwork and around the damaged statues, the bell laying where it had fallen in the bottom of the bell tower (Zal’ria swore she heard it tolling, and made haste away from it), and then out into the courtyard, where the feeling of death just sat upon her like a weight. It made her feel ill, more so knowing what the place had once been like. Knowing that she was probably walking within her father’s footprints, except he’d walked a path with the living, and she walked the path with the dead. Or the undead, as the case may be.

The young mage noticed the green ooze in the moat, and she grimaced, for the first time feeling...anger curdle in her stomach. The Undercity was the Forsaken’s home, and whilst their aesthetics were not at all what Zal’ria agreed with, she could understand it in their own little place. But to see their repulsive...slime within the ruins of her father’s old city, it felt disrespectful, a slap in the face of the ones that were there before.

Zal’ria grimace became a frown. What would father think of this place now? She wondered. She found herself hoping he never returned to find out. His home is gone now. Little more than ruins. And I don’t...I don’t think the way the Forsaken have left it would give him any joy.

She lingered a moment, preparing herself to make the ride through the Tirisfal Glades towards the Plaguelands. No doubt the same feelings that had arose in her here would surface once more there. Zal’ria promised herself that she would contact her father, when she acquired lodgings for the night. The young half-troll needed to talk to him, needed to hear his voice that wasn’t just ghostly snatches on still air.

The mage took a breath, and walked out of the ruins of Lordaeron.

#zal'ria #SPRs writing #wow fic #otp: walk on the wild side #because it's got their youngster in it I might as well #contains some partial quotes from Tides of Darkness #mostly character solidification more than anything #and feeeeels

[zippdementia]

Part 30 Alignment May Vary: In for the Long Hall (sic)

The water trapped room slams shut behind them as they exit, Karina’s tampering having disrupted it for now. They cannot go back, so the players must go forward. But first, they decide to add a new member to the team.

Long ago, the players defeated an enchantress known as “Rose,” and Karina stole her magic book, setting her on the path to multi-classing into wizard. Now, Karina decides to cast one of the spells she studied so long to learn. She casts find-familiar.

Guts of Barghest. Ground bone dust. A hot fire. Blood of a demon. Purified water. Such were a few of the items in the list of components needed for the spell. Karina did not know where she would have found the guts of a Barghest, but she had seen plenty of bones in her journey, and she happened to have a steady supply of demon’s blood, being a Tiefling. Anyway, Rose’s component pouch (which she had also stolen) had the remainder of the items (at least she guessed the dried out entrails which looked like fat worms were the guts of an unfortunate Barghest).

The rest of the instructions were as complex as the ingredient list, but Karina had studied them for weeks and found, as she did with most things magical, that understanding seemed to come to her less than a gut feeling that led her movements and gave the words she spoke power.

The ritual took an hour to complete, while her companions rested on the landing as best they could, their armor loosened so as to give some relief from its weight.

Near the end of the ritual, things became loud. Booming laughter echoed from the circle she had drawn in chalk on the floor. Smoke exploded in small puffs with sounds like the cracking of skulls. And then, in the midst of one of the puffs of smoke, a shape formed.

It was small. It had wings and also a tail. Its body was humanoid with a few distortions that made the whole thing seem wrong somehow, a hodge podge of elements like the tail and the horns and the flat pig nose and the sharp row of needle-like teeth that lined the too-large mouth.

“Mistress Rose?” the small creature asked. “Moonglum has come back to answer your call!”

It takes a little explanation to get the imp caught up the speed and a little cajoling to get him to agree to work with the party. Then, with her new imp familiar, Karina begins to scout out the remainder of the dungeon, as they plan their next move. Their goal: find the end of the tomb. The obstacle: this isn’t the real tomb.

Haggemoth always knew that his legend would attract tomb robbers and he needed to be left in peace to complete his master plan, his life’s opus. Furthermore, because of the many blockades he had put in place to actually finding his tomb, he knew that anyone who did come would be either (a) a powerful and hungry monster from the jungles of Rori Rama, or (b) a proven group of adventurers who likely had experience in traversing deadly places deep under the world.

Because of this, he built two tombs. First, he dug out tunnels inside the mountain and layered these halls with traps and the trappings of a crazed wizard, hoping to frighten adventurers away (or kill them) before they could get to his real tomb. Only this wasn’t meant to be a tomb. Deep beneath the mountain, Haggemoth has his true home, a place of magical comforts and research, only dangerous because Haggemoth’s final preparations didn’t go as planned and chaos ensued as a result. But more on that later.

For now, the players begin exploring the second part of the upper levels, rooms 17-25 on the map below. With Moonglum looking for traps and dangers, they soon discover that there are dangers all around them, including walls that slam together and a strange fungal growth breaking through the secret door leading to room 19. Room 20 controls the water trap, but there is a dead man here with his face burnt off from steam. They take his helmet of telepathy and some unidentified healilng potions he had on them, which they get very nervous about when I tell them (innocently) to record them as “Dead Man’s Potions” (note to self: if you want your players to drink a potion, maybe don’t put “dead” in its title).

The biggest threat comes from the shaded hallway to the east, amrked 23 on the map. This is a complex conveyor belt trap whose function they discover by using the crystal ball from the tomb of Udo the Grey and some experimentation. When activated, it  turns the floor into two conveyor belts that run towards the middle of the hall, depositing anyone unfortunate enough to be caught on them into a set of industrial strength grinders that can easily be an instant kill (or at least a permanent loss of a limb). This terrifies them, rightly so, and they decide they need to find a way to turn this trap off before proceeding.

Eventually the players proceed north, which they deem the most safe passage, taking a winding set of stairs down to a large room with a single solitary statue...

Cloaked

“That has to be a trap,” Karina said to the group.

“Oh most certainly,” Tyrion said.

“It would seem to make sense,” Xaviee added.

“Why would it be trapped?” Abenthy asked, the one voice of dissent. 

The statue in question was tall and seemed very old, judging by the battered feet and the areas where paint had peeled away and become mildewy in the cold damp of the chamber. They couldn’t see much beyond the feet, for draped over the statue was an old leather cloak, large enough to cover most of its features.

Karina’s mind went through a half dozen possibilities, none of them good. Was the statue a hibernating gorgon, having been defeated at last moment by a cloak of slumber wrapped over it? Would they release its terrifying gaze when they removed the cloak? Or was this the sign of a lurking basilisk, who waited for adventurers to wander into its lair and then trapped them here? Karina quickly looked over her shoulder at the one entrance to the room, almost sure she could hear soft padding footsteps descending the stairs towards them. Maybe the cloak was magically cursed, set here to entice adventurers, and then  draining them of their abilities the longer they wore it.

“Let’s leave,” she said. “This is too obvious, too easy. We need to leave this room now.”

If Abenthy heard the panic in her voice, he ignored it. “We leave no stone unturned. It’s the only way we will find Haggemoth. Justice will protect us.”

And saying no more, he reached for the cloak. They had a glimpse of the statue underneath, the face either worn smooth by the years or left blank intentionally by its creator. Either way, it was non descript, and it did not come to life to attack them. But the cloak shifted in Abenthy’s hands, wrapping itself around his arm, his chest, his face. Before any of them could react, it was pressed tight against him and they could hear a terrible grinding and gnashing, accompanied by a muffled yell of dismay, as something wet and messy happened underneath the cloak.

Xaviee ran forward, but suddenly a whiplike tail emerged from the folds of leather and its spiked end caught him in the chest. He coughed once, then collapsed in a crumpled heap. Tyrion ran to help him.

Karina lowered her bow and instead conjured up a skeletal hand, which clawed and pulled at the cloak, leaving dark red splotches where its necrotizing touch damaged whatever the thing was, but it was unable to break it away from Abenthy.

Abenthy fell to one knee, making a deep choking sound.

“It’s suffocating him!” Karina yelled.

“Working on it,” Tyrion mumbled, as he drew his lute and began to strum madly at the instrument. The melody that came forward sank deep into Karina. It raised the hairs on the back of her neck and made her feel ill, like the world was tilting madly. The sensation passed quickly, thankfully, but that was because it wasn’t targetted at her. The creature left Abenthy with a deep sorrowful moan, peeling away to reveal a wingspan like that of a Manta Ray, and a pale underbelly with a gaping fanged hole. The creature drifted into the air as if on an unseen wind and gracefully floated from the chamber. Karina darted forward behind it and slammed the door shut.

“A Cloaker!” Karina said. “We have to hold the door!”

“What in the bloody hell is a cloaker?” asked Tyrion, running to join her. Xaviee limped after him, to add his weight to the door.

“What we just saw—that’s a Cloaker. Abominations, they inhabit the old places of the world. Not very common to see one anymore. They live on rodents, mostly, but aren’t adverse to a larger meal when they can get one.”

The door suddenly shuddered, as the fear spell wore off and the Cloaker came back, seeking its prey.

“For something that seemed made of cloth, it certainly packs a punch,” Tyrion said as the door shuddered again and cracks appeared in the thick wood.

“Open them, and I will tear the beast in half,” Abenthy growled, getting to his feet. The Aasimir’s face was a hideous red color, punctured in multiple spots by deep circular wounds from which blood flowed freely. He staggered towards the door, drawing his longsword with a schinking sound that hung in the air like a spell. He flung open the door and raised the blade... but nothing was there.

“Tricky creatures, cloakers,” Karina said quietly. “We have to be on guard. They can disguise themselves in the most clever of ways. I read about them in that book from Celaenos. One man, Vollo, describes how a Cloaker settled over a pit trap, looking just like the floor. When Sir Griswald stepped on it, it dropped him onto the spikes and then floated down while he was impaled to feast on him. It kept him alive while it ate, and left him ultimately to bleed out on the spikes. We need to keep our eyes open.”

As she talked, the four companions had begun to ascend the spiraling staircase out of the room, keeping their eyes everywhere: ceiling, floors, walls, cracks in the walls.

Then, as they came to the top of the stairs, they saw in front of them a hanging leathery curtain. It definitely had not been there before and its level of conspiciousness in the setting of the tomb was ridiculous.

“Clever, huh?” Abenthy said, and strode forward to rip the Cloaker in half.

And that’s what happens when a Cloaker rolls a critical failure on a hide check.

The Long Hall

“We are not alone.”

Moonglum was shaking as he said it, the tiny imp looking over his shoulder and biting his long fingernails in a display of fear that would be comical if they weren’t inside a deadly tomb.

When he described the creature that had pulled itself from a crack in the ceiling back near the water room, the three companions knew that the skeletal centipede-like monster had caught up with them. They stood in the place where the four corridors came together, the only light Tyrion’s magically illuminated hand. Their voices were soft but still cast unsettling echoes all around them.

“We are dead,” Abenthy said.

“Not so,” Tyrion chided. “What if we run? We have the headstart on it? We could lock ourselves in the statue room and hold our ground, or run through the long hallway.”

Abenthy scoffed. “So we either make a last stand or sprint over a deadly trap? Doesn’t seem like that would improve our odds.”

“Where is your optimism?” Tyrion asked with a grin that was more than half manic.

“I am practical, not optimistic. False optimism only leads to grave dissappointment.”

“I believe you about the grave part, certainly.”

“Quiet, all of you,” Karina said, who had been studying the hallway in front of them with rapt attention. “We have only moments to pull this off.”

In seconds she explained the plan. They would bait the creature, using her illusion magic to create a false image on the trapped long hallway of the party. If the skeleton bought the illusion, it would hopefully charge and then be caught by the trap. There was only one catch...

“To cast that spell, you have to be within sight of the hall,” Tyrion said. As a fellow student of magic, he knew the restrictions. “Which means it will walk right past you.”

Abenthy looked from one of them to the other. “Can you drink our potion of invisibility?”

“No,” Karina responded. “The casting of the spell will cancel the effects of the potion. I will have to trust that it is more interested in the illusion than in me. I have my boots of Elvenkind and my cloak, I may be able to—”

“No.” Abenthy’s voice was firm. “No, we will come up with another plan. We will make our stand in the statue room. I do not like this. It puts you in too much danger.”

Karina tilted her head slightly and regarded Abenthy with the deep black pools of her eyes, hearing somethign in his voice that she had never detected, or suspected before.

“I don’t like it either,” she said gently. “But we cannot stand against that thing, nor run from it. We are weaker and slower. But we may be smarter. It is our only chance.”

Before she could say more, Xaviee emerged from the darkness, breathing heavily. “I saw it. And it saw me. It’s coming. We have moments to run.”

Abenthy looked sideways at Karina. “We are not running,” he said. “Karina has a plan.”

Thirty seconds later, Abenthy, Tyrion, and Xaviee had disappeared down to the statue room, using the helmet of telepathy to keep in touch with Karina, who was now alone at the crossroads. Down the hallway, an image of Tyrion and Abenthy sat with their backs against a wall, seeming to sleep. She hoped it was enough. The image seemed distorted to her eyes. There was a limit to this kind of illusion, and she was pushing it past its boundaries. Abenthy was squatter than in real life, Tyrion’s clothes less colorful. They made no sound—she wished she could make them make sound—and altogether she felt that if she were to see the image in the hallway, she would question it. But then, these were her companions. To her they meant friendship, comraderie, and life. To the monstrosity they were food, perhaps, or maybe just interlopers in its world, something to be killed. To such a beast, the details might not matter.

She heard the sound of bone scraping against stone as the creature emerged into the fourway corridor. She pressed herself back against the wall, not daring to breath, trying to control her shaking. It was huge. It didn’t have hands. The bones that made up its arms and legs were sharp and stunted into tusk-like appendages that it slammed into the floor and wall to steady its bulk as it moved along the corridor. This close, she could see the dried blood on its front arms. Her blood, she realized, from when it had attacked them before.

The creature pulled itself along the corridor, barely ten feet from her. Its skeletal head turned back and forth and she heard a raspy sigh emerge from it. It looked at her and paused. But it was only an instant. Then the head moved on and saw what she had put down the hallway. It rasped again. Its four front arms lifted up like the mating sign of a praying mantis. It tapped the bones against the walls in a stacatto beat.

And then it turned back towards her hiding place.

No, she thought, and it was all the time she had before the thing was moving. But it wasn’t moving towards her. Its head snapped back to center as it screeched and charged the illusion she had made. And a moment later the hallway was filled with noise as the floor came alive. The floor stones lifted and sunk back into the wall, pieces of granite and an ocean of dust cascading off of it as it shifted. Underneath the stone was a moving belt. The floor tilted downward slightly and the belt was pulling the creature forward towards the grinders at its center, massive metal discs that cracked together like the teeth of some angry god. The skeleton’s own momentum was its downfall. It tried to skitter to a halt, but its speed was incredible and its body whipped around on the belt, turning it to face Karina, pulling it backwards until it got caught by those teeth and with a scream began to be eaten by them.

Karina watched in fascination as the bones exploded into fine white powder as half of the skeleton’s body was pulled between the grinders. Only briefly did they seem to halt under the enormouse beast being fed them. But they never truly stopped and the speed at which they decimated the bone was shocking.

But then the beast was moving, pulling itself up. Appendages dug into the stone walls and it ripped itself front half free from the lost back half. The torso began to climb up to the ceiling and then back towards her. She tried to raise her bow, but fear had finally taken hold of her mind. It was coming, so fast for something so injured, and she could do nothing, and her plan had failed afrer all.

Not failed, a voice in her head said.

Abenthy was there beside her, then. He tapped the telepathy helmet on his head knowingly and smiled for the first time in weeks. A flash of light erupted near him as Tyrion cast spell after spell at the creature, his bardic voice singing out the words to the spells. Xaviee was firing arrows at the beast. And then Abenthy cast his own spell and a massive spectral greatsword appeared in front of the creature. It sliced and the bones came free from the ceiling. It fell with a cry and was carried backwards again, into the grinder, into its doom.

And then the halls of Haggemoth echoed for the first time in their history with the sound of cheers and victory.

Noxious Growth

The companions cheer does not last forever. They have just seen a massive beast get chewed to dust by the trap in front of them and are understandably wary of approaching it themselves. They know that there are devices in this dungeon which shut down traps and so they determine to find the one for this hallway.

On a (correct) hunch, they head south, to the room where they found a secret door with a fungal growth coming through it. Abenthy, immune to disease, opens the door, enters room 19, and...

Even knowing that whatever spores or infection lingered here could not hurt him due to his divine background, Abenthy could not help but cover his mouth and nose as he entered the room, as if it could actually help protect him.

The room was thick with fungus. Every spot of the floor and walls were covered in a violet tapestry of interwoven strands of mold. Every step he took, his steel clad feet crushed the delicate rug and sent up explosions of a violet dust—more of the spores, he knew. It was impossible to tell what the room’s purpose had once been. Its only decoration now was a body.

It was a curious corpse. It hung suspended at the far end of the room, wrapped in a thick web of the mold strands. It was definitely humanoid, but its features had eroded, leaving fungal growths where limbs should have been. The feet were still barely discernible, though melded together into a fleshy mass. The head lacked most features except a gaping, too-wide hole where perhaps the mouth had once been.

As Abenthy stared, that mouth suddenly closed and then opened and a clicking sound began to emerge from it, like a tongue rapidly tapping against the roof of a mouth. The body began to gyrate madly in its prison. Abenthy raised his shield and only this saved him from death. Acid spewed forth from the mouth in a projectile vomit that went fifteen feet across the room, splashing against the shield. Even so, the air around Abenthy suddenly shimmered with heat and his lungs burned as spores began to burst into small explosions all around him. He grabbed a javelin from his side and threw it, cleanly impaling the gyrating corpose. It clicked at him in response and continued to push at the confines of its webbing. Abenthy backed up and bumped into something. He spun, ready to see another of the creatures having snuck up behind him, but it was Karina, her eyes wide at the sight of the horrendous room.

“Out!” she commanded, and then she pointed a hand at the creature. A skeletal hand ripped at its chest and the effect was terrifying to see. Where the claws touched, the fungus rotted and died, almost instantly. A gaping wound was left in the creature’s chest and it screamed for the first time, a horrible half human sound like a man trying to cry for help from underwater. The creature strained again and this time the webbing broke and it fell to what passed for its feet. Then it was charging them...

This is yet another time I have dipped into Kobold Press’ Tome of Beasts. It really is the second monsters manual I always wanted from DnD 5 and my most used third party supplement. First of all, it has some tough monsters, nicely filling out the later level gaps left by the original MM. Also, each encounter, whatever the CR, is simply interesting. Each monster has a mechanic that adds to the tactics of the system, whether it is dealing with poisons, grapples, pushes and shoves, or diseases (as in this case). I drew inspiration from this book to create several of my own monsters, including the Skele-Pede and I can’t recommend it highly enough for 5th Edition DMs.

This particular beastie is a Mindrot Thrall and I cannot detail exactly what its infectious spores do, because it is very possible that at least one of my non-Aasimir players has become infected by it and I don’t want to spoil the surprise when they read this.

Suffice to say, they do end up defeating the creature, as it vomits forth acid and spores and makes a mess of the rooms. They then push on, find the trap mechanism, and clear the way for next time’s post: Ever Deeper.

#dnd 5e #playthrough #tomb of haggemoth #Tome of Beasts #Kobold Press #epic #Dungeons and Dragons #Journey Log #Wizards of the Coast #fantasy #RPG