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sagaduwyrm · 5 months

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In the Gangplank Desert

Unohana Yachiru lived and breathed violence and death, but that doesn't mean she can't learn to make a friend. Unfortunately, what is given can be taken away.

The first time Unohana Yachiru felt alive she had blood in her mouth and a knife in the eye of an arrogant Shinigami. It would set the tone for her next couple of centuries.

To fight was to breathe, she found. She burned with it, carnage coursing through her veins, carried by her blade and Minazuki’s cry to spill out into the world in a tidal wave of violence.

She built her days, her entire life, around finding the next good fight, her next fix, the next chance to smile and mean it. It was how she met the one they called the Dragon.

She came to know him as Ichigo.

When armies marched to war, Yachiru followed in their wake. A battleground was a place she could thrive, scything into the conflict with abandon, thousands of opponents with nowhere to run. Deep inside the mire of blood and pain, she danced and danced and danced , until there was nothing left but dust and ash.

This battlefield, however, was strange. There was only one kind of armor, one set of heraldry on the corpses left on the ground when the warring army finally retreated, and no sign of the opponents that put them there.

Unohana Yachiru drifted gracefully through the bodies, clothes bloodstained but skin spotless, a gentle, satisfied smile on her face as she searched for an explanation.

“It was rude to interfere with my fight.”

The man who spoke to her was the only other person left standing, and the only one other than her in colors that didn’t match the carcasses on the ground. Here was the answer to her curiosity.

He was regal, with sunset hair drifting like a war banner in the wind and shoulders set confidently. He was also powerful , reiatsu singing exultantly in the air, all wrath and determination and mass like the ocean, deeper and darker every time you looked.

Yachiru wanted to fight him.

She wanted to kill him, to spill his blood and face every opponent after with his death scream trailing after her.

Her smile grew wider.

“Forgive me for my interference. I shall make it up by letting you join the opponents I stole from you.”

“Really?” A scowl painted itself across his face, aristocratic features twisting into something intimidating. “Any particular reason for you to kill me?”

Yachiru’s smile had grown to grotesque proportions, she knew, all delirium and violent delight. “Does a blade need a reason to spill blood?”

The man before her snorted. “I suppose not.”

Even as she swung Minazuki for his neck he was dropping, drawing low and then high as he took their battle into the air. Seeking room to maneuver, she thought, dodging the explosive kido he sent hurtling towards her. That wouldn’t do. If he wanted to fly, Yachiru would just have to drag him back down to the dirt so she could tear him apart properly.

It was like fighting a natural disaster. Neither unsealed their blades, but even without the man had reiatsu to spare and an eye for destruction. Every blow aimed to kill, and those she dodged still drove her into corners. She spun around a kido just to run into a blade, parried the sword and found it slipped towards her flesh instead, stepped inside the reach of his katana and broke her cheekbone on his fist.

She was losing. He had lost blood, true, and he limped from where she had nearly taken off his leg, destabilizing his stance, but every blow she gave him was repaid twice over and he wasn’t giving her any time to heal. He simply had more power and resilience to spare, and the skill to use it.

It thrilled her. Her cackling giggle followed them as they fought, pure joy in finally, finally finding a worthy opponent bursting from her like water from a dam. Across from her, her opponent’s eyes were bright with the same feral, mad glee as hers. So, so good , to find someone who knew what it meant to fight .

“You are batshit insane,” he stated while driving his blade into her own.

She cackled more. “As are you!”

There was little left of what had been a corpse-strewn battlefield by the time they hit the ground, no longer willing to waste the energy to stay in the sky after hours of battle. Yachiru tore reiatsu through her veins, forcing her wounds closed, building up an advantage for when the pause ended.

The man tilted his head as he watched. “I didn’t think Shinigami could heal themselves. The necessary reiatsu formations don’t allow for self-targeting.”

Yachiru smiled, “I wouldn’t know. I created this method myself.”

“Huh.” His eyes flickered brightly, and Yachiru tensed, readying herself for battle. “Good for me that I’ve got other options then.”

His sclera turning black and his irises an eerie gold was the first change she saw. Then, his skin paled and his reiatsu changed , devouring itself in an ouroboros loop like a phoenix being reborn until it was the same but unaccountably different. Hollow reiatsu hung in the air, caustic hunger and feral fury, and his wounds began to heal just as any of those demons would.

Unohana Yachiru blinked, and something in her mind stuttered in surprise. “What are you?” she breathed in wonder.

He snorted. “I’d tell you if I knew.” Sharp horns grew from his temples and two black lines traced themselves down his face seemingly completing his change. Her opponent, the Shinigami, was now an Arrancar. He was nearly healed, and his reiatsu was barely more depleted than before.

Unohana Yachiru wasn’t just losing; she had lost. True, she wasn’t dead yet, and she wouldn’t go down gently, but whatever this man was, she couldn’t win against him. The knowledge sent a rush of ecstasy through her veins and her smile became soft and genuine.

The Arrrancar who had been a Shinigami looked at her closely. “You really do just love the fight, don’t you?”

“It’s what my soul was made to do.”

He snorted. “Does this have to be to the death, then?”

Yachiru blinked. “What.”

“Even if I kill you now, the fun part of this fight is already over. And I’m not fond of killing people who aren’t truly my enemy.”

Yachiru looked at him in disbelief, “What do you call this, then, if I am not your enemy?”

He shrugged. “A spar? One that can repeat, if you don’t make me kill you.”

She stared, at this strange, unnatural man, who changed species like clothes and considered a fight to the death a spar, one he clearly found as fun as she did. Yachiru looked deep into his eyes and considered the sort of man who would want to do that again.

He met her gaze squarely, unashamed of his insanity. He stood tall in a field of corpses, thousands of shinigami who sought to kill him but didn’t have the strength to survive the onslaught he unleashed. She didn’t know why they attacked the man, she realized. Oh, she could guess, the strength and strange abilities he had would never be something the noble clans could tolerate, not outside of their control. But she didn’t know, not for sure. They hadn’t even done him the favor of declaring their intentions the way they would have against another noble house. The army just attacked, seeking his death without enough respect to give him an explanation as to why.

It would be rather isolating, she suspected. Yachiru already found that towns and shops turned her away and the noble shinigami shunned her, and she suspected that this man would face even worse prejudice for his strange existence. Regardless of her strength of will and soul, having no one to talk to could be grating.

It wasn’t like she was abandoning the fight, she reasoned. That would be against her nature. They were just pausing it. Holding for later so they could properly enjoy it.

She could accept that.

“My name is Unohana Yachiru.”

For once, she was not the only one smiling. His ever-present scowl grew into a small but warm grin. “Kurosaki Ichigo. It’s good to meet you, Unohana-san. I enjoyed our battle.”

Yachiru smiled back.

+++

Shared food was, Yachiru would admit, better than food eaten alone.

“They’ve stopped accepting barter,” she told the man sitting next to her.

“The Takeda succeeded in their takeover then?” Ichigo carefully cleaned his fingers of pastry grease and blood from their earlier spar and began braiding his hair. It was still the brilliant orange of the sunset, but there was shadowed black mixed in. That, along with the throwing spears made of artificially condensed reishi next to him, indicated that today he was a Quincy rather than Shinigami or Hollow.

She hummed in agreement. “They’ll lose the territory soon enough. They’ll pick a fight with the Shihoin to the north, or the Shimazu to the south, or you, or me,” she paused here for a second, allowing longing to cross her mind. She could never find battle quickly enough. “And the area will have a new lord all over again.” She shifted a curious gaze over to him, knowing he would notice it.

He grunted. “No.”

“If you established a true claim to the territory, you wouldn’t have to deal with the constant changes,” she pointed out.

“And there would be armies from all three races coming to punish me for daring. If it gets too annoying, I’ll just move.”

“I suppose.” She stretched her side, smiling when it twinged painfully. As a Quincy, Ichigo’s reiatsu was inherently destructive, seeking to decompose souls and reishi to their most basic elements. To heal it was as much a battle of willpower as skill. Like a phoenix returning from the ash, she had to demand her body be whole again, or it would dissolve into the Tamashī no Rinne.

He looked over at her as she finished devouring the last of his corrosive power. He considered her for a long moment before nodding and standing up. “Come on.”

She looked up in curiosity. Ichigo’s reiatsu was moving strangely, less the sleeping dragon it normally was outside of combat and more like a beast that had its eyes on her. His shoulders were tense too, as he began moving away from the town. She followed his steps carefully, his speed indicative of a route he’d taken many times before.

“Where are we going?” Yachiru asked.

“Home.” She blinked in confusion but Ichigo spoke again before she had a chance to. “Seems rude to make you sleep in a tree after you went out of your way to get food.”

She grew even more confused at that, her smile twisting subtly. It was not the first time she had grabbed a post-spar meal for them, but it was the first time Ichigo had even insinuated that he had something resembling a house rather than being a wanderer like she thought. She supposed it would explain why he was so protective of this territory specifically, despite the ease with which he roamed the three realms.

They quickly approached a small, out-of-the-way cabin with layered wards that she suspected took Ichigo years to make. It looked comfortable enough, but Yachiru was far more concerned with the trust and protection it symbolized. Her sparring partner was letting her into a place he’d gone to great efforts to make safe, in turn giving her a safe space. Yachiru was uncertain how to take such a gift but resolved to treat it as a debt to be honored.

Ichigo slipped through the protections with the ease of the man who created them and carefully let her in. He took his shoes off at the genkan before calling out softly. “Tadaima.”

Yachiru followed suit, slipping off her shoes, before startling as she heard a new pair of voices.

“Okaeri!” “Ichi-nii!”

Two girls ran into the room. They were young, maybe a century old and barely reaching their brother’s ribs, but their faces were lit up in pure joy as they launched themselves towards Ichigo. He laughed, his face softening into one of the warmest expressions Yachiru had ever seen on him, and embraced his little sisters.

Yachiru watched with wide eyes, realizing that bringing her to this cabin was a far bigger show of trust than she had thought possible.

One of the girls met her eyes over her brother’s shoulder. “Ichi-nii? Who’s this?”

“She’s the sparring partner I told you about Karin.” Ichigo twisted toward her, one girl on his back and the other held under his arm.

Unohana bowed toward the two curious gazes. “I am Unohana Yachiru. It is a pleasure to meet you.” Her smile was a little frozen on her face, but she thought she kept it from being too alarming. Ichigo wouldn’t appreciate that near his sisters, not with the palpable protectprotectprotectfirstandlastprotector that curled through his reiatsu, flavoring and strengthening the wards. It was like finally seeing the foundation of some grand working. Yachiru had already known Ichigo’s power and determination, how it influenced every action he took and shaped his soul. Seeing the sheer protective instinct behind it all recontextualized him though, bringing a previously fragmented image into focus. It was beautiful, Yachiru thought. While she knew Ichigo enjoyed the fight just as much as she did, she had long ago understood that battle didn’t motivate him quite the same way. Seeing the true source of that ceaseless determination and strength was humbling. It made Yachiru want to restart their spar, see what would happen if Ichigo’s sisters’ lives were on the line. She cared more for the companionship though, the trust that this man against whom armies broke like water against rocks would bring that power to bear for her sake. A single battle was not worth the loss of all the spars they could have in the future, nor the loss of the trust Ichigo was extending to her at this moment, nor the value of an ally of the man’s caliber.

The girls smiled at her, though they still eyed her warily. “Ichi-nii made a friend!”

“Oi! Don’t make it sound shocking! I can talk to people!”

The other girl laughed at him and poked his side. “Just because you can talk to people doesn’t mean you do, nii-san.” Ichigo was smiling, small and almost unnoticeable, the way she’d only seen him do on a few rare occasions before. “I talk to—”

“More than once every other month?” The child’s smile was angelic.

Ichigo snorted. “I suppose not.”

Yachiru felt laughter shake her shoulders, her smile delighted. “Someone I respected once told me that a person only needs one good companion, as long as that companion is loyal.” The old healer who told her that had done his best to convince Yachiru to follow in their footsteps, convinced she had a talent for it after she created self-targeting healing kido with only limited guidance. She had never deigned to learn so much as a single thing from the man, irritated at the idea of sullying the bloodshed she was made for, but she had respected him deeply nonetheless.

Ichigo cast a warm glance at her, apparently satisfied by her support. “See? It’s fine.”

“Uh huh,” one girl looked at her skeptically. “And how often do you talk to people that aren’t Ichi-nii?”

“Often enough. Unlike Ichigo, I do go into town occasionally,” Yachiru said dryly.

The girls didn’t seem to quite believe her. The dried blood in her hair might have had something to do with that.

Something bubbled and hissed from further in the house. One girl jumped out of her brother’s arms and ran, “My soup!”

Ichigo snorted, dropping the girl he had called Karin to her indignant shout. He looked back at Yachiru. “You good staying for the night? Dinner should be ready in a few hours.”

Yachiru considered him sharply. Showing her this place where he hid his beating heart was a gift, but she suspected there was something more to his offer.

This was where Ichigo’s family stayed. He was asking her to stay, too. Yachiru would spill oceans of blood with the smallest excuse, but she suspected she would do far worse than that for this small family.

She smiled, soft and genuine. “For the night. I have some ideas for your wards in the morning.”

The three siblings beamed at her.

+++

Genryusai Shigekuni Yamamoto was a fearsome man. He was reshaping the very fabric of the Seretei, forging what he called the Gotei 13, a union force between all of the noble houses, with nothing but his grit and prodigious firepower.

Yachiru desperately wanted to fight him.

Luckily, he came to her.

“Unohana Yachiru,” the man stood tall and strong, his army arrayed behind him. Yachiru licked her lips. “You stand accused of crimes against the Seretei. How do you plead?”

Yachiru hummed. “What is the answer that will have you fighting me the quickest?”

Yamamoto’s eyes narrowed. “This is an execution. You will fall here.”

Yachiru laughed. How quickly his farce of a trial fell apart.

A game came to mind. Ichigo’s sisters were fond of making bets and dares, against themselves, their brother, and Yachiru once they became comfortable with her. It was a kind of mischief that never failed to make them laugh. It would be useful here.

“How about a wager, Soutaicho?” Yachiru’s head cocked slowly to the side, contorting her body into something strange, more monster than human soul. “Fight me here, without your army and its tricks. If you win, I will allow you—” her hand drifted up, pointing a single finger at the sky “—one favor.”

Yamamoto hesitated, considering. Something sharply calculating entered his gaze. “And if I lose?”

“You will be too dead for a favor to matter,” Yachiru smiled.

“Soutaicho, don’t—”

The man held up a hand, forestalling the objections of his people. They drew away uncertainly, leaving a wide space around the two. “One favor and one question.”

He must have a plan if he was setting such specific conditions. Yachiru did not care. She nodded.

”Are you willing to swear before Reio?”

“I swear.” Yachiru felt the oath settle in the depths of her reiatsu. There would be no backing out of this, even through death.

“Very well. We shall fight.”

“Perfect,” Unohana Yachiru purred.

They did not draw their swords immediately, nor did they take to the air in shunpo. They drifted closer, circling their opponent. Yamamoto was expressionless, his face set into a noble but empty countenance. Yachiru’s grin was slowly growing, and her eyes were blown wide in delirium.

They lunged forward, exchanging lightning-fast blows. Their blades sang, and the earth underneath their feet was scoured bare of vegetation.

Just as quickly, they jumped back.

Yachiru lifted her sleeve, brushing her fingers against a bleeding gash, her face glowing with violent euphoria. Sparring with Ichigo was a joy, and throwing herself into an enemy army was its own kind of pleasure, but there was something about a fight to the death with a skilled opponent that left her soul burning with delight.

Yamamoto’s lip curled in disgust. Yachiru giggled at his hypocrisy. Such a foolish man.

The battle began anew.

No more were they testing each other, scouting out weaknesses and seeking to trip each other up. They brought forth every scrap of power and skill they could in an attempt to bring the other down. Kido flew and their zanpakutou flashed in the sunlight, their battle having left the confines of the earth for the sky. Yamamoto was lethally efficient, guarding himself with military precision while taking every opportunity to tear her apart. Yachiru was more reckless, confident in her skills in self-healing, accepting blows when it meant she could target him back.

Yachiru laughed, exultant and feral. This was, she was quite sure, the reason for her existence, this exchange of violence and power.

Yamamoto snarled, doubling down on his attempts to cut her head off.

The battle shook the Spirit Realm for hours.

Yachiru wasn’t quite sure how she lost. The adrenaline let her fight more fiercely than perhaps ever before, but it also left her memory completely shot. She could have been tricked, perhaps poisoned by one of the man’s many followers, but she wasn’t quite sure. It was just as likely that she lost genuinely. Nevertheless, she lost, her blade flung far from her hands and reiatsu drained. A hysterical, deranged giggle caught in her throat. She was learning so much nowadays. Every time she lost, whether to her friend or an enemy, she became a better, more dangerous fighter, even more so than when she won.

Yamamoto settled to his feet before her. His clothes were tattered and his expression was tired, but the benefits of having followers were clear as his wounds were healed shut.

Yachiru’s voice was ragged with lost breath and insane laughter. “Your favor, Soutaicho?” Such a strange title. Deliberately outside the noble hierarchy but still arrogant in its claim.

He looked her straight in the eye. “You will remain here, without using reiatsu, for one month and a day. You will not communicate with anyone other than me during that time.”

She tilted her head. That was… a strange favor. Was there not anyone he wanted dead with plausible deniability? It seemed like it would be easier to kill her if he wanted her out of the way.

“And your question?”

Yamamoto smiled. It was an unkind, grim thing. “What is the greatest weakness of the one they call the Dragon?”

Yachiru froze. No. She couldn’t— As she remained silent, her reiatsu shook in her chest. She was well used to carefully controlling her reiatsu, when using the self-healing kido she was fond of anything less than perfect control would kill her, but the energy slipped from her grasp when she tried to reach for it. She choked and fell forward, throwing up blood.

There was a reason why people trusted an oath sworn before the Soul King. If Yachiru did not answer, the oath would tear the answer out of her. She snarled, and despite her weakness Yamamoto flinched back. He did not retract his question.

Yachiru tore at her throat. If she still had access to her reiatsu she would have taken her head clean off, but Yamamoto was wise in using his favor first. It didn’t matter regardless. As soon as her fingers reached her vocal cords, they froze.

She shouldn’t have made that oath. Even if he wouldn’t duel her without it, if she attacked his people he would have responded. Or she should have made another oath, first. She had promised to protect and honor her friend as he did her, but without an oath before the Soul King, it might as well have been empty.

She was a fool.

“His— —” she shrieked in rage as the words were dragged out of her, the rest of her body frozen to the spot “—His sisters!”

The answer tore out of her like it had a mind of its own, and more followed it. Where to find them, little Yuzu and Karin. How the wards worked. How to break them. How to prevent the girls from sending a message to Ichigo until too late.

The earth around her cracked in her rage before her reiatsu was forcibly stilled by her oath.

Before her, Yamamoto was no longer smiling. He looked sad, almost tired, but his eyes were determined. Killing Ichigo would set his influence in motion, Yachiru knew. No Noble would be able to deny his power and authority. Yamamoto nodded once to her and left in a shaky shunpo, returning to his army.

Yachiru screamed.

#bleach #ichigo kurosaki #yachiru unohana #retsu unohana #fandom #fandom stuff #fanfiction #my writing

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lazo1917 · 7 months

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Here are some battle screenshots featuring some helmets I made as well as retextured body and leg armor (models belong to TaleWorlds Entertainment). The gambeson color are soon to change, i made them more on the whiter side and I am trying to make them more of a lighter tan color. Many infantry helmets are based off the Maciejowski Bible. More helmets from that manuscript soon to come. I am planning on making a download link for this mod (most likely Steam workshop), it will be an armor mod focused around the early to mid 13th century with some shields of various colors and heraldry. If anyone wants to see some later 13th century helmets, I'll do my best to fulfill those wants as well. Obviously things seen in these pictures are not final, I plan on remodeling and retexturing many helmets if I see the need to.

#Bannerlord #13th century

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reddus-sideblog · 1 year

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M.E.R.C.s - Crossfire (Part 2)

“Lowe, it’s Ariadne. I’m in place. Get moving.”

Mellie dragged her hand through her long, unruly black hair before taking a breath to steady herself. She hefted her massive high-frequency weapon over her shoulder before touching the headset hooked around her pointed ear.

“Right.”

She turned to the other two M.E.R.C.s in the back of the rented delivery truck as she lifted the shutter to the rear cargo hold, “Holly, Terry, let’s go.”

The large devilkin, calico catgirl, and the scruffy human hopped out of the back of the vehicle and ran for the secure-access elevator that they had parked near. Despite being weighed down by gear the three of them made a brisk pace across the underground parking garage, their footsteps accompanied by the jangling and rustling of their equipment. As the trio approached the armored doors they slid open with a hiss, allowing them to rush in quickly.

“You knyow, I don’t think Ari’s ever been late when we’re running on a schedule,” said the catperson, checking the two hefty satchels she was carrying.

Her black and orange tail, tipped by a white splotch at the end, twitched in excitement as she surveyed the mess of wires, switches, and electronics bundled together in the packs she had brought with her. The two satchels were definitely the heaviest payloads that she was carrying, but the lithe chimera was also sporting a thin but concealing coat, which jangled ominously with her every movement.

“She likes her schedules, I mean she probably has a clock in her head, right?” pondered Mellie.

“Nyeah and a rod up her ass…” muttered Holiday.

The man next to the chimera, and in front of the devilkin, stared straight ahead into the elevator doors. He was armed with a few grenades, but only some expensive chaff-filled ones that sat next to extra petro-fuel canisters for his high-frequency axe. The human looked the part of a killer for hire, but something about him bothered Mellie in a way she couldn’t easily define. He looked perfectly normal, aside from his face being stitched up like he had recently survived a mauling. Terry was just another human man with stubble and scruffy, short black hair. His most defining feature, aside from the stiches, was his single cybernetic eye, and apart from that he distinguished himself very little from any other person Mellie had worked alongside over her mercenary career.

The devilkin adjusted the Mercenary-Contractor Association star on her body armor, making sure it was properly secured. Mellie’s armor covered most of her body. The ballistic armor was reinforced by strips of Hellforged metal, each with spikes that pointed out of her armor, giving off a fierce, Infernalite appearance. Her M-CA badge was secured to the middle of her chest, and each of her companions wore one too. Terry had his fastened to his left arm with a length of red ribbon, and Holiday wore hers as a belt buckle on her shorts. Keeping the heraldry of their mercenary contracting organization prominent was important, as it deferred legal ramifications of their actions to the organization they worked for.

Mellie liked Cash and Karsyn a lot more than Terry, but Bones was the one that called the shots for their team. He had assigned Terry to their group, so she wouldn’t argue about it. Even back when it had just been a four man team the older mercenary had made use of his subordinates with particularly clever strategies. If he said they needed extra M.E.R.C.s to get the job done then he knew best. It did almost feel like Bones had picked random mercenaries from a stack of M-CA contractors to Mellie, though.

The elevator slowed as it rolled up to the twentieth floor, labeled “Management Offices and Boardrooms”. The doors swung open and Holiday leapt out.

“This myust be my stop, I’ll just be a meowment!” proclaimed the explosives expert as she left the elevator.

The doors closed behind her, no doubt at the behest of the team’s android hacker. After a few minutes they opened once more, and Holiday, now two satchels lighter, pranced into the elevator. She shed her coat, revealing her truly enormous payload of deadly devices. Strapped across the calico catgirl’s chest was a bandoleer and belt weighed down by explosives of various types, ranging from high-explosive plastique charges to fragmentation grenades to incendiary bombs and even a couple of smoke grenades for good measure. Along with the ordnance she also had a number of wire spools, detonators, a roll of duct tape, and small pistol.

“Nyalright boltie, get us up to the top floor, we have business with the bossman,” declared Holiday into the camera in the corner of the elevator.

The elevator juddered for a second, sending the chimera sprawling before it started upwards rapidly. Mellie pursed her lips as she tried not to smile while helping her friend up. Terry watched the whole scene unfold before him blankly.

“There are still twenty minutes left on the file transfer, Lowe,” came Ariadne’s voice in Mellie’s ear.

“Gotcha, I’m sure that we can keep them busy for that long,” she replied.

“Make some noise, girls! Uh, and you too Terry,” exclaimed Bones through the radio.

Terry grunted an affirmative.

The M.E.R.C.s exploded out of the elevator when it reached the twenty fifth floor, with Holiday leading the charge. The elevator opened to the wide open, tiled floor that was populated by a handful of suit-wearing Power Motors Incorporated higher ups and a half dozen corporate security. None of them were quite ready for the high-explosive grenade that clinked and rolled across the floor into their midst.

The deafening bang of the device was like the report of a starting pistol. Before the dust settled Terry and Mellie had readied their weapons. Terry’s HF axe and Mellie’s huge, chainsaw-bladed HF greatsword roared to life as the two strode forwards, gunning their throttles. On the opposite side of the antechamber one of the corpsecs, bleeding from a number of lacerations given by shards of exploded tile, drew his pistol and began firing wildly at the mercenaries.

One of the shots actually landed. Mellie stopped in her tracks for a moment. The nine millimeter bullet had glanced off of one of the hellforged plates of her armor and gone right between two of her ribs. Across the lobby the security guard looked incredulous, unable to believe his luck.

“More where that came from, sootlicker!” he cried, his spirits raised by the lucky strike.

Emboldened by his successful hit he began unloading on the large, armored devilkin, even while she charged at him. He fired an entire magazine into the oncoming mercenary, and got part way through another one before her huge high-frequency weapon slammed down on his wrist.

“Knock it off!” she yelled, her ire clearly stoked.

The whirring teeth ripped right through the corpsec’s wrist, tearing apart skin, flesh, tendons, and bones like some sort of nightmarish industrial tool of mutilation. The force of Mellie’s strike bowled over the security officer, sprawling him onto the floor as his newly severed hand also tumbled across the tile floor, his pistol still clutched in hand. Once he finally realized what was happening he began screaming, joining the chorus of terrified voices that were caught up in the mercenary’s storm of violence.

Mellie quickly scanned across the lobby, Holiday was nowhere to be seen but Terry was making short work of one of the stunned corpsecs, while two horrified suits looked on in terror. Behind him one of the corpsecs hit by Holiday’s initial salvo stirred, and unholstered his weapon. Mellie’s feet were already in motion as she watched the laser blade activate.

The devilkin crashed into the guard like a freight train trying to make up for lost time. As she clenched the throttle the wickedly spiked weapon roared, and the chain of serrated teeth made cut after cut. First cloth, then armor, then skin and flesh, then bones and organs. The HF greatsword tore into the corpsec like a bloodthirsty demon, emerging on the other side of his torso in less than a second, coated in a slick new paint job of gore and crimson blood. A mess of meat, guts, and man were strewn in front of Mellie as she finished the sweep of her gigantic blade. The screaming only escalated, joined by a single voice that devolved into weak gurgling and then silence as True Death finally came to collect him.

Mellie looked over at her teammate. He seemed heedless of her intervention, and was caught up in maiming one of the fallen corpsecs. She didn’t say anything, but a simple acknowledgement would have made her feel a lot better about the situation. She sighed and looked around the devastated lobby, trying to calm her nerves. All of the corpsecs were brutally dispatched, a number of the PMI suits were also hit by Holiday’s explosive entrance, and the place looked like an abattoir. The unarmed corps were terrified, with all the ones who weren’t just reduced to gibbering pleading for their lives with the M.E.R.C.s. It seemed like they had been plenty noisy.

The noise was suddenly overcome by a pair of new voices. The twin jet scream of plasma blades overtook the panicked pleas of the terrified corps, and bathed the room in an otherworldly green light. Mellie turned to look at the interruption of the mercenary’s bloodshed. A pair of active plasma swords were held in the hands of a tall android bedecked in armor with the colors of Power Motors Incorporated. The two weapons projected a beam of crackling, blindingly hot plasma as the android brandished them at the mercenaries.

“End of the line, mercenaries,” came the android’s voice, his vocoder boosted to maximum levels to be heard over his weapon’s noise.

The devilkin grimaced. She hated dealing with energy weapons, and this brute would probably put her behind schedule too. Mellie approached slowly, keeping guarded as she closed the distance between herself and the threatening corpsec. She watched Terry out of the corner of her eye as she stepped closer. The other M.E.R.C. was staring down the android intently, though his face betrayed no emotions. The android watched them both, its cylindrical head having a number of cameras mounted on lateral tracks allowing it to do so.

Mellie revved the engine of her HF weapon, trying to pull the opponent’s attention to herself as she yelled in return, “Bit busy right now, toaster!”

Mellie’s taunt worked, though she almost wished it hadn’t. The android immediately began approaching, brandishing its intense weaponry, ready to strike. She readied herself for a forward slash, before letting go of the weapon as she swung, going instead to grab the android’s wrists. The feint worked, and as her massive weapon stalled out and embedded itself in the shattered tile floor the mercenary gripped the corp’s arms with all of her strength, attempting to crush the android’s spindly wrists. Mellie gave a toothy grin at the android’s blank face, practically gloating at the situation.

The android, however, did not yet see defeat. To Mellie’s horror another pair of arms unfolded from his torso, whose hands reached up to transfer the plasma weapons to themselves. The M.E.R.C. knew when a situation was going bad, and she invented an exit strategy. Forcing the android’s upper wrists together she swept his legs out from under him, using the momentum to throw the android over her shoulder and onto the ground behind her with a solid crash that further cracked the already broken tiles.

The corpsec android was still slowly stirring when Mellie was at her feet. She kicked the android over onto his back and grabbed all four of his arms. The muscled devilkin pulled. Hard. With the sound of ripping flesh and creaking metal the androids arms were wrenched back, the synthflesh coating its arms tearing apart as she wrenched at them. Terry took advantage of the restraining hold and charged forward, bringing his high-frequency axe down on the android over and over.

The first hit struck the machine’s right shoulder, making Mellie’s hold rip the destroyed upper limb out of the socket. This also led to her grip sliding free on his lower right arm, letting the android’s hand scrabble across the shattered ground, before wrapping around the unignited handle of his plasma sword. Terry’s second strike slammed directly into the android’s head, the high-frequency field crashing down into the cranial plating of the grappled machine. The grabbed plasma sword ignited, projecting its eerie green blade right beside Mellie as she continued restraining the android.

“Kill him dammit!” the devilkin lady yelled, losing her cool at the prospect of being sliced apart by a plasma blade.

The heavy axe hacked into its target as Terry swung again, splattering the ground with gushing white coolant as he went in for a killing blow. It struck home and the android went completely limp, releasing its hold of the sword, and leading to Mellie ripping more of his limbs out of his body as the resistance to her pulling ended. She sighed and let go of the dead android’s extremities, before thanking Terry.

“Thanks for the assist, we sure disarmed him, huh?” asked Mellie, cracking a smile at her own unfunny pun.

The other mercenary just nodded.

Mellie crossed over to where her thrown weapon had landed, inspecting it to make sure that her wild throw hadn’t damaged the highly customized implement. The huge armament was quite far from a baseline Pseudo Industries 5B-53 HF Greatsword, as she had used it for a few years at this point. Over time she had replaced the standard high-frequency field system with a chain tooth blade, and she’d added more appropriately Infernal spikes and blades to accentuate its deadliness. Along with that she’d overhauled the engine a number of times, before settling on a six piston V engine. It gave a lot of cutting power though it bucked a bit when she revved it. The bucking was manageable for her, though, and the increased slicing ability was ideal. Thankfully the weapon had landed relatively safely, and the only thing she could find wrong was one of the teeth being chipped.

Satisfied, Mellie opened her radio channel again, “Holiday, where’d you go?”

At the mention of the chimera’s name one of the suits lost their composure.

“We’re all going to die! That catperson was the Holiday!” she screamed.

Terry revved his HF axe threateningly, quelling any further exclamations.

“Oh I’m in the director’s office, just go left at the end of the entranceway, I’m in the room with the big doors, mew can’t miss it. I nyassumed that you guys could take care of the sit-mew-ation out there, and I didn’t want our man getting away,” she explained.

After getting Terry’s attention Mellie jogged down the hallway to the director’s office, leaving bloody footsteps in her wake. The hallway wasn’t long, and Holiday’s instructions were easy enough to follow. As she and her comrade entered the room the situation became apparent.

Holiday was sitting on the desk of Frederick Hopkins, director of the Illigan branch of Power Motors Incorporated. Next to her, still sitting at his desk, was Frederick Hopkins. The man was in a compromising position, as the chimera had him at gunpoint, taped to his office chair, and also had the smooth, bright yellow orb of a high-explosive grenade wedged in his mouth. It seemed like the explosive device was well and truly stuck in the director’s mouth, and it looked like it would be difficult to extricate. The director looked like a run of the mill corporate executive, dressed in a properly tailored suit, with a look of indignation written across his mustached face at the current circumstances.

The chimera patted the director’s well-balded head as she gracefully hopped down from the desk, slowly unspooling a wire as she walked. One end of the wire was wrapped around her finger, while the other was evidently tied to the grenade’s pin.

“Oh don’t mewve,” Holiday said to her hostage, “You’ll lose your head and we wouldn’t want that nyow, would we?”

To emphasize her point she tugged ever so slightly at the wire, making it taut for a moment. The director gave a muffled yell as the pin threatened to pull loose from the tension. Holiday laughed as she obviously relished his terror, making Mellie grimace. The devilkin liked her chimera friend plenty, and had even stuck by her when her juvenile acts of vandalism had escalated into more serious, explosive crimes over the years, but Holiday’s penchant for tormenting people never sat well with her. Still, she had a way of keeping people around.

“Good work Holly,” said Mellie pleased at how everything was going so far, “We just have to hole up here and wait until Ari has the stuff. Then we can walk out of here with your finger on the detonator, and it’ll all have gone according to plan!”

“Nyeah so, one small problem; he myanaged to use this before I grabbed him,” she said in a sour tone as she held up a broken pile of plastic and circuits, “I think it was a silent radio beacon. I busted it but he’s probably gonnya have some backup real soon.”

“Alright, I’ll tell Bones in a minute,” Mellie said, undoing the clasp for her helmet.

She touched the bullet holes around her body from the corpsec’s one-man barrage. She was bleeding a bit, and was starting to feel the pain from the injuries as her adrenaline surge was dying down. Mellie blinked a few times, realizing that she was seeing with a few more eyes than she normally did. The excitement and injuries had made her flesh demonize, revealing her Hellish heritage very evidently.

The devilkin woman’s face now sported two additional sets of eyes, one above and one below her normal ones. Mellie was glad that her demonization wasn’t anything too outrageous, she had known some devilkin whose hands turned to claws when they got worked up, or even worse, one who breathed fire when her anger was roused. The numerous eyes were enough to alarm the detained director, who gave a choked gasp of surprise at the sight of her inhuman face.

The M.E.R.C.’s curved, upwards pointing horns barely poked out of her fluffy, though now gore-drenched, mass of black hair, and her stubby, reptilian tail were her main, outwardly demonic features, aside from the occasional patch of scales that grew on her forearms and shins. Mellie did her best to calm down and steady her breathing. Her other, more useful demonic trait would have an easier time kicking in if she did.

There was a small pause as she slowed her breathing down, before a small “clink” from a piece of lead hitting the office’s floor that was just barely audible. It was followed by a few other bullets that were driven from Mellie’s body as her Infernal gifts kicked in. Soon the blood on her person was sucked back inside her wounds that began scabbing and scarring over in moments. After that all that remained of the injuries was the minute holes in Mellie’s armor.

“Nyan mew-llimeter, what were they thinkin-” exclaimed Holiday before she was cut off by a high-frequency axe chopping into her abdomen.

The roar of the weapon cut off the chimera’s statement, as Terry gunned the trigger, coating the floor with a spray of Holiday’s flesh and blood. Mellie watched in horror as the axeman pulled the weapon out of her friend’s gut with a sickening sucking noise, before he yanked the wire connected to the pin of the grenade in the director’s mouth. The director began screaming and thrashing, desperately trying to escape, before his head was blown apart into a red mist sprinkled with brain matter and bone.

Mellie had thought that she was frozen in horror at the mutilation of her friend and the utter sabotage of their mission, but she found herself swinging her own weapon down at the turncoat. The blade narrowly missed Terry as he stepped back, and it instead slammed into the deceased director’s desk, reducing the realwood furniture into an explosion of splinters.

“I KNEW I COULDN’T TRUST YOU!” Mellie roared over the din of their weapons.

Terry didn’t respond, and instead moved further back as she lept at him with a wide swing, attempting to bisect the silent human. Her weapon’s teeth instead tasted mostly air, though she did manage to nick his leg. The slash was far from fatal, and unlikely to slow him, but Mellie was encouraged by the injury. Her encouragement was halted by the all too familiar jingle of a grenade sliding across the floor.

Instinctually Mellie leaped away from the explosive, throwing herself behind a couch in the spacious office’s sitting area. There was a subsequent bang, but it was a lot more quiet than she had thought it would be, and it was followed by a steady hiss. The hiss of the grenade releasing smoke couldn’t mask the sound of Terry running away, or the fading sound of his high-frequency weapon’s engine idling.

Mellie keyed her radio, “Terry’s fucked us! He killed the director and took down Holiday! I’m grabbing her and pulling out, those reinforcements will probably be here any moment too. This whole mission is a wash.”

“Slow down, slow down. Reinforcements? Where’s Terry?” asked Bones, trying to get a hold of the situation.

Mellie explained as best she could. things were starting to go sideways, really fast. She quickly walked over to where Holiday was laying, in a puddle of her own blood and ruptured flesh.

“Alright, alright. Get yourselves together, girls. Ari, I don’t care if you need to blow a fuse, get those schematics downloaded yesterday. We’re moving up the timetable by ten minutes. Cash and I will provide whatever support we can from out here.”

Ariadne grumbled in Pythonian before confirming in Capital, “...right. I’ll see what can be done.”

Holiday was still clinging to life at Mellie’s feet, spluttering on blood as her hands scrabbled around in the mess that was her torso. She was looking for something, and was remarkably conscious for someone who was missing most of her internal organs.

“Holly! You’re gonna be o-”

“The detonator Mellie. For the stuff I put downstairs. Where is it?”

Mellie looked around the pile of ruined chimera meat and clothing, as Holiday’s movements got more frantic. After a few tense moments Mellie found the detonator in a fold of bloody, shredded clothing and handed it to Holiday’s clammy, clawed hand. She took it instantly, her fingers wrapping around the handle before popping open the safety cover and hammering the detonation button a number of times.

For a moment nothing happened, and Mellie’s anxiety grew, until there was a loud pair of heavy thumps. The building shook, the power flickered, and Holiday started cackling. The red auxiliary lights went on as the standard lights failed, and the gruesome spectacle of Hellish power began. Holiday’s body began pulling back together, giblets of flesh started getting drawn to one another, then chunks and blood conglomerated, followed by organ meat and bones. It all flowed back into her ruined body at a swift pace like a serpent spawned from the floor of a slaughterhouse, and before a few seconds were up the catgirl was whole once more. Mellie had seen the process a few times before, but it always made her stomach turn. Finally whole again Holiday sat up. Her shirt and bandoleer were utterly ruined and drenched in her own blood but she was physically no worse for wear.

“You’re OK!” proclaimed Mellie, wiping tears away from her eyes as all six of them welled up.

“Nyeah of course I’m OK. What else do I pay that demon downsec for? I don’t go to his temple to buy his shitty food,” said Holiday, unamused.

Mellie stood up from her squat and helped Holiday up with her. Mellie didn’t like the harm and death caused in the name of the demonic pact that Holiday maintained, but it did mean that her childhood friend got to stay alive. The specifics of the pact weren’t very clear to Mellie, but from what she did understand, if Holiday was ever threatened with death she could inflict harm on others to recover from the mortal injury she had sustained. There was a time limit, and some other conditions, but apparently placed explosives were seen as “legitimate” in the terms of the pact, and the method had become a staple in Holiday’s repertoire. The fallout from this practice had, naturally, led to the chimera being labeled a terrorist, and even “Public Enemy #1” now and again.

“Huh, looks like you set off the shutter system after all,” said Mellie as she thought out loud.

Holiday pointed a thumb back at the still very dead PMI executive, “Lets get mew-ving. I don’t want to be up here when that guy’s private army shows up,”

***

The cannon shell struck the Seabrisket with terrible force that tossed her passengers about like wet laundry in a washing machine. Accion gripped the strut next to him as the ship bucked and rocked from the impact. The armor was holding, but after a few more hits the stand tank’s cannon would turn the monitor’s armored hull into a floating tomb.

“We’re dead if that ST keeps hitting us, ma’am,” he said, keeping his intonation as calm as he could.

“I’m very aware of that, corporal. Schneider, full throttle. We need to get to that dock up there on the left, sink or swim,” ordered Sergeant Stone.

Schneider gave a hesitant acknowledgement before pushing the ship’s accelerator all the way forwards. Accion kept gripping the strut he was holding onto as the sudden thrust pulled him back. He hazarded a glance out the forward gunnery port. It was as he had suspected, the stand tank they were approaching was an AVM-19, a heavy vehicle by all accounts. The 15mm autocannon that the Seabrisket had on her fore mounting wouldn’t even scratch the armor on the tank.

Another round slammed into the Seabrisket, pushing her to the port, and sending spalling ricocheting throughout the crew cabin. The huge android suffered the least of it, but his flesh and blood companions were getting injured and disoriented. Accion scooted aftwards between the machine gunners and approached the raised command chair that had the sergeant, the chaplain, and the helmsman all gathered around it.

Corporal Schneider was out like a light after hitting his head on the ship’s dashboard, while Chaplain Eckord and Sergeant Stone were clinging to the command chair for dear life. Without Schneider at the controls the ship was listing to the left, on a collision course with a cargo dock that was much closer than the one the sergeant had indicated.

Accion, Stone, and Eckord all tried to grab the controls to correct their course but it was already too late. The Seabrisket rammed into the synthwood planks of the dock, wedging itself between the concrete pylons that held the planks up. Everyone was jerked forwards once more by the impact, as the monitor’s forward momentum ended very abruptly.

A few moments after the ship stopped Accion righted himself and looked over his squad mates. Theos was still dead, but it looked like the rest of the crew was still alive, just a bit shaken. Careful not to step on any of the other Holy Mercenaries, he made his way over to the portside armored hatch. The ship was now heavily tilted, with its port side lower than the starboard, leaving the deck of the crew cabin at a steep tilt. The armored door swung open freely with a rusty complaint, showing off an inglorious view of a gravelly beach at the bottom of a concrete canal wall.

The android gave a rousing shout, “Let’s go boys! We’ve gotta clear out, this thing isn’t going another inch, and we have a body to move!”

All six of the surviving mercenaries and their captive unloaded from the Seabrisket on the canal’s beach, and they began hiking upwards to the street at the top of the canal quickly. Accion carried the captured NCSDF captain, and the burden didn’t slow him down one bit. The tank was still about, and the lot of them were no match for its firepower. The top of the canal wall was only two stories up, but running up the nearby access stairs was furtive and desperate, as they were exposed, with only a chain link fence for “cover”. The street at the top of the canal’s bank led directly to the cargo dock that Sergeant Stone had originally indicated, along an asphalt path that was blocked in by a length of chain link fence and a red-bricked rear side of a warehouse. It was exposed, but with any luck the cargo ships and dock workers trying to make it through the combat-choked canal would block some of the SDF elements from pursuing them.

Accion realized that the noise of a chugging turbine motor and the moving water was not a cargo ship, rather it was the stand tank that was now pursuing the Holy Mercenaries. The armored beast was striding through the canal, rounding the cover of the cargo dock to get a line of sight on the Seabrisket. Having spotted the beached ship the ST opened up with its cannon before following up with a rocket for good measure. The combination of cannon shell and rocket penetrated the river monitor, striking her fuel tank and setting the whole ship ablaze with a fiery explosion large enough to send all of the mercenaries sprawling.

First to her feet, the chimera sergeant was already yelling orders as the ringing in each of the M.E.R.C.s ears died down.

“WE NEED TO MOVE OR WE’RE DEAD MEAT!” she screamed, waving her hand to get her men moving in the right direction.

They rose as quickly as they could, following her lead as she charged towards the relative safety of the dockyard. As they sprinted the SDF stand tank caught sight of the column of moving mercenaries, and opened up with its machine guns. Accion avoided the worst of it, but a number of shots hit Private Riley and Sergeant Stone. Their body armor, reinforced by their kevlar-weave HMB coats, did nothing against the rapid fire storm of heavy projectiles. There was nothing left of the private’s torso, but luck was on the sergeant’s side, as she stumbled forwards, only missing a majority of her right leg.

The sergeant screamed as she hit the ground again, dropping her shotgun and composure. Accion cursed and grabbed her as he continued his unbroken stride, now with renewed purpose and a doubled load, one of which was currently bleeding down the back of his chassis.

Stronger shoulders, not lighter burdens, he intoned to himself as he focused on getting out of the way of any further fire.

Accion flew down the stairs connecting the path atop the canal to the dock and kicked the flimsy aluminum door blocking off the dockyard with a solid kick. Having secured access for himself and the rest of the squad, Accion found cover between two stacks of cargo containers and administered what little aid he could to the sergeant. The rest of the survivors piled in behind him, keeping watch at either end of the narrow alley formed by the stacked storage containers. Sergeant Stone was somehow still lucid enough to be biting her own arm cursing from the pain, but if they didn’t stop the bleeding she would be off to Heaven soon.

Unbuckling one of the straps that kept his combat knife strapped to his thigh, Accion made a crude tourniquet that would stop the sergeant’s bleeding. The majority of the squad’s medical supplies were with Riley, but trying to retrieve those now would be suicide. The android instructed his superior officer to prepare herself before he applied the makeshift tourniquet. As he fitted the strap around her leg the horselady began hyperventilating, and when he pulled the loop of leather tight she was too out of breath to scream properly. After inhaling sharply she began screaming, loud enough to make Accion dampen his audio receptors.

The android had suffered his share of damage over his long lifespan, but with his simulated sense of pain he certainly didn’t experience it as viscerally as any of his organic friends seemed to. Still, the crisis was averted for the time being. The sergeant would need proper medical service, and a replacement limb, but she wasn’t going to die right away.

“Corporal, that tank is crossing the canal, it looks like it’s coming to poke around the ship’s wreck,” said Private Mills, the last remaining private-rank mercenary on the team.

“Fine, as long as we stay out of sight we’ll be alright. Once we get a chance we’ll move inland and get to Ecker Park, it’s in the next sector over, and that’s only a short run,” said Accion, assuming command while Sergeant Stone’s wailing died down to frustrated whimpering as she lost consciousness.

“Accion,” called the other corporal, motioning for the android to join him.

A look of concern concealed by bravado was plastered across Schneider’s face. Accion knew it was bad before he looked. A Newland City Self Defense Force patrol ship was pulling into dock, and unloading marines before it was even properly anchored. A full squad of fresh, eager soldiers were touching down on the other side of the dockyard, already looking for the Holy Mercenaries as they got on dry land.

An unfortunately familiar, rhythmic sound pulled Accion’s attention in the opposite direction. The stand tank was walking closer, following the canal wall the M.E.R.C.s had escaped along to the dockyard. The armored vehicle was striding towards them, and soon it would not only come upon their hiding spot, but it would also be in the perfect position to enfilade fire between the canisters, reducing each one of them to bloody shreds, like it had Private Riley.

In the face of oncoming death Accion steeled himself, purging his mental subroutines before taking a knee and pressing his fingers and thumbs together into a triangle to pray to the Machina. The steady footsteps of the ST were getting closer, and the yelling from the NCSDF soldiers was also approaching.

Deus Machina, send us a miracle, please.

#Ashlands RPG #M.E.R.C.s

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shootertron-stuff · 2 years

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(More information on these characters is available on my AO3 under "On the Taming of Hellhounds", though the ficverse is under revision. Their backstory involves rape, imprisonment, nonconsensual body modification, forced pregnancy, and canon-typical child abuse so take care.)

Clothilde Nazari and their daughter Anur, posed in armor holding swords with family heraldry.

Anur was born with geneseed organs due to some Heretek meddling. After being exposed to Warp energies while her mom was pregnant, she turned out a chimera with canine traits.

(Her mom only knew how to pick boy names, or "Anur" has become gender neutral in the future.)

As Anur becomes older, she is at odds with her mother. Clothilde has high expectations and is afraid that, since Anur's biological father was a Black Legionnaire who pacted with a dog Daemon, Anur will become a possessed and uncontrollable monster one day.

Anur is the first child Clothilde is able to raise to adulthood, so naturally mama is protective, often to the point of privacy violation. Space Marines grew up normalizing too much abuse, and don't understand consent.

Poor Anur has to put up with Mom reading her diary and disapproving of her book collection that includes Traitor/Loyalist romance novels lol.

For now have this picture of Anur and Clothilde posing for a photo together. Mom brought some props just for the occasion.

Clothilde has to balance honoring their heritage and not blaspheming against the Fists, despite being unable to return to them.

Like a third culture daughter of immigrants, they feel kinship with their adoptive family despite said family leaving them scarred for life. I mean, the Fists put children in torture machines.

Instead of the Imperial Fists standard, they display an embroidered banner with "Imperial Fist" citrons, citron flowers, and rabbits on it.

Instead of the Imperial Aquila, they brought a shield with Kairos Fateweaver on it.

Their tabards display the logos of the Vortex Coursers warband and Hellhound's Repose, a massive orbital station in the Screaming Vortex.

The two carry swords that are definitely haunted, posing amongst bricks taken from a ruined fortress.

#warhammer 40k #space marines #female space marines #warhammer oc #taming hellhounds

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gobboguy · 6 months

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Chapter 13: Rivers of Secrets

Beyond the bustling city of Rochamber, where the distant echoes of its life slowly faded into the symphony of the woods, our heroes found solace in the embrace of nature. The sun, a glowing orb of twilight hues, set over the treetops, casting dappled shadows upon the forest floor. Alongside the glistening river that cut through the woodland, they made their camp, the gentle murmur of water providing a soothing backdrop.

The river, flanked by ancient trees with roots that drank deeply from its waters, wound its way through the woods, its surface reflecting the fading light like a mirror to the heavens. Overhead, a canopy of leaves formed a verdant tapestry, adorned with the last warm hues of sunset. The air was thick with the scent of moss and earth, and the distant songs of nocturnal creatures began to serenade the twilight.

Aquata, her eyes like pools of liquid sapphire, described the appearance of a Naga, their serpent-like bodies adorned with iridescent scales that shimmered in a myriad of colors. "Naga are horrible beings," she explained, her voice carrying the wisdom of the sea. "Their lower halves are serpentine, with scales that glimmer like moonlit waves. Their upper bodies are humanoid, with slender arms and hands that can manipulate both magic and mundane objects. Their eyes, like orbs of polished opal, hold a depth of ancient knowledge and terrible wroth."

To lighten the mood, Aquata summoned the riverwater to life, forming a playful display. A beautiful mermaid, sculpted from liquid moonlight, danced upon the water's surface, chasing away imagined sailors who sought to enslave them. Twig and Leaf, their eyes wide with wonder, watched the aquatic spectacle, their laughter mingling with the soft melody of the river.

As night fell, Leaf, her determination unyielding, served biscuits infused with courage, a gesture meant to bolster their spirits for the tasks ahead. Twig, always the jester, cracked jokes that elicited laughter from their small group. He then displayed his slingshot skills, his aim true and his confidence unwavering, a testament to his burgeoning bravery.

Elara, her hands deft and practiced, brewed a potion under the pale glow of the moon. The potion, a concoction of herbs and magic, would keep them awake and alert, ensuring they remained vigilant throughout the night. The flames beneath her cauldron flickered and danced, casting flickering shadows upon her face, a testament to the magic she commanded.

Under the twilight canopy, amidst the symphony of the river and the secrets of the forest, our heroes found strength in unity. As they prepared for the night's endeavors, their laughter and determination echoed through the woods, a beacon of hope in the face of looming darkness. In the heart of nature, beneath the starlit sky, they readied themselves for the challenges ahead, their resolve unyielding as they stood together on the threshold of destiny.

The night hung heavy over the river, casting an eerie glow upon the water. Along both banks stood a dozen Sea-Guardians, their silvery armor catching the faint moonlight, scales shimmering like liquid silver. They wielded tridents adorned with intricate seashell designs, their blades sharp enough to cut through the toughest of armors.

Beneath the surface of the water, several Merpeople glided gracefully, their tails shimmering in shades of azure and indigo. Armed with enchanted coral spears, they moved with the fluidity of the ocean itself, their eyes sharp and vigilant.

Alden, his senses keen and his muscles coiled with anticipation, called for silence with a hush. With prodigious leaps that defied human limits, he ascended to the treetops, his movements as swift and silent as the night breeze.

In the distance, around the river's bend, a black ship materialized, its dark green sails billowing ominously. Emblazoned upon the sails was the coiled serpent heraldry of the Naga, a chilling sight that sent shivers down the spines of all who beheld it. Alden, perched high above, signaled to his companions, his eyes narrowed in determination.

As the ship neared the dam created by Alden's magic, the Naga onboard hissed menacingly, their eyes narrowing in anger. In response, Sea-Guardians leaped from both banks, their armored forms gleaming in the moonlight. Simultaneously, Merpeople surfaced, their eyes alight with determination, readying their enchanted coral spears.

The clash was swift and fierce, a dance of blades and scales under the veil of night. The Sea-Guardians, their tridents flashing like falling stars, met the Naga's hissing fury with unwavering resolve. In the water, Merpeople moved like ethereal spirits, striking with precision and swiftness.

The air crackled with the clash of steel, the hiss of Naga, and the battle cries of the Sea-Guardians and Merpeople. Moonlight glinted off weapons and armor, creating a surreal, otherworldly scene amidst the shadows of the river.

Alden, his eyes ablaze with determination, led his allies with a strategic mind and unwavering courage. With each clash, they pushed the Naga back, defending their territory with a valor that echoed through the night.

Under the cover of darkness and the united strength of Sea-Guardians and Merpeople, the heroes fought bravely against the Naga invaders, their alliance a beacon of hope amidst the shadows of the river. The night echoed with the sounds of battle, a testament to the strength of unity against the forces of darkness.

In the midst of the chaotic battle, Alden's command over the elements manifested once more. His hands rose gracefully, and the river responded to his call. Thick, sinuous strands of seaweed emerged from the water, winding around the Naga ship with a vice-like grip. The ship, entangled and motionless, became a prisoner to the very depths it once sailed.

Alden, his grip firm on Eleanor, became a whirlwind of steel and magic. His sword, imbued with ancient power, danced in his hands like a living thing, striking with precision and purpose. The Naga, hissing with fury, launched a relentless assault, attempting to overwhelm him with sheer numbers.

In the midst of the fray, a particularly ferocious Naga lunged at Alden, its fangs bared and eyes ablaze with venomous hatred. Just as the Naga's jaws were about to close around Alden, it suddenly convulsed, its eyes widening in terror. A gumball, fired by Twig from the shore, had found its mark, infused with fear by Leaf's magical touch. The Naga, gripped by an overwhelming sense of dread, turned tail and fled, desperate to escape the invisible specter haunting its mind. It leaped into the water, only to be swiftly cut down by the vigilant Merpeople, their enchanted spears finding their mark with lethal precision.

Elara, with her eyes sharp and mind sharper, observed the chaos from the shore. In her hands, she held a peculiar launcher, and with a swift motion, she aimed it at the remaining Naga. From its depths, a stream of vivid purple liquid arced through the air, dousing the Naga in a strange potion. The effects were immediate – the Naga's scales began to fall off, and their skin turned a furious shade of red. Disoriented and distressed, they found themselves at a disadvantage.

The Naga, their confidence shattered and bodies weakened, were ultimately defeated. Some fled, their hisses of frustration and fear fading into the night, while others met their end beneath the waves, the Merpeople exacting their vengeance with righteous fury.

In the aftermath, the river ran red with the remnants of the battle, the moonlight casting a haunting glow upon the water. Alden, Twig, Leaf, Elara, and Aquata stood triumphant, their breaths heavy with exhaustion but hearts alight with victory. The shadows of the river had been vanquished, and beneath the cover of the night, our heroes emerged victorious, their unity and courage prevailing against the forces of darkness.

#fantasy #goblins #literature #orcs #gobboguy #SongsofPower3

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wardenparker · 2 years

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Once Upon a Time... part 9

Zach Wellison x plus size f!Reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

Zach’s life gets turned upside down when his visit to the local library sends him all the way back to Camelot - and he meets another time traveler who has made the kingdom their home.

Rating: Mature Word Count: 12.9k Warnings: *This is a Zach fic so there WILL be discussion of homelessness.* Jousting/medieval typical sportsmanship and trash talking, Gareth has a Type, Zach in the bath like usual, mentions of sex workers, one single slap that is totally deserved, unplanned pregnancy, Merlin is a meddling old coot. Summary: King Arthur’s birthday celebration is interrupted by the arrival of a legendary lady. Zach embarks on a journey to help Gareth. Our Dandelion finally confronts Merlin and makes a shocking discovery. Notes: There is A LOT going on in this chapter, my loves! Life is good in Camelot but things are about to get complicated.

Part 1 ~ Part 2 ~ Part 3 ~ Part 4 ~ Part 5 ~ Part 6 ~ Part 7 ~ Part 8

Everything about this spring has been different, and that is owed entirely to the fact that you aren’t scared or alone this time around. At Arthur’s last birthday celebration, you had been in Camelot for only five or six weeks and had never even sung before the court yet. The tournament had been a nerve wracking and concerning week where you had avoided asking too many questions so you wouldn’t sound like an idiot, and stayed very demure every time Gawain had made an off-hand comment in your direction. Looking back, it’s easy to put the pieces into place and see what Guinevere meant about him being interested in you back then, but the whole situation had been too new and scary for you to have even noticed you were being flirted with.

But this year? This year when the Knights of the Round Table lined up on horseback in gleaming armour with their banners high, you are sitting right alongside the Queen, Elaine, Isolde, and every other proud wife of a knight on a cushion in the stands. This year Zach is out there with his newly granted coat of arms: a blood red Phoenix on a green background, slashed with a trio of green torches over silver. The symbols for resurrection and zealousness in life seemed like the very best possible choices for Zach, and you had celebrated zealously for a few hours after your husband had received the honour of his own heraldry. The tournament is now in day four and Zach is somehow still in, despite being the biggest novice of the group, making you cheer all the louder from the stands every time he makes a hit. He’s definitely come home bruised from the previous three days, but you know that he wouldn’t trade it for anything. And that makes all the difference.

Shit talking is the same no matter what century men are currently in. Zach learns this firsthand and he is having fun. There is danger and fuck does his body take a beating when his armor - new fitted - is hit with the lance over and over again as he charges towards his adversary. Still, he's found that he likes this. Likes the comradery and the festivities. The way that you pout and kiss every bruise on his body. His handy excuse that he's sore - not lying, he's sore as fuck - has given you the confidence to climb up and straddle his waist and let him get the firsthand view of you bouncing on his cock every night when you are craving your knight.

"Are we going to joust or what?" He calls out, adjusting in his saddle and smirking with his visor open as Gawain adjusts some part of his padding. He's already up on this round and apparently his last strike had cause something to knock loose, the knight’s squire hastily trying to repair it. "You can always forfeit."

“Not in your most fantastical dreams.” Gawain has an innate fondness for the younger man, largely driven by the fact that Zachariah hits like a hammer and never gives up. Regardless of whether or not those hits are verbal or physical, Gawain enjoys the sparring and always has. “You should have warned your lady wife she would be playing nursemaid tonight!”

"My lady wife enjoys playing nursemaid." Zach looks over at you, easily spotting you in amongst the wives and sending you a small wink. "Tis a shame you have not found your own fair lady to have cater to your comforts. You would no doubt hit better."

“She enjoys an injured husband?” Gawain laughs, knocking his armour back into place. “Perhaps while you are resting tonight, I will pay her a visit?” It is pure bravado, as Gawain is not the sort of man to covet his brother’s wife - and he certainly thinks of this younger knight as his brother. But he also knows that the mere suggestion of it will rile Zachariah like nothing else.

Zach's eyes narrow on the other knight and he hisses. "Will be hard to visit anything but your bed when I unseat you!" His hand comes up and slaps his visor down and his grip on reins tights, body coiled for the wave of the flag from the King's herald.

Gawain practically cackles with glee, slamming his own visor shut and calling for his lance all in an instant. He will deserve the bruise Zachariah inflicts on him this round, and he does not mind at all.

The moment the flag is waved, it's like a combination of feelings for Zach. The heels to the horse’s flanks is like the first time he went down the fast rope course when he was repelling in bootcamp. The way the horse leaps forward and starts galloping towards the other knight's similar to the convoys he had driven. Past and present mingling together in his mind and giving him the perfect balance of brotherhood that he has missed since that last deployment.

You’re very glad that shouts and screams are par for the course at these events because you definitely are screaming your head off the second Zach’s squire jumps out of the way and promising yourself that you won’t freak out this time when Gawain’s lance connects with Zach’s armour. Because it always connects. But if Zach just manages to break this lance on this pass he’ll win the round and advance.

It's amusing that he's facing Gawain, especially since this is the knight that taught him how to joust. Not that each of them hadn't taken their turn with him in the training lists, but Gawain was the one that had spent the most time. Now, his heart matches the tempo of the horse's gait, the heavy churning of the earth beneath his hooves. His arm extends, locks into place and the heavy lance is aimed directly for Gawain's center of gravity. Zach takes a deep breath and waits for the hit.

The crowd nearly riots when Gawain starts to pitch backward. His whole body knocks in the saddle as Zach’s lance shatters, the force pushing Gawain’s own lance upward so it misses Zach’s shoulder completely. And even better? Your kerchief is proudly flying in the wind where it’s been tied to your husband’s wrist for luck. “He did it!” You’re on your feet, applauding and whistling over the crowd with Isolde doing the same on your other side. “HE DID IT!”

The adrenaline is better than any chemical high Zach could have gotten in modern times. Pumping his fist in the air, he flips his visor up and finds you cheering in the crowd before he turns his horse around and makes for the man still sprawled on the ground.

“Well earned.” Gawain groans, tossing his helmet aside as he struggles to his feet. Full suits of armor are no joke, weight wise. “I will thank you to do the same to our good sir Lancelot in the final round. His pride could use a little dirt smudged across it.”

Zach grins at the man. "If Lancelot murmurs half the refuse that comes out of your mouth, I will." He promises with a chuckle. "Well matched."

“Where do you think I learned the habit?” The older man laughs, shaking his head as he picks up his helmet and waves his victor toward the stands to claim his win.

His chest is puffed with pride as he makes his way towards the king and queen, although his eyes are firmly on you. Watching your happy expression, the pride in his victory makes his aching body straighten in his saddle as he nods in difference to the king.

“Well matched!” Arthur is nothing short of amused, pounding his fist on the arm of his chair. “We may have you return Sir Gawain’s lessons back to him!”

“Before you take your place with today’s victors, I believe you have a token to receive.” The queen cannot help but smile, beckoning you forward to give your knight his kiss in reward for his victory.

"My queen, that is a token I am most eager to receive." Zach tells her, nudging his horse forward so you can lean out over the rails and press your lips to his, inciting the crowd to go wild again.

“Fucking amazing baby.” You manage to murmur in his ear before he sits up in his saddle again, and you are positively beaming the whole time.

When he's done, he motions his horse off the field of play and tosses the reins to the boy who had been assigned to him as his own squire. Armor was heavy and he is slow to dismount the horse, not wanting to repeat the time he had landed on his ass when he was too cocky.

The thundering of hooves across the field is a sound no one is particularly surprised by, considering how many horses and knights are nearby, but the riders are what draws attention from the crowd. A young woman, no older than her early twenties, in dirty but clearly expensive clothing pulls her mount to a halt on the edge of the lists - only stopping when a small group of armed guards bars her path. The other rider is a slightly older woman in beautiful but not as costly garments, which immediately identifies her as a lady in waiting of some kind. Gareth is nearest, half out of his armour and interrogating the strange woman who is belligerently insisting on being let through, if you’re reading her body language correctly. After a hurried exchange, Gareth orders the guards aside and leads the lady’s horse into the tournament field without preamble. “My lord uncle,” he bows his head when he brings the woman to approach Arthur. “Forgive the interruption of your celebration, but this lady requires aid from the knights of Camelot.”

Zach doesn't bother doing more than pulling his helmet off his head as he starts striding over. Gawain right beside him as the knights that were preparing to joust next ride over on their horses and form a neat circle around the woman standing in front of the king.

She curtsies deeply, all the way to the grass, before daring to look up but then she has no fear in meeting Arthur’s eyes. “Your Majesty, I have traveled far to beg the aid of your Knights of the Round Table.” Her stature and colouring aren’t too far off from yours, even her curves seem to match your own. It’s like looking in a very odd mirror. “I am the Lady Lynette of Lyonesse and my sister is being held captive against her will by four knights who have slain all who have attempted to free her. I have come to you a desperate woman, sire. My kingdom requires Camelot’s help.”

Over the months, Zach has gotten to know the look that is in Gareth's eyes. Not only does the man find Lady Lynette appealing, but he is also moved by her plight. As are the other knights. "My king," Gareth immediately steps forward, just like Zach was anticipating. "Allow my offer of my sword in aid to Lyonesse in your name to be accepted."

You’re doing the very best nonverbal scream your eyes are capable of, desperately trying to catch Zach’s attention from the stands. LYNETTE OF LYONESSE IS THE WOMAN FROM GARETH’S LEGEND. Jesus Christ…She’s actually here, looking for help with her sister just like the stories. It’s insane how it’s actually happening. Right now, you just need Zach to understand what you’re telling him. Arthur seems less affected, no doubt having heard plenty of requests for aid before and not all of them genuine. “One man against four will not save the lady’s kingdom.” He says plainly. “But let us not sport when a noble lady is in distress. The tournament will adjourn and we will speak of these matters in private.”

Zach notices your wide, excited eyes and the others move towards the castle and instead moves towards you. "What is it?" He asks when you almost fling yourself over the railing in your excitement.

“It’s her!” You hiss, throwing your arms around his middle now that he’s out of his armour. “Arthur has to let Gareth go. They’re supposed to fall in love on the journey.”

Zach hums, lifting a brow and smirking at you. He had noticed the similarities between you and Lady Lynette as well. "Seems as though Gareth has a type." He teases, leaning in and kissing your lips. "I'll offer my sword too." He promises you.

“Baby, be careful.” You aren’t surprised that he would offer, but it’s not exactly thrilling to you when you know what they will be walking into. “If I remember the story correctly, the four brothers that have Lynette’s sister are basically psychopaths. She’s going to be all kinds of fucked up when you finally find her.” Yeah, the prospect of Zach going isn’t thrilling. But this is exactly the kind of thing he feels compelled to do while you’re here - maintaining the timeline and the legends to come. “Lancelot is supposed to go, too. It’s always Gareth and Lancelot, but the third knight changes from story to story.”

"So this time it will be me, Gareth and Lancelot." He tells you before he presses a kiss to the crown of your head. "Go talk with Lady Lynette, Lady Wellison." He orders you with a grin. "Put in a good word for blondie."

“I can’t believe this is real.” You kiss him again quickly before running after the entourage of ladies headed up by Guinevere and Lynette.

******

Zach strides into the room where the Round Table is kept, still feeling his heart skip a beat at the sight. Unable to believe that he is allowed to sit at this table. Now, the rest of the knights are already seated, and Zach takes his place. "I will go with Gareth." Lancelot leans back in his chair and looks at Arthur. "Although it would be more prudent to have three."

Zach speaks up before Gawain can. "I will go." He offers. "I will lend my sword to this worthy cause."

Arthur’s eyebrow raises in his newest knight’s direction, pleased that he is eager to prove his place at the Round Table is deserved. “Your wife will be singing sad songs for missing you,” he half-teases, but nods all the same.

“Sire, I must protest.” Sir Kay huffs in his seat, toying with the cuffs of his sleeves in that way that betrays his annoyance to anyone who knows him. “Gareth is barely out of the kitchens and Zachariah is a carpenter. While I respect your choice in offering them seats at this Table, they are no choice for such a quest.”

Zach lifts a brow at the other knight. "I am to assume that you wish to take on the quest yourself?" He asks pointedly.

“Myself, Lancelot, and Gawain would dispatch with the lady’s captors much faster, I am sure.” As one of the older knights at the Table, Kay’s ego has inflated along with his reputation, and Arthur knows it. Not that Kay had not earned his legacy, but that was many years ago.

"Seeking to leave the taverns for so long?" Zach snarks, smirking at the older knight. "I have yet to see you in the sparring ring since I have been training."

Kay’s eyes narrow. “Experience is earned, boy.”

“Enough.” Arthur holds up one hand to silence the dispute, looking to Sir Kay with an expression of twisted amusement. “Experience is earned.” He agrees. “Which is why Gareth and Zachariah should be the ones to go. How are they to earn what is not afforded to them?” Kay looks like he’s going to sputter in protest, but Arthur shakes his head. “Lancelot shall accompany them. He speaks the lady’s native tongue.”

Sir Kay huffs and Zach sends Gareth a smirk, knowing the other knight’s opinion of the older man. He had long since stopped training and his belly hung over his belt. “Perhaps when we return, Sir Kay, you can demonstrate that noble experience.”

“You will be sending a plea for me to join you within a week.” The older man predicts, looking incredibly sour.

"I will be sending word for Gawain to stay away from my wife." Zach counters, smirking over at the man in question.

“If the lady desires comfort in your absence, who am I to resist such an honourable service?” Gawain smirks back, thoroughly enjoying angering Kay in the midst of the banter.

"Shall I knock you from your horse again before I leave?" Zach chuckles, knowing the man wouldn't touch you. And even if he tried, you would reject him. Sir Kay flushes an angry red, huffs again in his unhappiness that the conversation has not turned the way he wished it. "Make sure you are too sore to be in any lady's bed?"

“It may not be a bad idea.” Gareth jokes, noting with amusement the way Kay has turned the colour of a summer rose.

Sir Kay looks at Arthur, as if to demand that the king scold the younger knights. Unhappy that he feels his place of respect has been usurped since Gareth has come to the table and then this American's arrival further making Arthur look towards the younger knights rather than his wisdom.

The king all but rolls his eyes at the pout painted across Kay’s face, and he knocks his fist on the table to return order to the conversation. “Lancelot, Gareth, and Zachariah will leave with the Lady Lynette and her handmaiden at first light. Tonight, we will feast to the lady’s health and honour.”

Zach is smug when he stands with the other knights and all of them nod respectfully to Arthur before the group is basically dismissed. Gareth comes over to Zach and claps him on the back. "Are you sure you wish to leave your wife's bed so soon after being wed?" He asks, raising a brow at the man who had married his Dandelion.

Chuckling, Zach sends Gareth a smug look. "I could not help but not how becoming the lady is." He tells the blonde knight. "And as a Lady, she would be worthy of a prince of Camelot. Of course, I need to help make sure you don't mess it up."

******

The feast is long and fairly tense - Lynette doesn’t seem to be returning Gareth’s gentle overtures in any way and you’re prepared to completely blame the fact that Kay got drunk at supper and told her all about how he was a kitchen servant as a boy, when his mother wanted him to learn humility - though Kay conveniently left out the last detail.

Zach bars the door behind you after dismissing Ava for the night and giving instructions to his squire so he can be ready in the morning. The last thing either of you needs to worry about tonight is keeping the bath water hot while Zach soaks his aches from the joust. “You might have your work cut out for you,” you groan sympathetically.

"Fucking Kay." Zach hisses and groans as he lowers himself into the bath. "He got his fucking feelings hurt because Arthur chose us to go on the quest. Like he really wanted to leave a steady supply of mead." He snorts, leaning back against the wooden tub with a sigh.

“At least the girls at the tavern would have gotten a break if he were going.” You shake your head as you start to undress. “Nobody leers uncomfortably quite like Sir Kay.”

Snorting, Zach keeps his eyes on you as you strip out of your clothes. "I noticed someone leering from the stands today." He comments with a half smirk on his face, highlighting the dimple you love to kiss. "I think I have a fan. She's a pretty thing too."

“Oh yeah?” You know he’s teasing you, but sometimes it’s more fun to play along. “Do I have to kick someone’s ass for eye fucking my man?”

"Maybe..." He jokes, biting his lip and dragging his eyes up and down your nude body. "She's a sexy thing that I'd love to get my hands on. Might have to take a mistress, baby. Sorry." He sends you a playful pout.

“Over my dead body.” You shoot him an amused smirk. “Of course I enjoyed watching you, baby. And I love that I don’t have to hide it because we’re married.” Even three months later, it still sends a little shot of endorphins through your system when you say it out loud.

"We are married, aren't we?" He smirks at the knowledge that you are his. "And tonight I have to make sure that I fuck you good enough that you won't have Gawain warm my side of the bed while I am gone." He tells you with a wink.

“You know he only says that shit to get you all riled up.” A few times you had been nearby to hear the smack talk, and watched the Pendragon nephew’s face morph into an evil smirk whenever he got under Zach’s skin.

"Absolutely." He is completely aware of why Gawain loves to torment him with talk of seducing his wife. Even if he does give in to the petty, childish need to rise to the bait. For him, it was just like shit talking with the other men he had served with. "He's a masochist."

“And I only have eyes for you, dear…” You sing the line softly, leaning over to kiss him as he soaks in the tub. Even if a naked man was literally dropped into your lap you wouldn’t touch them unless it was Zach Wellison himself.

"Oh, I have no doubt baby." He assures you, reaching up to cup your cheek. "Although I will ask Gawain to check on you. Unless you would rather stay in the castle while I'm gone? Or ask Ava to stay with you?"

“I would rather stay in our home.” Reaching behind you, you pull up the foot stool from your chair to position behind his head at the end of the tub so you can give his sore shoulders a rub down. “I’ll probably go back to what I used to do. Take my daily walks and practice my songs in the courtyard. Maybe I’ll go around to see Isolde and the baby a little more often.”

"You don't - oh fuck - have to do this, baby." He groans and his chin hits his chest as you thumbs dig into his shoulders. "Jesus." He hisses quietly. "Gawain hits like a fucking hammer by the way."

“Let me pamper you a little.” The knots in his back have been even worse than usual this week, thanks to the tournament. “You could be gone for months and I only want you taking happy memories with you.”

"Oh baby, all I have with you is happy memories." He promises, his shoulders relaxing with your insistence that you want to do this. "You are spoiling me."

“I’ll miss you.” That’s easy to admit, and you drop a kiss on the top of his head. “But I’m really so proud of you.”

“I’ll miss you too.” He reaches up and catches your hand so he can tug it forward and press a kiss to it. “Hopefully it won’t be too long.”

“Wales to eastern France on horseback isn’t a quick trip.” Leaning down, you trail kisses along his shoulders in the wake of your hands. “Just promise me you’ll take care of yourself. I need you to come home to me.”

“I will come back to you, I promise.” He hums happily. “Remember, we know it’s now Gareth and Lady Lynette fall in love.”

“Yeah, but it will still be dangerous.” And as much as he fears messing with the timeline, you now fear something happening to him on this question. “I know you’re a Marine and a Knight of the Round Table, but I love you and I know I’m going to worry.”

“I know baby.” He does know. He’s honestly going to worry about you while he’s gone. “Think of this as a deployment if we were back in LA.” He wishes he had the conveniences of modern equipment right now. He’d be back in three days. “But right now, I want to clean up and take my beautiful bride to bed.”

“You say that as if I know anything about being a military wife. Although I guess this is how I’m finding out.” Soothing his shoulders where your fingers have dug into and rubbed out those angry knots, you place more kisses along his skin. “Finish up, baby. And then we can ravish each other until we pass out.”

“Yes ma’am.” He smirks and picks up his cloth and the soap. He wants nothing more.

******

The days and weeks have dragged by since Zach, Gareth, and Lancelot left with Lynette. You were out of bed and watching with other members of the court when they left at daybreak weeks ago, and you fully admit to being a grumpy, miserable lump the whole time. Isolde has been a wonderful friend, though, and once again your time is being spent in the afternoon sun with a picnic spread out on a blanket round you while her small baby alternates between crawling around the two of you and napping in his basket. When the little boy grows restless, you sing to him and he settles again, allowing Isolde the peace to rest her pregnant self in pillows in the grass. She’s ecstatic to be with child again, and it makes you sigh a little more than you want to admit.

"You are missing your Zachariah, are you not?" Isolde's hand is resting on her stomach, that secret smile on her face making her look like she holds the answers to the world's problems. "I have noticed that you seem to be quite unlike the normal Dandelion we have come to know."

“I’m sorry.” You know you’ve been out of sorts lately, and you would hate to think you have taken any of it out on her when she’s been such a good friend. “I miss him immensely. But that is no excuse to sulk.”

"Do not fret." She waves away your concern and sends you a sly smile. "I understand the desire to celebrate with your husband when you find out such news." She confides. "I shall not breathe a word of it until you have told Sir Zachariah."

“News?” The strawberry in your hand stops halfway to your mouth and you frown at her slightly. “I have received no news.”

Isolde gives you a searching look before her eyes widen. "Oh, you haven't realized it yourself." She murmurs, a grin beginning to form. "Then I shall keep my tongue."

“Isolde, you can’t do that.” One of the things you love about your friend is her playfulness, but when she has that sly look on her face it’s a little more than playing. “What is it that you think you know?”

"Dandelion..." She bites her lip and pauses for a moment. "You are with child."

“Oh,” you laugh, waving off that concern as completely ridiculous. Merlin gave you the same remedy he gives to the girls at the House. You can’t be. “No, that’s impossible, I’m afraid.”

Her gaze is full of doubt and a splash of sympathy. "Then you are unaware." She reaches for her own berry. "I shall speak no more on it."

Unaware. Unaware? A slight panic rolls through you as you start to consider the horrible implication. You had been sick last month, but the aches and pains and upset stomach had just felt like a bad flu. There have been a few times that the smell of supper has turned your stomach but honestly game meats have strong smells and it’s not exactly what you’re used to. Sure you’ve been kind of gassy lately, but cutting out the booze and switching to drinking more herbal teas has helped a little. And yes you’ve been eating more than usual lately but that’s just a stress reaction to Zach being gone and you being constantly worried. Right? Oh god. When was the last time you had your period?? You can feel the blood drain from your face when you turn back to Isolde. “W-what…signs? Have you noticed?” You’re terrified to even ask, but if it’s true? If it’s true, you need to know.

Isolde reaches out and gives your hand a gentle squeeze. "You have not had your monthly. Then just the other day you were complaining about your gowns not fitting in the bust and it was making your breasts sore." She explains gently, aware that you are undoubtably uneasy. "There is the way that mutton turned your stomach, when it was your favorite meal recently." She gives you a sweet smile. "The same things that I have noticed in myself before." Her other hand smooths over the tiny bump in her belly again.

It proves how much time you have come to spend with the younger woman in the last few months, but it is also terrifying. Not fucking with the timeline is Zach’s absolute top concern, and that was the explicit reason for wanting to pursue birth control methods in the first place. The idea that Zach might not want this baby - if they exist - makes the dread churn in your stomach. “I have to go.” You tell her, aware of the suddenness and slight rudeness in just jumping up and going, but you need to go see Merlin now. “I will send Ava to bring things back to your chambers for you. I—” you shrug lamely. “I’m sorry, but I must know if this is true.”

"I— I apologize." Isolde frowns and pushes herself to her feet. "I just— I believed the notion of waiting to have children to be a humor shared between you and Sir Zachariah."

“We intended to wait much longer.” How can you even explain the level of panic that is starting to close in on you? The idea that you don’t belong here? Something could happen to the timeline because you trusted a wizard. And if that isn’t the stupidest thing you’ve ever thought in your life, you don’t know what is. “You have nothing to apologize for, my friend. I promise you.”

She watches silently as you nearly flee her presence and gives a small sigh, wishing she hadn't mentioned it and ruined a perfectly lovely afternoon.

Your only regret, as you practically storm across the castle grounds, is that murdering Merlin would irrevocably fuck up the timeline. You can’t believe you were actually naive enough to believe a cup of tea and some magic words would do the same as twenty-first century medicine. What were you thinking? Zach is going to be fucking furious when he gets home…and it will be entirely your fault. The door to Merlin’s apothecary is mere yards away from your own front door, and you make no apologies about barging through it without knocking, knowing the old man is always hunched over his books and experiments this time of day.

“A word, sir.” It is not a question. You are not asking. This is a demand on your part - something you never do.

Merlin turns around, his face lighting up with delight when he sees you. "Ah, Lady Wellison, a visit for this old man?" He asks with a hum of approval. "What would you wish to discuss, medicines? I am researching the properties of the holly berry. I believe that I may be able to harness their properties very nicely."

“Oh, I have every intention of discussing your medicines.” You bite out, barring the door of his shop behind you.

"Truly?" He claps his hands and motions for you to sit down. "Which would you like to discuss?"

“The one you give monthly to the ladies who work at your favorite brothel.” You stare him down, not taking the seat he has offered. “The one you also give to me? I want to know exactly what is in it and what the words mean.”

He blinks at you innocently and tilts his head. "These herbs?" He gets up from his chair and walks over to the shelf to take a pot down to bring it back over to the table.

You practically wrench the lid off the pot, inhaling deeply before you stare into the vessel in abject horror. “This is what you give them?” Your throat is dry and you wish you could melt into the abyss - the herbs in this pot are completely different from what he gave you.

"Why of course!" He peers and at you, the tiniest twist to his lips barely evident. "Those are the herbs that are used. Which reminds me that I need to gather more dandelion root. Or is it truffles that I need?"

“This isn’t what you gave to me, old man.” It feels like steam is pouring out of your ears, but you don’t couch your anger for even a second.

"Isn't it?" He cocks his head at you and stares into your eyes without a hint of guile. "I am quite certain that I gave you the proper herbs for what you wanted."

“What I wanted was to prevent the conception of a child. Something you help women do every day.” Without realizing it, you have circled the table and are toe-to-toe with the man. “So why is that I am showing signs of being with child when you guaranteed me your mixture was foolproof?”

"My herbs are foolproof." He snaps his fingers and moves back to the shelf, taking the pot down that is right next to the empty space. "These herbs? Are they what you say I gave you?"

This is it. The dried primrose buds and little berries, the little white buds that look familiar, but you can’t place. The way the whole pot smells of clover. “This is it.” You’re shaking a little. “What is this? What does it do?”

"Oh my." He shakes his head and gives you his best impression of a forgetful old man. "This is my tea to help women become with child." He gives you a slight shrug of his shoulders. "Oops?"

“It. DOES. WHAT?” You practically knock over the pot as you recoil from it, feeling the sting of betrayal in the tears behind your eyes. It can’t be. This is literally your worst nightmare. He cannot have done this to you. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done??” You demand, swallowing the lump in your throat.

Merlin had not expected the tears. Slight anger, yes, but he also knew what you wanted. Your heart's deepest desires. Most may take him for a doddering old fool, he works hard to craft the illusion for those that might not let him close otherwise, but he does not miss much. "You needed to conceive in Camelot." His voice is clear, standing straight as he drops his act. "It was necessary."

“Necessary?” The way he changes in front of your eyes is like watching actors drop their character at curtain call. Like he’s an entirely different man. “What are you talking about?”

There is a small sigh, a slight push of his chest and he motions to the chairs, wanting you to sit. "Before you go back to Los Angeles, you needed to be carrying your husband's child. In order for your daughter to be born on time."

“What the fuck?” You stumble, trying to step backward but catching your slipper on the uneven slats of the floor. “How do you—?” You have never said anything besides ‘America’ about where you are from around anyone besides Zach, and definitely never said anything to anyone about planning to go home again. You and Zach still hadn’t agreed on when you talk to this old bastard and now he’s talking about the timeline like he knows everything? “Daughter?” God that makes your shoulders drop and the breath punch out of your chest. You are pregnant…

"Sit." His voice is harder, more commanding than he has ever used with you before but he does not want you to hurt yourself. "I will make us some tea - just herbal tea, and I will explain."

You drop into the nearest chair, barely registering it under you. “How do you know w-where I’m from?” Your voice is quiet - breaking from worry and more tears behind your eyes. “I never told anyone that…”

"Because I brought you here." Merlin admits simply, turning to swing the full pot over the fireplace so the water can boil. He turns back to you and raises and eyebrow at your wide eyes and open mouth. "Why else would you be brought to Camelot from 2020, I believe?" He hums, chuckling to himself. "Fascinating time, simply marvelous."

“I’ve been wondering that for a year.” Truth be told, you stopped wondering after Zach arrived. You stopped worrying then, too. Once you were together, the worries seemed to matter less. “It was all you?” But that means… “You brought Zach here, too?”

His grin is self-satisfied. "Of course!" He comes back over and puts the pots back in their respective spots and takes down the pot that is simply chamomile and clove to bring back over to the table. "Zach was harder to grasp, due to his circumstances."

As soon as Merlin is near the table again, your hand seems to take on a life of its own - reeling back and fully slapping the devious, conniving wizard across the face. “What right did you have? Plucking us out of our reality and pulling us through a library book? For what? Are we toys to you?”

His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline and his hand covers the stinging flesh of his cheek. He hadn't expected the slap, even if he knew he deserved it. "Not toys." He assures you. "As I have pledged my service to Arthur Pendragon, I found myself compelled to correct the path of the last remaining descendant of his line, so that it may not end."

Your eyes widen again, and the slight feeling of butterflies in your stomach morphs into abject horror. Are you…the last Pendragon? A hammer hits you all at once that you can’t shake, and actually makes you nearly vomit. Gareth is your blood relative. You had sex with your blood relative? “I’m…?”

"Zach is Arthur's last descendant." Merlin watches you nearly sag in relief. "I would not have allowed your relationship with his nephew to become that close if it had been you, my dear."

“So…why me, then?” It’s so much to absorb but it’s such a relief to be able to talk about, even if Merlin isn’t exactly on your list of most trustworthy humans right now.

"I understand you don't trust me, Dandelion—" Merlin pauses and goes back over to the fireplace to pull the pot away and bring it over to the table to measure scoops of the herbs into it to steep. "Your paths were meant to cross before now. However, with the loss of the knights - Marines - that Zach lost in war, he changed fate, much more seriously than he would ever know if I had not stepped in."

“So you can just…see the future?” Maybe you fell on the way out to meet Isolde for your picnic today and you hit your head and you’re in a coma. That would make more sense than the conversation right now. Accept that the scent of the tea in front of you is calming your stomach and you doubt you would hallucinate nausea or the absence of it.

Merlin clicks his tongue and stands up again. Walking over to another small table and picking up a bowl that is covered with a cloth and carrying it over to set between the two of you. “I have the gift of sight, though it does not mean it will happen, as what occurred before.” He whips the cloth off to reveal an alabaster basin, runes engraved on the sides, with a kaleidoscope of shimmering colors on the inside. Similar to the inside of a pearl. Water pools in the basin. “Look for yourself.” The old man touches one long finger to the surface of the water, causing ripples that churn the water until it starts to morph and form a picture right before your eyes:

Three years ago.

You gasp when you recognize yourself in the image - your hair was shorter then and you wore it differently. The makeup you’re wearing is something that was for your image and you had hated. And the dress - the dress you have on as you sing on stage at the one real gig you ever headlined in LA, well, you had bought it specially for that night.

You try to move slightly, lift your head to ask Merlin a question, but instead to you seem to tumble headfirst into what could have been.

******

The bar is crowded, lights still up and Zach grins, slapping his hand across Brandon’s chest as he surveys the scene. “This is going to be good man.” He tells him. “Thanks for telling me about this.” He has poured through the lineup and one particular woman jumped out at him. He was interested in hearing her sing. “This is better than just going to a club and getting drunk.” Brandon snorts and nods in agreement. “Let’s go get a table. And a fucking beer.” After eight solid months of no alcohol on deployment, it’s time to let loose and relax a little. “First day of leave, right?”

This is so different from how you remember that gig. You had been scared shitless, actually headlining this tiny club for the first and only time ever. You had been over the toilet in the bathroom, vomiting your nerves just seconds before walking out on stage with a bottle of water in your hand and your guitar around your torso. Your keyboard was slightly crooked, and it made the light hit your eyes at a painful angle. This time, in this version of what might have been, when you looked out into the crowd halfway through your second song, he is there. Zach, at a table of his friends, smiling up at you with wide eyes and that expression painted on his face that you now associate with pure love. He was supposed to be here?

He has a beer and a whiskey sitting in front of him, half gone when you walk out. You were even prettier than the headshot the website had posted, and fuck that dress you are wearing has him leaning back so he can discreetly adjust from where his raging hormones have already given him chub. “Jesus, Z, you’re already taking her to bed in your mind, aren’t you?” Brandon chuckles, making Zach turn his head and shot the man a finger.

“Fuck off.” He hisses, not even embarrassed in the slightest. They all knew each other’s porn habits. Brandon went for tall, willowy women with no tits, Zach went for your body type. Zero shame on either man’s preference.

It’s seriously bizarre, this feeling of being along for the ride in your own body. You can’t control any of what this past incarnation of you is doing or saying, but you know how much better it goes than it actually had in real life. Zach sitting there with his buddy applauding and whistling loudly gives you the extra boost to give a stellar performance, and this version of you goes out to the bar after performing with a wide smile instead of the gloomy look of misery you’d really had.

Zach is craning his neck so much to keep his eye on you that Brandon starts snickering. “Go man.” He finally huffs, shaking his head and sending Zach a knowing look. “I’m gonna watch the next act but go buy her a drink.” Zach’s grin is quick and he leaps out of his chair to hurry through the crowd and nudge his way to the bar beside you. “Hey— uh,” He waits until you turn towards him, flashing you a smile. “You were fantastic. Can I buy you a drink?”

“Uh…I…yeah.” You can feel yourself nod, as if you’re possessing your own body like some kind of bizarre ghost. “Yeah, they do a really good house sangria here...if that’s uh…if that’s, ya know, your thing…” Fucking awkward. The old you is so hesitant with him, it makes you laugh in your own head when you think about how brazen you were here.

Zach gives you another grin, like a happy puppy who was just petted for being a good boy. He turns and catches the bartender’s attention. “Can I get a glass of the house sangria for the pretty lady and a Bud Light?” He asks, turning back to make sure that it was what you actually wanted.

Your answering smile is flushed but beaming, something you swear only Zach is capable of making you feel. “You were sitting in the second row.” There’s no use pretending you didn’t see him - you had practically been singing to him the whole set.

“Yes, I was.” Zach leans against the bar and gives you his whole attention. Eyes on yours before they roam your face and coming back to your orbs. “I enjoyed every song.” He admits. “Honestly wished the third one was twice as long.” The bartender comes back over and Zach hands him his Military ID. “Thanks man, can I open a tab?” He asks him. “Hoping I might be buying a couple of more drinks.”

He was still in. We were supposed to meet while he was still in… “You liked it?” You can hear yourself asking as the bartender walks away. “I don’t usually write love songs.” But you will…you know you will. You’ve written so many since meeting him.

“You should.” He slides the glass of wine over to you and picks up his beer bottle. “It’s better than a lot of the popular ones on the radio.” He tilts his head and watches you struggle to accept the compliment. “Seriously, my buddies wore out Taylor Swift’s Red while we were deployed but your song is better.”

You grin behind your glass as you take your first sip. “Next time I’m having a bad day I’m going to enjoy the mental image of a bunch of big bad Marines sitting around listening to T Swift and it’ll cheer me right up.” His eyebrow quirks slightly and you motion to his arm - the bottom of his tattoo poking out from under his t-shirt sleeve. “You on leave?”

Zach nods, lifting his hand to scrub the back of his head, the razor-sharp cut rasping against his palm. “We got back from Afghanistan Monday.” He tells you with a grin. “First night out on the town.”

“And of all the gin joints in all the world, you walk into mine?” Laughing inside your own head, even you have to admit that that is exactly the kind line Zach loves. Hearing yourself flirt with him is surreal but so comforting. This is your Zach - even back then, he would have been, too.

“Not a coincidence.” He promises with a grin. “Brandon, my buddy, told me about tonight and I bought tickets while we were still in the sandbox.” He tells you with an air of confidence as he takes a sip of his beer. “Though, you’re prettier than your headshot.”

You stare before you can stop yourself, snapping your mouth shut when you realize it’s hanging open. “You…you don’t mean…you came here to hear me?”

“Yeah.” He admits that easily. “There were other acts that we knew we would like, but I was looking forward to hearing you sing.” He gives a small chuckle and sends you a wink. “That’s okay, right beautiful?”

“Y-yeah.” You nod, but you’re sure you look completely shocked because you’ve never been great at hiding your emotion. “I just…you might be the only person ever to do that.”

“You keep preforming like that, I won’t be the last.” He is completely sure of that. “As long as I’m your first and most special I’m willing to share.”

“You have a bet with your buddy that you can set me on fire with embarrassment or something?” The tips of your ears are burning, all the way through your cheeks and down your neck and you have to wonder if he can feel it or something as you take another drink. “Because you’re very close to winning, if you do.”

He snickers, biting his lip and deciding the go for it. He leans in and sends you a smoldering look. “I’d rather you be on fire because of me touching you, beautiful.”

******

You feel a tug between your shoulders, a force pulling you out of the dark club and away from Zach, until you’re slumped backward in the chair in Merlin’s apothecary once more. “Holy shit…” With the way your mind is reeling, your glad you’re already sitting down.

"The week before he was to meet you, Zach's friend was killed and he did not go to your performance, obviously." Merlin tells you, his hand on your shoulder and he presses the cup of tea into your hand. You are not used to this sort of thing like he is. "You were supposed to meet that night and be together from then on."

“I don’t understand.” Shaking your head, you sip at the tea you’ve been given and swear you can almost taste sangria like a faint memory. “You just…look into the future? Watch out for missteps?”

"I have kept an eye on Zach since he is the last living descendant of Arthur." Merlin gives a small shrug. "My own line also keeps their eyes out, have for centuries."

"Except..." Your hand moves to your stomach, somehow even more acutely aware of the entire situation and how it pertains to those jars of herbs on his shelf. "Except he's not anymore, is he? Or he won't be in a few months. You made sure of that."

"Your child was supposed to be." Merlin assures you, nodding at your stomach. "This all, bringing you here, was to put the timeline back where it was supposed to be."

"Why does it matter when she's born?" Merlin had said something about your daughter being born on time, but it's just one more cryptic piece of the insane puzzle that you don't quite get. "Why does it matter to the timeline other than the fact that you're trying to preserve the family line?" Which is the most medieval bullshit you've ever heard.

Merlin sighs and rolls his eyes for how suspicious you are. "Because your daughter will be very important to world." He points his finger at you. "You need to not tell her this. They don't call it kings, it is – president?" He asks, tilting his head curiously. "She becomes the leader of America when she is 38 years old."

"President?" You look down at your own stomach in disbelief, realizing you haven't noticed any real change in your body because of the extra pounds that you hate so much in the first place. It would be impossible for you to be any more than three months pregnant, and the physical changes that a thinner woman might have noticed simply aren't there. You already dread to think that you haven't been able to take proper precautions - there are no such thing as vitamins here - or see a goddamn doctor. "Merlin, we can't stay here." It's obvious, of course, but now it's like a slap in the face. "Zach and I— we have to go back...but we have no goddamn idea where he is..."

"He will be back in twenty days." Merlin tells you with an innate sense of surety. "He will be victorious in his mission and come back with Lancelot and Gareth and Lady Lynette, all of them in high spirits."

"You were just never going to say anything, were you?" Somehow you're just as sure of that as Merlin is of Zach's return.

"I am a doddering old fool, remember?" Merlin tells you with his eyebrow arched and a slight smirk on his craggy face. "You would have returned to Los Angeles, believing that you had experienced a miracle that neither of you could rationalize."

"Jesus Christ." Sagging back in the chair, you pinch the bridge of your nose between two fingers and blow out a long, slow breath. "So that's it? You could have sent us back any time you wanted, but you had to make sure I was pregnant first?"

"You never asked to be sent back." Merlin reminds you. "I believe the two of you quarreled over that the first week he was here."

You huff slightly, taking a sip of the soothing drink in front of you. "I love it here," you admit freely. "I bargained with him for us to stay just through the summer, and then we would come to you and ask if you knew a way." It seems so silly now. Now that you know Merlin could have snapped his fingers any time and just sent you home. "Zach was convinced you would know how when we were ready to ask."

Smirking, Merlin leans back and snaps his fingers, making fire flame from his fingertips. "Because I demonstrated a fraction of my abilities for him." He chuckles and snaps them again, so the flame disappears. "I needed him to stay aware of his ability to go home. He is also becoming comfortable here. His true self is emerging."

"No wonder he gets along with the Pendragon boys so well." That makes you shake your head, almost laughing a little, and an amused little smile crosses your lips. "They're family."

"Yes they are." He smiles with you, pride radiating from his eyes. "I did not bring you here to punish you, you should have been with him before the turn his fate took. Both of you bringing out the best in one another. If it had happened, you would be a - what's the word - a celebrated songwriter. Quite well known."

“Well, that won’t be happening.” It’s impossible for you to wrap your mind around that idea, but your head snaps back up to find the old man’s eyes watching you. “Or will something bad happen to her if I don’t?” Your hand is still on your stomach, cradling it protectively.

He is extremely overjoyed at your already protectiveness of the babe in your belly. "Your future is still possible, if you wish it." He tells you vaguely. "Would you prefer to know?"

“You brought me here explicitly to become her mother.” The more you say it - directly talk about the baby you didn’t yet know existed - the more real it all becomes. “I want to do whatever is actually going to help her. Be best for her. So…yes.” You nod, forcing yourself to be certain even though it’s scary. “I prefer to know.”

"When you go back to the time you come from, you will be returned to where you left." Merlin tells you. "You will learn that you have been missing for nearly two years and in that time, have inherited a cabin in - Maine?" His tongue rolls over the foreign word. "You will help your husband start his woodworking workshop and you will continue to write your ballads while you raise four children." He pauses and clicks his tongue. "I will also be keeping his unique chamber pot when you leave." He jokes.

“But it’s not important that I go back to singing as a career?” Not that you had ever had any success on that front, but if you’re staring down the barrel of being a mother of four, then a life on the road isn’t what you want at all.

Merlin shakes his head. "You sing for pleasure; you earn coin from the music that you write." He gives you a small smile, softening at the future he foresees. "You will have a happy life, one that is to be envied. And you bring your children to Wales often, though it is far different in your time." He chuckles. "My own descendant keeps track of you very nicely."

“And Zach is happy?” It is insane that all of this is just out there waiting for you, but since all of this is fairly insane, right now only the most important things matter. And the most important things are Zach and your future children.

“He will have moments where he is not. Just as you will. But his wife is his rock, his steady constant, as he is yours.” Merlin promises. “The world around you changes but the love you have for each other never wavers.”

“The world around us can change in the blink of an eye.” You murmur, sighing softly. It had happened to you once already very literally, and it will again when you are sent back. For now, though, your mind is fairly full of facts that are not easy to digest, and you need some time to process them. “I should go.” The legs of your chair scrape on the wooden floor. “I need to apologize to Isolde for leaving her so abruptly and…and think about everything that you have told me.”

Merlin nods in understand and stands. "Please do not be angry with me for too long, Dandelion. I am an old fool who wanted the best for Zach. If I had not brought you back, you never would have met after that one chance."

“If you could not trust me with the truth, I wish you would have trusted him.” Zach’s complete faith in Merlin never wavered, and you know he would have been thrilled to know there was such a happy, fruitful life ahead of you. “But I will no longer think you a fool in any way, Merlin. You have known exactly what steps to take every stage of the way.”

"I did not say because he did not really want to know." Merlin gives you a small smile. "His heart beat for you the first time he locked eyes on in you in both fates." He tells you. "He was not willing to push you to leave until you wanted to."

“But you knew we needed to.” Standing again, you shake your head and move to the door to remove the bar. “You should have trusted him.” You tell him again, admittedly a little disappointed in the older man when Zach thinks so highly of him. In a day or two you’ll be able to forgive him, and think of the future as bright while you count the days until Zach comes home. For now, you need to find Isolde.

Merlin gives you a small nod and reaches for a small pot of herbs. "This will calm your belly." He tells you seriously. "I would never give you anything to hurt the babe in your belly."

There is a serious moment of hesitation before you take the pot from his hands, but with everything he has just said - and what he showed you - it’s hard to believe he would lie to you again. There is too much out in the open now. Too much truth. “Thank you.” Your voice is soft when you turn away, determined to find Isolde and get a little medieval pregnancy advice.

Merlin watches you go with a sigh. He knows you are upset at him, and perhaps he should have confided in you, but he was hoping that you would not find out. It would not change your fate to know what would happen, but he wanted you to experience it with joy.

******

The courtyard is abandoned when you return to the spot you had left, but it was a pipe dream to believe that Isolde would have stayed there beyond your leaving when you were the one who had talked her into going out today in the first place. You turn back to the castle, headed for her chambers instead, and simply hope that Tristan is not at home. You would prefer to apologize in private, and then let the news out slowly. It won’t be long now until you’re showing, so you would rather tell people on your own terms.

Humming, Isolde rocks the baby gently, smiling down at him while he suckles hungrily. Always wanting to cuddle when he is sleepy, it was good that you had left when you did. The knock on the chamber door surprises her but she calls out softly. "Come in."

“Isolde?” Poking your head inside, you smile at the sight of her sitting up in the rocking chair that Zach made for her. “I’m…I’m sorry I ran off. Is it okay if I come in?”

She smiles and nods, "Come in." She beckons you closer and looks down at the baby. "Did you accomplish your task?" She asks quietly, not wanting to pry but willing to listen if you needed to talk.

“In a manner of speaking.” You hadn’t at all gotten the answer you wanted, but at least you knew the truth now. As upset as you are with Merlin, you’re willing to admit that you believe him now. Entirely. “I—” Signing slightly, you set down the pot of herbs that you mean to share with her and scrub one hand down your face. “I was scared. Scared that you were correct. And…well, it seems that you are. So now I’m scared and feel a bit foolish for not believing my friend when she told me what she saw with her own eyes.”

Tutting, she shakes her head and you. "Do not be afeared of looking foolish." She tells you with a small laugh. "Do you not remember my denying being about to birth this precious little boy?"

“You were in labour for nearly an entire day.” Nothing could wipe that memory from your mind. It was as mesmerizing at it had been scary, for so many reasons. “The midwife had to forcibly remove you from the courtyard, if I remember correctly. You were trying to pick as many apples as you could to snack on later.”

"I was hungry and cook promised apple tarts if I picked enough!" She pouts with a smile. "Nevertheless, I know what denial is like, though it seems as if you have accepted it now."

“Merlin has confirmed your suspicion.” You nod a little, even though it’s still completely surreal to think of yourself as pregnant. You haven’t had time to process it yet. “The thing is…” You reach over, squeezing her hand gently. “You know that my husband and I had not planned on having children so soon. I have done nothing to prepare for it.

"It will not be difficult." She promises. "The other ladies and I will help you." She promises with a smile. "The only thing we need to make sure of right now is that you have gowns that do not hurt you."

“That would be nice.” At least you can rest easy that the extra munching isn’t what’s making you feel so bloated and making your clothes tight. “I suppose…I suppose I ought to tell the queen first? Is that the proper thing to do?” With three more weeks until Zach comes home, there is still plenty of time that you need to play by the rules.

“If you wish to.” Isolde knows your predicament and understands your wish not to upset the queen. “Though, she would not be upset if you wish to wait to speak to your husband. When he returns.”

“I have a feeling it will be obvious by then.” You swallow down the fact that you know exactly how long it will be. “Since we do not know when they will return, I would rather avoid any awkwardness with her Majesty.”

“She will be very happy for you.” Isolde promises. “I guarantee she will make a gown for the babe to be christened in.”

It twists in your chest, how you know that once again Isolde is right but not about something that makes you happy. It actually wrenches your heart to know that none of the people you have come to care so much about will ever meet your child. “She has already been so kind to me. All of you have. I could not possibly ask anything more of her.”

“She is fond of you and Sir Zachariah.” Isolde reminds you. She is not jealous of the connection; she has no interest in the intrigues of court and the queen is more than generous with her time. “She would not consider it asking.”

“She is an incredibly kind woman.” And the pant of missing her is already very real.

"Would you like me to accompany you to visit the queen?" She asks softly.

“Oh…” You exhale the breath you didn’t know you were holding. “That would be amazing.”

Smiling, she looks back down at the baby, eyes now drowsy and hums happily. "Let me put this one down for his nap and we shall visit her. Would you see if Arita is outside? She can sit with him."

“Of course.” Baby Tristan’s nurse is sitting just outside the doorway as she always does when Isolde is at home, with a bit of darning in her lap while she chats with one of the chamber maids. She simply smiles at the request to come inside, happy to take charge of the cuddly little one while you and Isolde take care of your business.

After she hands the baby off to Arita, Isolde smiles and motions you over to the wash basin while she cleans up. "Let me fix you hair." She gives a small giggle. "It is a bit of a mess and while I am sure the queen will not mind; I know you will."

“All of me is a mess,” you admit freely, though you’re grateful for the younger woman’s attention to detail. You absolutely would care if you went to the Queen’s receiving room looking as off kilter as you currently feel.

Isolde frowns and reaches for your hand. "Does being with child distress you?" She asks softly, your reaction to finding out is peculiar to her and she hopes she is wrong. "Will Sir Zachariah be angered?"

“Truthfully?” Your fingers dig into your eyes are you rub them, wishing you could just will away all this anxiety. “I do not know. He may be. This is…not what we planned. Not at all.”

"I don't believe that he will be upset. Life is full of surprises." Isolde reaches over and starts adjusting your hair to tame it back down. "Just like when you arrived here and then your husband followed one year later."

“Two of life’s biggest surprises.” And you can’t help but smile at that. Even if it was completely due to the actions of one ridiculous old wizard - Zach is still the best thing that ever happened to you. “It was ten months and thirteen days...” Not that you counted. Not at all.

Isolde titters and clicks her tongue happily as she steps back and admires her work. "Perfect. Now you are ready to visit the queen."

“And somehow you always look flawless. Someday you shall have to tell me your secret.” You squeeze the younger woman’s shoulder and motion for her to lead the way out of the room. Off to report the most unbelievable news of your life to your most unlikely friend.

******

“You will be fine.” Isolde whispers, as the two of you stand in front of the door of the Queen’s solar.

The herald at the door bows to Isolde and offers you a polite nod before announcing your presence. Guinevere is sitting in her favourite armchair with a book of hours open in her lap. “Your Majesty.” Your voice cracks and you have to remind yourself to breathe. “Please excuse our sudden interruption.”

Guinevere smiles and closes the book, setting it on the small table that Zach had crafted for her to set her tea on. “I am delighted to see you, my dear.” She steps forward and reaches for your hand. “And you as well Isolde.” She gives a small nod to the other woman. “Are you missing your husband?” She asks you softly. “When the men are away, it is natural the ladies must rally together.”

“I miss him horribly.” You have no problem admitting that. “Do you have a moment to receive us, your Majesty? I have…well, news. Of a personal nature.”

“You are welcome to come to me anytime.” The queen turns and gestures to the extra chairs that are positioned around her own. “Come, tell me this news.”

One of Guinevere’s many servants emerges from the shadows, laying two cups on the small table between the chairs you and Isolde now occupy and starting to fill them both with wine before you stop him. Avoiding drinking in Camelot is probably going to be the hardest part of all of this. “It became apparent to me earlier today.” You grasp Isolde’s hand gently. “With the help of our lovely friend…that I am…with child.”

The queen was bringing her cup to her lips and then she pauses. Frozen for a moment before her eyes flash with excitement and a wide smile splits her face. “That is wonderful!” She exclaims, setting down her goblet to jump up and rush over to wrap her arms around you in a crouched hug.

“Thank you, my lady.” You can’t help but put your arms around her in turn, Guinevere’s positivity always being infectious. “In truth I am still adjusting to the news.”

“How exciting!” She exclaims, pulling back and discreetly wiping a tear from her eyes. “Oh dear—” she frowns and clasps your hands. “With your dear husband gone, would you like to come stay in the castle again?”

“I do not wish to impose.” You know for a fact that the chamber you once occupied is now the quarters of a traveling merchant from Londinium, and Zach’s old room now belongs to a courtier.

“It would not be an imposition.” The queen tuts. “I understand if you wish to stay in your home, but there is a chamber available in this wing.” She declares. “Do not fret if you wish to have the safety of others around you while your Knight is away.”

“It…” You hate to admit it, you truly do, but the thought of being alone with a person growing inside you is slightly terrifying. “It would be a comfort, my lady. I cannot thank you enough for your continued kindness.”

She nods quickly, snapping her fingers to call one of the servants from the shadows forward. “Please find Ava and assist her in bringing Lady Wellison’s things to the castle.” She commands gracefully. “Have the others set up the green room.”

Isolde squeezes your hand in a very gentle I told you so, and you smile. “Of course, I am at your disposal. For however long I reside with you.”

She tuts and shakes her head. “You are with child.” She reminds you. “My husband, the king, will not be keeping you up all hours of the night for you to sing for him.”

“I will not shirk my duties.” The last thing you want is to give the impression of freeloading, especially from their majesties.

“It is not shirking your duties.” The queen tells you as she settles back into her chair. “You will no doubt perform, but he will insist that he not keep you up too late into the night.”

“We came only to deliver the news, your Majesty.” And now, of course, she has given you so much more. As Guinevere always does. “As usual, your kindness far outstrips all expectation. A fact that the Lady Isolde foresaw with ease when she volunteered to accompany me to share my news.”

Guinevere smiles and adjusts her dress, looking over at the other woman. "She knows how fond I am of having babies in the castle. This is something to be celebrated and your Zachariah would want you safe and cared for in his absence." There is also a brief pang of heartache for her own inability to carry a child, but she shoves that aside. This is about you and babe in your belly and your presence in court has been a balm to her nurturing soul.

The guilt of knowing that you will be leaving Camelot before your baby is born is something you’ll have to live with. Who knows how far along you even are? An entire trimester without proper pre-natal care when you’re carrying a future President? Nope - don’t get wrapped up in that detail right now or you’ll never get back on track. “I am afraid it will be quite a shock to him when he returns.”

"Do not fret." The queen comforts quickly. "I am sure that once the moment of shock passes, he will be overjoyed by the news." If he is not, she will talk to him. There will not be any form of abuse sent your way because he was not wanting a child just yet.

“I hope so.” The idea that Zach might not be excited about any of this makes you ache and feel slightly sick. Because the longer you sit with it, the happier you are about it. You’re going to have a baby with the love of your life - your husband. There isn’t a single thing that shouldn’t be joyful about that.

"We will need to start getting you some loose gowns made." The queen ticks off a practical list. "Start making baby clothes. I insist on making the christening gown." She tells you with a proud smile. "I have made one for all of my ladies’ little ones."

“Your Majesty, there truly is no—” Her hand in the air cuts you off, the gesture of a queen giving a command as much as a mother taking charge. You sigh a little, smiling inwardly to yourself. Guinevere will not be denied. It’s one of the things you admire about her. “As my lady wishes.” You acquiesce easily. There will be enough on your plate until Zach comes home. It will be well appreciated to have the support.

She smiles, one that tells you that she certainly knows that. "We shall get the ladies together and start making things while we take in the fresh air during the day." She decrees. "Especially since we know you are not talented with a needle." She teases slightly.

“I was never blessed in that way.” You have to laugh it off here - the fact that you can barely sew on a button - since sewing is such an essential skill. On the other hand, even most of the highborn ladies can’t write their own letters, so you have happily traded skills with them on more than one occasion.

“Some women are not.” Guinevere hums, not wanting to cause you any offense. She was thrilled to have another lady of learned abilities in her court.

“My mother embroidered beautifully.” For the life of you, you have no idea what possesses you to actually say it out loud - but the look on the Queen’s face says you absolutely did say it out loud.

“Oh, my dear.” Her eyes soften and she can see that you are distressed by the information, or the memory, she’s not quite sure which. From the way you speak, you must your mother terribly. “We will make sure it will be something that your mother would be proud of.” She promises.

“Apologies.” You press two fingers into the corners of your eyes to stave off any kind of overwrought reaction and try to shake it off. “The news has made me sentimental; it appears.”

“No apologies are necessary.” She murmurs quietly. “In my solar, you are welcome to all of your emotions. I would not have you missing your dear mother and feel remorse at expressing it.”

“It just feels silly,” you admit quietly. “My parents died when I was young. It’s not as though we had long discourses over my future marriage or children.” You certainly had with your godmother, but those feelings had soured over the years.

“Missing your loved ones is never silly, no matter your age.” She gives you a bittersweet smile. “My mother was…distant, but her mother— she was like a mother to me. More than my mother ever was. I miss her every day.”

Isolde smiles softly, reaching over to squeeze your hand in hers. “They are smiling on us, all of our mothers. And I am bold enough to think we have made them all very proud.”

“They would be.” Guinevere is adamant about that. “Just as proud of all of you as I am.” You and the other younger ladies are her children, caring about all of them the same as she would her own blood.

______

Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks

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My Masterlist!

#Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal character fanfiction #Pedro Pascal fanfic #Zach Wellison #Zach Wellison x reader #Zach Wellison x you #Zach Wellison x female reader #plus size rider #Brothers and Sisters #time travel au #Camelot #celebration fic #idiots in love

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thethirdamell · 3 years

Text

Problems

I wanted to do something for the 2021 Handers Gift Exchange (@handers-time - Thank you for setting this up.) so I wrote a tiny one-shot as an extra gift for @un-shit-yourself about Werewolf Hawke. I hope you like it! Ao3 Link

—

Hawke made a face. Hawke made a lot of faces, but Anders had never seen him make that particular face before. It looked downright feral, golden eyes gleaming in the dimly lit caverns of Darktown, a snarl curling his lip beneath his mustache and revealing impressively pointed teeth Anders may or may not have imagined sinking into his shoulder while Hawke fucked him silly right there in his clinic.

Anders didn’t think about it at first.

He mentioned, off-handedly, that Gallard had been giving him problems. A game of Wicked Grace gone wrong. Sure, maybe betting his ear hadn’t been the brightest idea, but Anders had more body parts than coin most days, so what else was he supposed to bet? He’d had a good hand - no, scratch that, he’d had a great hand - but Gallard had better, because Gallard cheated, and Anders knew Gallard cheated, but he’d played with Gallard anyway.

So, the ear. Anders rather liked his ears. They were where he kept his earrings, after all, and maybe it was greedy of him to want to keep both of them, but no one had ever accused him of being generous. No one except for Hawke, in that damned flirtatious way of his, smirking with one too many teeth about how if Anders was going to keep giving things away to refugees he could sure use a shirt just like the one Anders was wearing now if he wanted to take it off.

Anders wasn’t sure how that conversation had swung back around to Gallard, but swung it had, and Hawke had made a face. Hawke made a lot of faces, but Anders had never seen him make that particular face before. It looked downright feral, golden eyes gleaming in the dimly lit caverns of Darktown, a snarl curling his lip beneath his mustache and revealing impressively pointed teeth Anders may or may not have imagined sinking into his shoulder while Hawke fucked him silly right there in his clinic.

Anders was sure they’d kept talking, but the rest of the conversation was wind. He was too distracted by the sheer wildness that came out whenever Hawke was passionate about something. It manifested in the way he moved, powerful hands doing all of his talking for him while Anders imagined all the other things those hands could have been doing. Fisting in his hair, pulling his head back and exposing his throat for Hawke to worship, holding him against the wall aaaaand Hawke was gone.

Sigh.

Hawke took his hands with him when he left. Anders wondered if he could get him to bet them in a game of Wicked Grace. Now there was a bet Anders would have been more than happy to match. Hawke could have his hands, and his cock, and flames take him, Hawke could have the rest of him while he was at it. Gallard though. Gallard was not his type and Gallard could not have his ears and Anders was just going to have to set that expectation the next time he came knocking, but Gallard never did.

He just vanished.

Which was nice. It was nice that he vanished, but the thought of him popping up again was not so nice, and Anders was not looking forward to that happening, so it was even nicer when he stumbled across Gallard’s corpse. Someone had stuffed it down a coal chute, and someone else had opened said coal chute, and that poor someone was him. Gallard, or what was left of him, came flopping out, half-rotten from a week of decay and covered in soot.

Anders stumbled back, gagging, but there was no mistaking the elf. Anders would recognize those reflective eyes anywhere. They were a shade like old moss, an expression of abject terror on Gallard’s face over whatever he’d seen just before he’d died. Anders didn’t doubt it was horrifying - considering it had eaten him. Just a little. Just his ears, crunched off both sides of his skull, so Anders didn’t think about it.

It seemed like a hate crime. Hate crimes happened in Kirkwall, but then it happened again. Anders mentioned, off-handedly again, that guardsman Orwald had been giving him problems too. Badgering the refugees. Demanding protection money and destroying shelters when he didn’t get it and confiscating their belongings in the process. Aveline promised to look into it - the same sort of way she promised to look into everything - but Hawke had made that face.

Guardsman Orwald stopped showing up for duty. Guardsman Orwald started showing up around the undercity. A hand here. A foot there. A conspicuously gnawed upon torso and a chewed up thigh. Guardsman Orwald kept showing up around the undercity for a whole month before they finally found all of him - or all that was left of him - and Anders finally started thinking about it.

He mentioned, maybe not so off-handedly, that Ser Mettin had been giving him more problems. Harassing the Mage’s Collective. Knocking down the doors of mages and mage sympathizers and outright killing them without even trying to capture them, and Hawke made that face. Anders followed him that evening, and Hawke followed Ser Mettin, out of the Hanged Man and down one of Lowtown’s many alleys, but Hawke wasn’t dressed for a fight.

He was wearing what Hawke always wore: a cheap pair of trousers and a cheaper tunic. The kind of clothes that would be lucky to last one fortnight and fell apart in two. He didn’t even have a weapon outside of his knuckles, but he spent plenty of time cracking each one when he cornered Mettin in the alleyway. “I heard you have a problem with mages,” Hawke growled.

“You’re going to have a problem if you don’t keep walking, serah,” Ser Mettin shot back, a hand to the hilt of his sword, and damned if Hawke wasn’t outmatched. Ser Mettin was in full armor, iron cuirass emblazoned with the flames of Andraste’s pyre and the sword Hessarian used to run her through when she burned on it. Anders hated the heraldry. It said everything it needed to say about how templars treated mages. About what templars did to them.

They called it mercy.

They called it justice.

They should have called it murder.

A surge of righteous anger burned through him, like the Veil tore inside him, and hands of molten lyrium were trying to claw their way out of the Fade. Anders took a deep breath - and then another - trying to calm down, to force it back, to shut the door, to keep from becoming what he knew he was meant to be. Not here. Anders couldn’t lose it here - but apparently Hawke could.

“I like problems,” Hawke smirked. “I like causing them.”

Hawke-...

Hawke changed.

His body warped and contorted, the crack of bones and snapping of tendons like something out of Anders’ nightmares. Maker, he looked like a man possessed, ripping apart his shirt as his shoulders expanded past it. Claws tore through his fingers and toes, ripping apart his cheap leather shoes, and he changed. He changed into Rage. It had to have been Rage - and Hawke had to have embraced it - but Rage burned. This-...

This howled. Hair - no, fur - claimed every inch of Hawke’s skin, and all at once, he wasn’t Hawke. He was-...

He was a wolf.

He was a bloody werewolf.

“Demon!” Ser Mettin screamed, wrenching his sword from his scabbard only for Hawke to swat it aside with a vicious swipe of one massive hand - paw? - that shredded Ser Mettin’s gauntlets and took off three of his fingers. They bounced across the street like scraps of meat thrown to the floor of a banquet hall to be swallowed up by the sort of slathering mabari Hawke seemed to have become.

Hawke dove on him, powerful claws tearing through iron and flesh and painting the wall with Ser Mettin’s blood when Hawke pinned him to it. Ser Mettin drew a dagger from his hip with the only hand he had left, driving it into Hawke’s shoulder again and again, but he might have been using a feather for all Hawke seemed to notice. Bloodied claws dug into Ser Mettin’s shoulders, and before he could even scream, Hawke’s fangs were in his throat.

Chunks of flesh and veins caught in his teeth, and mingled with drool the longer Hawke kept his death grip on the wailing templar. Ser Mettin’s grip on his dagger went slack, his attempts to fight Hawke off growing weaker and weaker as he bled out, until the life finally fled from his eyes. Hawke kept hold of him, seemingly lost to the ecstasy of his kill, a satisfied rumble from somewhere deep in his chest filling the silence of the night with the steady drip of Mettin’s blood.

Hawke swallowed whatever was left of Mettin in his mouth, and dropped him in the process. He ran his paws - hands? - over his head and through his midnight fur, the color so dark it absorbed any traces of blood before licking his muzzle clean. Anders watched - frozen, fascinated - when Hawke turned and noticed him.

Starlight glinted off his golden eyes, as gorgeous in this form as any other, and for one miserable moment Anders was terrified he’d lost him. That Hawke had given into this form the way so many mages gave into their own demons. That he was just Rage and there was no getting him back and Anders had lost him the way he’d lost Karl and-

And he was fine.

And he was naked.

Hawke clamped his hands over his crotch - as wide-eyed and panicked as if Anders had just walked in on him in the wash. He spun in a fast circle and snatched up a blood-drenched bit of cloth that made as poor a loincloth as it had a tunic.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Hawke said.

“It looks like you’re a werewolf,” Anders said.

“Okay…” Hawke cleared his throat. “I guess it��s exactly what it looks like.”

“When were you going to tell me?” Anders demanded, picking his way across the bloody abattoir Hawke had made of the alleyway to his side.

“Now?” Hawke decided.

“Now would be good,” Anders reached out to wipe some of the blood from his face. Hawke turned a shade of red to match it, apparently more concerned by the fact that Anders had seen him naked than the fact that Anders had seen him transform, but after watching him kill a templar, Anders honestly couldn’t say which sight was more appealing.

“I’m a werewolf,” Hawke said. “Is that-... Is that a problem?”

Anders grinned, “I like problems.”

#anders #handers #dragon age #handers gift exchange #m!handers #werewolves #werewolf!hawke #on god I hope I am doing this right #because I have never done this before and idk what I'm doing #despite the deceptive summary there is no smut here #soz #just gore

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shera-dnd · 3 years

Link

Are you ready for some nuts? some dolts? some bees even?

Because this chapter has a lot of all of those

Also Lady Xiao Long is 6′6, because everyone in this is already over the top and larger than life, so I just had to go a little extra with my girl

anyway link above, fic bellow. Let’s get to it!

Weiss had to admit, Lady Blake was absolutely right, this really was the best meal she’d had in ages. Of course this was only in small part thanks to the fish, and in great part thanks to the company she now shared. Though it would be a long shot to consider any of these people her friends, it was certainly a far more amicable setting than any meal she’d had in at least a decade.

Lady Polendina was a ray of sunshine personified, and was happy to make Weiss feel welcome. Lady Blake had been nothing but courteous with her since the moment they spoke their oaths to each other, and Lady Ilia…

Lady Ilia may still very clearly detest Weiss with all her heart, but she had done something that she would not soon forget. She had given Weiss a gift, the first gift born of genuine kindness she had received since the day her grandfather passed away.

Now that gift was draped over Weiss’s shoulders, warming her heart as well as her body.

Maidens save her, she felt so foolish to ever even think of something so sappy. Perhaps it was for the best that she followed Lady Blake’s example, and focused on her grilled fish right now.

Unfortunately a growing commotion kept her from enjoying this meal any further.

The crowd of festival goers parted and scurried away as six figures made their way towards them.

The first figure was a blond woman who stood a full head taller than the rest of the crowd, her face was hidden behind a mask painted in the semblance of a bear, her muscular arms adorned with a collection of iron bangles. From her side hung the largest blade Weiss had ever seen, and she had no doubt that if anyone could ever swing a weapon like that, it would be this mountain of a woman.

Behind her followed an equally fearsome woman; though older, and not as large as the first one, she easily compensated for it with her demeanor, and an intense glare that could cut through a man’s resolve like a blade through flesh.

Following those two came three more figures, each of them carrying war scythes and covered by long hooded cloaks. The first was a younger woman in red, then an older one in white, and finally a man in grey.

The last one to approach was an older blond man whose calm smile, and sunny disposition, would mark as the least threatening of the bunch...were it not for the fact he was accompanied by a massive hunting hound.

Whoever these people were, they were nothing short of terrifying.

Weiss’s hand reached for the hilt of her sword, not to draw on the sinister group, but simply for the comfort it offered. Lady Polendina on the other hand seemed to need no such comforts, for she marched up to the group with confidence and greeted them with her usual cheer.

“Salutations! You must be the envoys from the Branwen Clan.”

The figures stopped, the girl in red peeked from under her hood in expectation, but did not move yet, awaiting for her leader to act first. That titan of a woman walked up to Lady Polendina, towering over the knight as she took off her mask.

Behind it was a cheerful expression that could almost match that of the little knight she talked to.

“Lady Polendina, I presume,” she greeted with a voice that matched her size. Though the woman was clearly mistrali, she spoke in perfect atlesian, “it’s good to finally meet the woman my sister has spoken so highly of.”

The girl in red shifted nervously and pleaded something in mistrali. Whatever she said seemed to amuse the rest of the envoys.

“And it’s good to finally meet my dear Rose’s family, Lady Xiao Long,” she replied. Quite a lot of emotion placed in the nickname, more than enough for Weiss to notice.

Done with waiting, the girl in red rushed to Xiao Long’s side. Her cloak billowed as she ran, revealing under it silver armor with the heraldry of the Knights of the Spring Maiden. Looking more attentively, it was clear that all but Lady Xiao Long carried that crest.

“Yang, must we do this here and now?” The young knight asked, “could we at least set up camp before you embarrass me further?”

Lady Xiao Long said something in mistrali that had earned her a furious glare from the young knight. They conversed in the language for a few moments before the larger woman let out a loud laugh.

“Very well, Ruby, we’ll be on our way,” she declared, before turning to face Lady Polendina once again, “but before I leave, Lady Polendina. I’ve heard that a tournament has already taken place in our absence.”

“Indeed it has,” the knight replied, “it was a simple warm up, but it was quite thrilling. I was actually just sharing a meal with the winner of that tournament.”

That seemed to pique Lady Xiao Long’s interest tremendously.

“And who would this mighty victor be?”

“That would be me,” Lady Blake answered, putting down her food and joining Lady Polendina’s side.

“Lady Xiao Long, this is Lady Blake of the Knights of the Fall Maiden,” Lady Polendina gladly introduced, “Lady Blake, this is Yang Xiao Long, chieftain of the Branwen Clan.”

“Your fame precedes you, Lady Blake, it is an honor to meet you,” the chieftain greeted, taking Lady Blake’s hand gently and bowing before her. Lady Ilia gagged at the sight, “and it would be a greater honor still to see the Black Knight in action.”

“Would you be inviting me to a sparring match, Lady Xiao Long?” She asked, sounding profoundly amused by this turn of events.

“I would indeed,” she replied, a smirk forming on her face, “if you would indulge me.”

“I believe I will,” Lady Blake replied with a smirk of her own, “though perhaps it would be best if we wait until you and your family are fully settled in. Besides, I’m in the middle of enjoying a nice meal with my companions.”

“Then let me keep you no longer,” she answered, before turning back to her companions and calling out their orders in mistrali. She turned and spoke to Lady Blake one last time, “I look forward to seeing you again, my lady.”

And with that they departed.

Lady Ilia shivered and suppressed another gag.

“Are you well?” Weiss asked.

“Not if I am to see those two acting like this again,” she replied.

“I do not see what’s so wrong with their conversation.”

“Of course you don’t,” was Ilia’s only response.

Weiss rolled her eyes and returned to her food. It was obvious that she would be getting nothing more from her on this topic. And, unlike Lady Ilia, she was genuinely happy that their companion seemed to be making such fast friends in the Branwens. This was a celebration of peace and union between the kingdoms after all.

The two of them were silent for the rest of their meal. Ilia quietly seething at Blake, while Weiss was simply lost in thought. Though they walked the grounds a little longer after that, they soon enough found themselves being dragged along to the Branwen clan’s tents. Lady Blake eager to have her match and Lady Polendina eager to spend more time with her…friend.

Even though it had been hardly more than an hour since they last spoke with Lady Xiao Long, the Branwens had already properly set up camp and had even made a small fenced area for them to spar in.

This makeshift arena was currently occupied by Lady Xiao Long herself, standing mighty and proud, face once more covered by her terrifying mask. In one hand she held her colossal sword, in the other she held a fully armored knight by his throat.

Seeming to finally notice her visitors, she smiled before slamming the man to the ground with ease.

“Do you admit defeat?” She asked, the knight could only nod, prompting the chieftain to yank them up once again, “thank you for this fantastic warm up!”

She pulled them into a rib crushing hug before unceremoniously dropping them. The knight bowed before her, and excused themself away from what Weiss assumed was a humiliating defeat.

“Lady Blake,” Lady Xiao Long cheerfully greeted, “I’m glad to see you here so soon.”

“I could not bring myself to keep you waiting,” Lady Blake replied, “though I must say I’m surprised you have set up camp so quickly.”

“My people are nomads, my lady,” she explained, “if there is one thing we’re good at it is making camp.”

“Impressive.”

“Lady Xiao Long, if I may,” Lady Polendina interjected.

“You wish to know the whereabouts of my sister, do you not?” she asked, and Lady Polendina nodded, “she’s off with our mothers and uncle. As Knights of the Spring Maiden they’re expected to greet your Knight Commander as soon as we were done setting up. So for now it is only me, and my father, here at camp.”

“Of course,” Lady Polendina replied, mildly disappointed, “may I wait here for my dear Rose’s return?”

“Anything for Ruby’s beloved little Firefly,” Lady Xiao Long chuckled, “please make yourself comfortable.”

Weiss had her suspicions, but that made it certainly clear that those two were much more than close friends. As happy as she was for Lady Polendina, she simply couldn’t help but be surprised by the openness with which they discussed this topic. Though Lady Xiao Long had also admitted to having two mothers and a father, such things must be considerably more common among the people of Mistral.

“Now if you’ll indulge me my lady,” she once more turned to face Lady Blake and gestured towards the arena behind her, “I would be delighted to spar with you”

Lady Blake gave her host a smile and readied herself. She put on her horned helmet, drew her blades and walked with Lady Xiao Long towards the arena. Her black armor gave her a sinister air matched only by the chieftain herself.

The battle began and Weiss quickly understood that had she been in Lady Blake’s position, she would have been defeated already. Though Yang Xiao Long may have looked brutish and simple, her form and fighting style was anything but. Every swing of the blade was calculated, every opening pressured, and every mistake punished. She fought not only with her blade but her entire body, throwing in punches and kicks to catch her opponent off guard.

Meanwhile Lady Blake proved her incredible skill once more. She rushed in close, keeping the chieftain from effectively using her blade, adapting as fast she could to the woman’s unconventional strategies, compensating for the difference in their physical strength with an unmatched fierceness.

Had this been one of the storybooks from Weiss’s childhood, these would be monstrous villains, engaging in a bloody battle to the death from which the only good ending would be their mutually assured destruction.

For once reality was far kinder than fiction.

Lady Xiao Long laughed as the fight dragged on, not out of malice nor bloodlust, but out of sheer, raucous joy. Her hand finally connected with one of Lady Blake’s horns and she slammed her down with force, bringing her greatsword down by the knight’s head… only to find a sword pressed against her stomach.

There was a moment of silence, the two of them looking at each other through mask and helmet, their ragged breaths the only sound around them. Until Lady Polendina broke the silence with her cheer.

“Sensational!” She nearly jumped as she said the word, “never have I seen a fight like this before. Truly you two simply must join the tournament.”

The two combatants laughed as they began to stand up. Faces once more revealed as they spoke.

“Lady Blake of the Knights of the Fall Maiden,” the chieftain began, pride in her voice, “I declare you victorious!”

“I’m flattered, Lady Xiao Long,” she replied, “but this was a tie at best.”

Lady Xiao Long smiled, but shook her head.

“Nay, my lady,” she spoke, taking Lady Blake’s hand once more, “sparring with you was already a great victory for me, so it is only fair that I grant you this one.”

Lady Ilia gagged once more.

“If you insist,” Lady Blake replied, rolling her eyes in playful annoyance, “though I’ll hardly be able to brag about a victory granted through kindness.”

“Nonsense,” was the chieftain’s reply, “you’ve more than earned your bragging rights.”

“Maybe so,” she countered, “still I can’t help but feel like a rematch is in order. Perhaps I should return soon and earn this victory properly.”

“Then I look forward to when our blades meet next.”

At that Lady Ilia made an outraged noise that Weiss couldn’t quite describe. Weiss’s previous annoyance at these senseless responses revived once more.

“Why must you react so crassly!” Weiss demanded.

“Is it not clear to you what they’re doing?” Lady Ilia asked back.

Weiss looked at her in confusion, “being polite to one another?”

“What you do is polite, Sch--...my lady,” she cleared her throat, catching herself just in time, “what they’re engaging in is flirtation.”

Weiss looked back at them, only now seeming to catch the lingering gazes, the playful smiles, the tone in their voice.

“Oh.”

#rwby #prismatic ponytails #bumbleby #nuts and dolts #weiss schnee #ilia amitola #blake belladonna #yang xiao long #penny polendina #ruby rose #medieval au #fanfic

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ganymedesclock · 3 years

Text

I think it’s fascinating how our relationship with stories grows and changes. Some things, we meet them and know immediately we love them, and love them our whole lives. Some things, we love for a while, but not later; our needs and wants change, our worldview adjusts, and the infrastructure of our hearts, minds, bodies, carries stress differently.

For myself, I did not grow up with the horror genre. I remember being kind of repulsed by the idea when I was little- why would you choose to say something bad, when you could say something nice instead? This was a thought that haunted me, particularly when I read Harry Potter And The Order Of The Phoenix, the first book I’d really experienced where a major character I was rooting for died instead. Why would you choose to make something bad, when things could just be good?

Fantasy- particularly the soaring, dragon-riding, shining-sword good-against-evil fantasy- was my beloved, and it remains instrumental to me. So I don’t think it’s surprising that its particular vernacular about light and dark sort of seeped into the groundwater of me. At its most traditional, the fantasy genre preaches a message about holding the light close, and rejecting the dark.

But what is the dark? Most of us will not be attacked by demons or giant snakes or evil wizards. We will not be turned into dogs, and, honestly, while all of us at some point or another will encounter interpersonal malice, many of us will spend our entire lives without a personal nemesis. Some of the most violent and dangerous people we will ever meet will target us because of surface qualities or even traits that we don’t have.

So what is the dark?

Is it the way I lay in bed awake at night as a small child, trembling at the thought a smoke alarm might go off, or my appendix might burst, on the simple basis that I had been taught these were real things that could happen? The way that I became- increasingly over the years- certain beyond certain that if I tried to do something and failed, that failure would be inexplicably, yawning, horrifying, devour me beyond anything?

Or was it the great forces beyond my control- politics, wars, plagues, environmental changes? The things I yearned to be a hero against, imagined shining people with swords who had very little in common with me and could vanquish all the world’s ills?

The truth was, I have been very afraid of the world. For all of how I idealized the wolves and lions and eagles that sprang across heraldry, my temperament was more that of the deer- always with my ears and nose to the wind, wondering if that sound was a predator.

The hero classic, shining and triumphant, does not fear. They do not falter or drop their weapon or run away crying, and they absolutely do not linger helpless. Fear is, after all, a darkness- as is the rage that someone might use to overpower fear and fight through it. The pure hero of light throws all darkness away from them like their torch does the cave’s gloom. They are, so very often, explicitly chosen, explicitly marked; there is no way to be mistaken. What to do, and how to do it, are etched in the stars and so nakedly evident that even the beggar-woman in the marketplace can simply peer into their eyes and see that it is true, that it is good.

The truth was, I was not that person, but I dreamed of being them. I dreamed of their existence and importance and I pressed them into words and into art. I wanted to be perfect. Radiant. A knight in shining armor, a champion to others.

As I have grown, I have moved increasingly into the dark, and ironically, it was not because I lost hope.

The truth is, we don’t idealize heroes because they’re perfect. Or at least, we oughtn’t. I know I did, for many years; it was the part of me that pulled a disapproving puzzled frown every time someone suggested there was something to find in the dark I rejected.

The truth is, a hero is a hero because they stand amongst the dark, even if it is not inside them. A hero is not safe at home, comfortable and resting; heroism is a mantle donned in the face of adversity. In the face of horror.

The knight in shining armor, pure and radiant, has an inextricable and dependent relationship with the seething darkness they ostensibly cast down and reject. At its purest, the fantasy classic myth has only two players: the knight and the dragon. The hero and the adversity.

What is the dark? What is our personal dragon? I think that people who experienced more strife from without would have different answers, but for me, I can only see the darkness with a certain lens of pity. In idealizing the hero, I spent far too much of my life carving pieces off. It was not the light that had kindness for what I was- or simply, I lacked the confidence to put the real me into the light. Instead, dreading to look at it or study it at all, I threw it into the caves, into the dark, and it was the dragon that gathered these scraps and held them in its nest.

I could not love myself with the light for the very reason that I idealized it. For the very reason that I wished to only bring the best, prettiest, ideal parts of me, parts that didn’t even need to be mine as much as they needed to be lovely, to the light. I could not sully the shining hero with myself, even as a wretch to be saved.

So it was the dark that saved me; so it was the dark that held my imperfect self.

Returning as an adult, experienced and, I believe, a lot happier as a person, I can see there are oddities to this. Did the hero really never love me, or did I simply not think I deserved heroic love? Is it really heroic, true, pure of heart to reject the dark absolutely, and is there really no interplay of these things?

Is there only the blessed kingdom and the dark forbidding cave, or are there the dappled shadows of tree leaves and stained glass windows, things that are beautiful, things that we don’t want to live without? Is there a crepuscular truth, that intermediates the boundaries of these things?

Is heroism fake, simply because we can idealize it to such a point as to make it chemically sterile, inhospitable to all life?

Or, is it that the beloved glow of the shining knight is real- but can only be seen in the way that imperfect, disappointing things, more of an off-gray- become golden as the midday sun, when they come to save us at our worst?

As I move further into horror, its scrutiny and tropes, I don’t think I have lost fantasy. My roots as a reader and writer are there, and it is the place I think I will always return to. I think that the world is horrific. I think that the world is worth loving.

I think that we do not know our knight in shining armor by the actual color or quality of his clothes, but by the moment he picks up a torch and walks down into the cave. And a cave, after all, is merely rocks, until horror lives there.

#writing ruminations #readmore

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gasha40k · 10 months

Text

The last post was supposed to be a lot longer, but it got cut off because Tumblr is made of rocks. I’ve got a bit more to share, starting with a little bit of progress on World Eaters.

Finally got my hands on this guy again. I only need two more models to finish my World Eaters character collection: Azrakh the Annihilator and Angron. I also saved the Juggernaut body from my first Invocatus so soon I’ll have a Lord on Juggernaut as well

The fluff behind Lord Invocatus is so excessively metal that I can’t help but love it. The mental image of Avocado here galloping across the sky on a bridge of smoke and flame is one of the most raw things I think I am capable of imaging. That being said, the model is, like, very disappointingly not on fire, even if it’s still a banger model. I felt that this was a horribly missed opportunity, so I went about and built a reposed Invocatus with an added 3D fire effect from Deadly Print Studios to represent the bridge of flames. I’m really happy with this! Not only does the repose make him look larger and more ferocious, but the fire makes him look like the centerpiece that he should be, and the visual of him and his Juggernaut leaping over a plume of flame is sure to strike fear into the hearts of whoever I field him against. Or he’ll be the biggest target on the board because of his posing, and he’ll get shot and killed immediately. We’ll find out!

In the time since my last post, I’ve also come into possession of a few new neat 3D printed models for some little projects of mine, courtesy of an Ork-playing friend. This guy here is Tyrant Siege Terminator from the Iron Warriors Legion, the Chaos Legion that my Thunderbearers claim their heritage from (not that they’d know this, though).

Making that objective marker from a few posts ago was really fun, so I made some more ideas for custom ones to use with my factions. While I don’t exactly have a plan of action regarding this guy here, I do know that I’m going to turn him into some kind of relic recovery marker. A supremely apocryphal Chapter artifact of the highest sanctity, for the eyes of the most elite Thunderbearers only. An echo from a forgotten past, a powerless demigod from a lost era, frozen in time and waiting for 10,000 years. This’ll eventually be painted in Thunderbearers regalia and draped with either creeping vines and wild overgrowth, or dust, cobwebs, and rubble. Despite its heraldry, however, this ancient armor is still noticeably a Terminator pattern utilized almost exclusively by the Iron Warriors Traitor Legion. This implies that whichever venerable forebear originally adorned this armor would’ve either been a Battle-Brother of the Chapter’s earliest shrouded histories, or a later Astartes of such grand renown that he inherited what would’ve undoubtedly been one of the Chapter’s most valuable artifacts. Regardless, it’s a neat looking piece and not something that people will glean from first glance. It’s like a little Chapter Easter egg basically for me only, and that’s cool cuz it’s my army. <3

This beefy boy will be the subject of another objective marker. After a page describing each of the Chaos Gods, 9th Edition’s Codex: Chaos Daemons includes a two-page spread detailing anecdotes about various Daemon Worlds and how exactly they’d fallen to the Gods. The above excerpt from the Khornate incursion on a Daemon World named Tartora struck me as particularly visually poignant, so this boisterous Ork is gonna get turned into a statue of brass and bone. I’ll decorate his base with various skulls and lots and lots of blood. Maybe fire, too. I think a sort of glowing red vein effect on the base might be pretty cool. I’ll use him primarily with my World Eaters. Combined with a classic skull tower that I’m gonna make at some point, that means I’ll have two objective markers for both of my armies.

Moving on, I’ve been painting my dudes in what I believe to be their final color scheme for a good long while now. I’ve even started putting transfers on some of them as of a couple loads ago. That being said, I noticed that my most up-to-date heraldry sheet was kind of total garbage, and it didn’t represent the current look of the army whatsoever. This new heraldry sheet will be my (almost) final one; the colors are all correct, the helmets are all correct, and the Chapter icon has been edited and finalized. I may change the symbol signifying Chapter Honor Guard to be a set of tilted black stripes, sorts like hazard stripes but with the yellow replaced by Wraithbone. This could be another subtle nod to the Iron Warriors heritage as black stripes are a very common pattern, which means it could rationally be either an ambiguous heraldry of visually pleasing design, or iconography from culture that’s evolved slowly over the course of 10,000 years.

On the gameplay front, I recently played my first and likely final game of Strike Force in 9th with my brother. To send out 9th and usher in 10th, the Thunderbearers and Cobalt Lancers got together again for a good old fashioned “full-scale combat simulation.” They definitely used tracer rounds or something.

Most of my games are pretty standard but this one was great fun. We had very similar army compositions, with differences only in some key areas, like armor and HQ choice. The plan for us both was to forward deploy Infiltrator squads to hunker down on objectives, since we both took our Chapter-specific action secondaries. The mission we rolled, however, had better plans, and disabled setup rules in No Man’s Land, effectively making the Phobos forward deploy completely useless. It was a really even game, likely my favorite I’ve played so far, and I realize now after playing it that 2000pts is definitely the way that 40k is meant to be played. There were a lot of cool moments, too, and I think that was mostly facilitated by the higher point limit.

A Redemptor, an Aggressor Squad, an Eversor Assassin, and a Primaris Techmarine walk into a bar.

One of those cool moments was a chain of events that I’ll remember for a good long while. After my Predator las-sniped an enemy Redemptor, my own Redemptor stomped up to join two Space Marine columns locked in combat. After some intense combat, the Dreadnought was felled, surprisingly setting of an explosion, dealing mortals to literally everyone in the circle. The Techmarine takes the opportunity to kill the Eversor after this, who then explodes, killing the Techmarine. Earlier in the game, an Impulsor had exploded, and if I recall correctly, Big Harold exploded, bringing the game’s total explosion count to around 4 or 5. Fun!

My brother beat me on objectives, 26-40. He played his primaries far better than I did, and I was far too focused on killing his scary shit to properly run my secondaries. While I took out his Repulsor—the centerpiece of any good Cobalt Lancers army—during the game’s first BR, which significantly lessened his firepower and freed me up to move, aggressive pushes with his Impulsor and excellent positioning of his squads kept me at bay and I lost the inevitable Astartes vs. Astartes battle of attrition.

I hope that I can play some more 2000pts games here soon. I got my hands on a copy of the new Core Rulebook, so I’ll be hopefully be dipping my toes into the future of the 42nd millennium here soon. I’ve got some friends who wanna get back into the game with 10th, so I’ll be getting a couple Combat Patrol games in as well. Maybe Calthradia will follow into 10th, but the Crusade has been on hold for months now and I’m undergoing some significant life changes at the moment, so I doubt I’ll be making much consistent progress for a while.

#warhammer 40k #miniatures #building #battle report #adeptus astartes #chaos #thunderbearers #world eaters

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thecupcakewritesmorethings · 2 years

Text

The Clan’s Clothing

Razielim- The most varied fashion. More willing to experiment with different styles, textures and individual silhouettes- but they tend to like fabrics that are either very thin or drape nicely. Most of the clothing sold is meant to be altered to suit the tastes and body-type of the buyer. I think there is a very big dimorphism between what is marketed as “Male” and “Female” Razielim clothing. Ultimately, the buyer can alternate their clothing however they see fit, however. It is not uncommon to see a Razielim man wearing a “feminine” style dress, or a Razielim woman wearing a “male” style suit. There are also very little limitations on fabric color, especially throughout the scope and complete history of the Razielim clan. Same goes for (most of) the clans. While cultural pride is definitely a thing all the clans experience, it is not as though the clansmen wear the colors of their heraldry all the time. Undergarments are tight-fitting and minimal, if they’re worn at all. Most shaping is done by the clothing itself, rather than any undergarments.

If there is only one rule Razielim clothing follow-- it’s art nouveau. And Capes. If you aren’t constantly looking wind-swept, and like you could be standing dramatically on a cliff-side-- it’s not Razielim.

Turelim- By contrast, Turelim fashion is the most structured- and it’s entirely practical. A “Fashion forward” Turelim will import clothing from other cultures, but otherwise keep to practical garb that are form-fighting and layered. This allows clothing to be adjusted throughout the day. Trousers, knickers, or a pair of bodies are made from wool, or human silk. These undergarments are worn directly against the skin, and can be changed throughout the week. Next come the reinforcement garments. These are often metal or leather slats of practical armor worn atop of it. Often on the arms, shins. They can be removed, and the common citizen doesn’t own full armor for protection (think of them more as athletic braces. If a corset or girdle must be worn, this is where they’d also go after applying leather boots. Next often comes a linen or cotton shirt, then comes a kirtle, or doublet over-vest. These can vary in lengths, cut, and style, but they almost always have removable sleeves. The sleeves are often the most decorative portion of a Turelim’s usual dress. They can be simply tied to the kirtle and be straight, long sleeves, or they can be decorative... But just as easily they can be removed. There is very little difference between traditionally “male” and “female” Turelim clothing, as all clothing has situations where they are most practical. This also helps reinforce the idea that a Turelim is more willing to purchase clothing from outside their clan.

Dumahim- Due to the sheer love of battle the clan has. Dumahim clothing is mostly made from hardened leather and iron. Up until now, I’ve described the every day garb of the clansmen. I have not been describing armor or uniforms (as that’d take all day to write) however Dumahim love the thrill of the hunt, and the sport of a good fight. Armor, for Dumahim, is simply every day wear. Undergarments are long, but practical. Often made from a thin cotton or linen that is padded or reinforced at joints to prevent chafing. In every-day wear, secondary padding may not be used always, but if it is- it’s likely quilted to slow claws or knives. Apart from that, hardened leather slowly curated to the form of it’s wearer is used next... From here is where the individual outfits begin to differ. Armor pieces can be polished, dyed, stained, patched and embossed to the tastes of the individuals. Not to mention the sheer amount of awards or finery taken from battle. No two Dumahim look alike, even if they have similarly-cut armor, hair, ect. It is said you can tell a Dumahim Vampire’s story through the baubles, awards, and scratches on their armor, and once again clothing differs little between male and female Dumahim.

Rahabim- Rahabim are the first departure from what I would call a “classically European” style wardrobe. The Rahabim tend to don simply made clothes that are comfortable and easy to move in. Much of their clothing is flowy, made from linen and often only covering as much as an individual is comfortable concealing. This noticeable shift in fashion became an answer to the increased devolution, and appearance of scales on Rahabim vampires. It simply just became practical to wear less clothing on a day-to-day basis with all the swimming and itchy scales. Still, while Rahabim more likely to be found in a state of undress than any other clan, downright nakedness is frowned upon, and outside of their home territories they do dress more warmly. Their clothing is more likely to be patterned from light linens. Thin decorative jewelry is often used to denote higher status’ and pin down clothing where flowing fabric becomes impractical. There is no difference at all between male and female clothing and jewelry. In fact, many articles of clothing can be worn many ways.

Zephonim- Now for the other extreme. Due to their vast array of human slaves, and body modification the Zephonim have a plethora of clothing, and wear the most layers of robes by far. They are also the clan which has a strict caste system associated to their clothing. The clothing they wear varies from person to person, in both wealth and status, but the construction is very similar. Typically the more layers of clothing one wears depicts how wealthy a particular Zephonim is. Colors and patterns are no stranger to a Zephonim’s wardrobe while solid blacks, whites and grays denote noble-status or ceremonial garb. Each Zephonim also has a distinct mask marking their identity as a Zephonim, and more often than not a headscarf or veil to go with it. The look of Zephonim is particularly androgynous and obscured. It’s considered tactless for a Zephonim to reveal bare arms, chest or back in public unless actively in battle. There are many suspected reasons for this, some suspect it’s a way to secretly arm one’s self (hiding daggers in one of many sleeves), others think it is a display of wealth, and others believe it is a way to hide any current modifications a Zephonim has performed upon themselves. Starting from the layer closest to the skin, assuming armor is not being worn, the Zephonim either wear a long shift or a thin robe as undergarments. From there, some sort of v-necked tabard can be worn, and may or may not have sleeves. If push comes to shove- this layer is what most Zephonim are comfortable wearing in front of polite company. Next come any jewelry or weaponry. Neck collars, thick bracers, these are typically fashionable for a Zephonim. Next come the outer robes which are long-sleeved, and made from human hair. The amount of layers vary from Zephonim to Zephonim, these outer robes may also have varying sleeve-shapes to suit the taste of the individual Zephonim. Lord Zephon is often known to be wearing seven outer-robes while attending court, becoming a mass of fabric atop his throne he can easily discard as he sees fit. Combined with the vast array of personal masks and veils to wear, Zephonim are highly regarded as being the “most dressed” of the clans.

Melchahim- Now we are falling back to utility, and ironically, the most sexually dimorphed of the clan’s garb. With the constant decay of a Melchahim’s flesh it calls for a certain necessity of upkeep, but from it stems the chance of cosmetic surgery. Perhaps, next to the Rahabim, Melchahim dress the most bare on a daily basis. However, this is due to need not necessarily fashion. Open sores, wounds, and stitching need to be easily accessible for bandages or treatment. As such, a Melchahim’s wardrobe is comprised of support wear, and thin over-garments. Frankly, corsets, gussets, bracers, are arguably the most important. For whatever skin isn’t rotting, skin can be compressed and reinforced. When purposefully applied, foundation wear can hold in spilled viscera and divert swelling blood-flow. Due to the inevitability of a Melchahim’s body-modification, foundation-wear of canvas or muslin is worn. Clothing made for nicer occasions are normally made from silk, but are rare. Cheap fabric functions well, and it is easy to replace. A Male Melchahim’s foundation wear probably begins as a girdle atop a loincloth for undergarments. A female Melchahim would likely wear a corset, or a set of stays, and additionally wear something around the shoulders and chest for modesty. Next come any additional support wear on the limbs. These can sometimes be made of the same fabric, but they can also be made in leather as a slightly reinforced armor. Next follows whatever a Melchahim choses, so long as it is thin, and easy to tear. Often, this outer layer doesn’t appear as a completed outfit, but rather a covering to provide modesty and air for wounds. Many of these outfits, in fact, are just scrap to don until wounds or limbs need treating.

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askmalal · 3 years

Text

Brother-Captain Kirek had been tracking this... thing... for hours. And now, here it was. In the one place it hadn't been seen on the sensors. And where, even now, more than a dozen false sensor images were being displayed across the reticles of his Tartaros model terminator helmet. So far, it had killed half a dozen Astartes, twice that many serfs, and slashed through eight servitors.

There were many other Legionaries available to the Captain, of course. Twenty of them. In their defense, the Astartes here aboard the frigate had hardly been prepared to repel a boarding action, and two were wounded men hardly in a position to defend themselves. Those who remained outside, unable to exit the Thunderhawk berthed in the hangar in the traditional way, had now cut their way out of the gunship and were now working their way through the bulkheads that lead to the autolift. But it was slow, laborious work, particularly with no access to breaching charges.

The beast-thing crouched in a corner of the great hologram chamber, its clawed hind legs resting on top of what appeared, distressingly, to look a great deal like what had once been Brother Velian. It almost certainly -was- Brother Velian. A section of the control panel had been sliced neatly in half by what could only have been Velian's chainglaive.

Nicolai snarled and leveled his combi-bolter at the thing. The walls of the precious, nearly irreplaceable holo-chamber, erupted in a hail of mass reactive rounds, flaking paint, and cracked glass. The beast thing darted away in a blur of motion, the rounds tracking it as if the Night Lord was firing a point defense mount at a flitting attack ship. None seemed to find purchase, though some struck Velian's body. That seemed undignified, even if Nicolai Kirek hadn't much liked Brother Velian.

When it was over, when the magazine was empty, Nicolai stood in the center of a cloud of debris and a thoroughly ruined holo-chamber. He growled, and slapped another magazine into the combi-bolter. As he did so, the thing was a grey blur, slamming into him with the force of a power maul. He was thrown to the floor, the beast-thing now resting atop his chest, regarding him curiously. Regarding him? Was that the right word?

For, while it had a fanged mouth, which remained impassive, there were no eyes to speak of. Leathery wings and a tail rose up behind a smooth, grey, animalistic form that was somehow a cross between a gargoyle and a cat, or was it a wolf? He wasn't certain. All he knew was that the thing had to die. Damn his temper. If he'd approached this with more guile and less ferocity, he might not find himself where he was just now, pinned beneath a thing that seemed far too light to have him pinned as he was.

"What... are you?" He growled, "And what are you doing on my ship?!"

The beast thing cocked its head at these words. A clawed, disturbingly humanoid hand traced an arc across the ceramite of his gorget, cutting a clear line across the lightning heraldry he had painstakingly refreshed countless times over the centuries of his service. A creature like that could easily kill him, in this position. That it was not, that it seemed to be playing with him, now, was a cruelty truly to the standards of the Eighth Legion.

"Your ship." The voice that came from the thing's small, fanged mouth was an uncomfortably close echo of his own, Nostraman accent.

Except... that the thing wasn't talking. And the thing wasn't coming from the beast-thing's mouth. It was coming from the ragged mouth of the thing that had been Brother Velian, or some approximation of it was, echoing through the cracked remains of a vox grille. It was not true, an actual lie, in fact, that Astartes were immune to fear; they simply processed the experience differently. Now, the ghost of fear began to play across the corners of his mind. He could very easily be dead in a few minutes. There was no way to get to the combi-bolter. Perhaps, if he could reach the vibro blade mag-locked to his cartridge belt...

"Velian..." Nikolai questioned, "are you..."

"...Velian... is not in any condition... to speak. It is fortunate that... the Night Gaunt left his vocal chords intact..."

Nikolai growled his displeasure. "You are wasting your time if you think I'm going to seize up with fear. Just get it over with if you..." he almost had his hand to the pommel of the blade. If he could get a grip....

"Spoken like every self-righteous Legionary I have ever encountered. No. You will live, Captain. If for no other reason than the need to ensure that My Master's message is understood."

"-My- Master's message..." Nikolai frowned, "will soon be very clear. Once the rest of my platoon enter this space, you will die. As painfully as is possible for..."

"At what point," the ragged vox grille continued, "did the sons of Konrad Curze choose to acknowledge Masters? Was it before or after you sold your Legion sold its souls to Abaddon the Despoiler?"

"I am no puppet of Abaddon. And I will..." Now his hands were on the pommel of the blade. If he could use the right leverage, he could easily....

"No." With unnerving speed and bizarre grace, the Beast-Thing traced a claw under the seam of Nikolai's helmet, uncomfortably close to his jugular vein. "Keep the blade where it is. It is a pretty thing. Crafted by true artisans. It would be a shame to waste it. No. You are no puppet of Abaddon, are you? Your Master thinks themself greater than the Warmaster. Curses his name. Do they not?"

"Your message, then," the Captain growled. "Out with it, then."

"The Night-Gaunt's Master wants -your- Master to understand something," the vox crackled. "And there should be no ambiguity in The Night Gaunt's message. The Night Lord will listen to The Night Gaunt. Understood?"

Nicolai Kerik swallowed hard. Furious. Unable to act. Humiliated. When he had the chance, if he had the chance, he would tear the thing to ribbons with his bare, bloody hands!

The Night Gaunt extended its free, right hand, and displayed the 'thumb' and 'index' finger thereof. Clutched between them was.... no. That was impossible, really. An illusion. A trick of the mind. It was very much like a miniaturized, perfectly created model of the Gloriana class battleship that his Battle Company called home.

"This frigate is not your ship," the Night-Gaunt, for that's what it seemed to call itself, echoed via the unfortunate Velian. "It was never your ship. It originally belonged to the Fifteenth Legion, if memory serves my Master correctly. You stole it from a party of rivals. Loyalists, you'd call them. No, even then, it wouldn't be your own ship. This..." The Night-Gaunt cocked its eyeless face toward the miniaturized battleship, "this is the ship that you, and your band of renegades call home. The center of your fleet. This, of course, is a mere toy. And to My Master... the same can be said of your home. Is that clear?"

"I..."

"I do not seek to intimidate you. Nor do I seek to instill fear. That is not my Master's wish. No, The Night-Gaunt wants you to understand the truth. You conduct yourselves like gods. But you are not gods. You are self-righteous, post-human abominations. Do you understand?"

Nicolai said nothing.

"You all think yourselves so pretty. So powerful. You throw proud challenges out to all who will hear them. You spit on the names of Primarchs and Gods alike. And yet, you are nothing like your gene-father. And yet, he was nothing compared to -my- Father. Do you understand?"

Again, the Captain did nothing but grit his teeth.

"To My Master, your home is but a toy and these can be thought of as his fingers. Never forget." the fingers closed down, crushing the toy as if it were a bundle of dry matchsticks. "Remember your place."

"What... is the point of..."

"Arrogance is misplaced in a band of genetically flawed post-human abominations living in a stolen battleship, using stolen weapons. Brave, are you? My Master suggests that you take yourself to Terra, and display that bravery. Or perhaps you would rather return to the fold of the Black Legion, to challenge Abaddon for his title to Warmaster."

"I am not interested in pithy nothings. You have delivered your message. Have you not? If you aren't going to kill me, then..."

"I have delivered my message. My Master now informs me that you may slay me, if you wish. My purpose has been fulfilled."

The claw was withdrawn, and within a second, Nicolai had drawn his vibro-blade, slashing the grey flesh of the Beast-Thing as if it was so much tissue paper. His armor was spattered with gore. And still, the thing gazed at him impassively, its chest a ruin, the color leaving its form. It whispered something as he kicked it away.

"What was that?!" He growled, "More threats?!"

Verian's vox grille gurgled and spat. "...It said..." the voice of Brother Verian choking on his own blood, ".... Ave Malice..."

#askmalal #malice #malal #warhammer40k #meddle not in the affairs of gods #for you are crunchy #and taste good with ketchup

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sith-shenanigans · 4 years

Text

To Deliver and Destroy, pt 1

Alta adjusted her breastplate, staring into the mirror. The previous morning, she’d been an awful mess. Now she looked like a real soldier. It was a remarkable transformation.

Her armor—the same thing the scouts were wearing, admittedly, but prettied up a little—was emblazoned with the symbol of their nascent Inquisition, staring out from her chest with nearly the same eye that she’d first seen on Cassandra’s. This one was narrowed in a decidedly unfriendly manner, a blade backing it, and perhaps that blade had been long ago lent to the Templars…

It was easy to see where the heraldry had gone. Some part of her felt a little bit sick, thinking about who she was sharing that sword with. And a deeper, stranger part—was elated. The line between heresy and doctrine was thinner than the edge of a knife, and she was going to walk it to the end. She would show them that a mage could be holy, before this was done. And the world would change.

Really, it was almost enough to make her believe. But she wasn’t that naïve.

Alta tipped her head to the side, her lips thinning out into a smile. “Look at me,” she murmured. “Not exactly prophet-like, but it will do.” Haven’s tailor had made a good show at distinguishing her armor from the uniform it had started as, with better-quality fabric replacing all the bits of cloth anyone might see. The breastplate had been polished well before it had been handed off to her. And it all did a lovely job of hiding the frame of her body, which was still so clearly not up to a fighting force’s standards; the period after the Ostwick Circle’s final dissolution had put some muscle on her, but she felt terribly lacking next to real soldiers. What had seemed like an obscene amount of travel had been nothing, apparently, compared to running through the wilderness and fighting with a dead man’s daggers. Only her affinity with vigor spells had kept her on her feet through the last couple days.

She had been a creature of closed spaces, once. She’d walked the halls of her family home with the grace and confidence of the perfect youngest daughter, and strode through the Ostwick Circle with her shoulders set like iron and a thousand memorized prayers on her tongue. She’d played every role she was set, small and sheltered and hypocritical as she was, and then her life had come tumbling down and left her to play this one.

Fine, then. She would. And if the Maker didn’t want her for a chosen, then He could come down and smite her Himself. Nobody else was going to stop her.

“You damned us with your silence, Maker,” whispered the so-called Herald of Andraste. “Now save me with it.”

She walked out to face the crowd, and—if it came to that—the music.

#i had to do a quick scene #i just love alta so much #io's writing #dragon age #oc: alta trevelyan

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herald-divine-hell · 4 years

Text

Woven Memories

Me, uploading another fanfic of Woven Memories? What is this audacity! But anywhere, I hope you all enjoy!

Chapter 1 - A Sea of Light

Year: 9:17 Dragon

The visitors poured through the gate in a river of gold and silver with banners withering overhead; banners of gold and green; of silver and blue; of black and crimson. The banners of House Trevelyan danced upon poles of polished silver, waving in the wind high up in the ramparts. The golden steed of Trevelyan reared upon its black stable in defiance, proclaiming its command over all the earth that it may step its hooves upon.

But, Amayian saw, there were others like it as well. The purple-black checkered field emblazoned with the silver steed of Trevelyan-Hasburn from Wycome; the silver-blue quartered with the black steed and golden rose of Trevelyan-DŐrthar from Hercinia. Cousins upon cousins that Amayian did not even know existed, yet somehow bounded by blood. The Trevelyans were a large family, his tutors often spoke of. One of the greatest houses in the Free Marches, spanning from the Trevalius in Minrathous to distant relations in Ferelden. Beside him, his younger brother, Rhyis, shifted on the balls of his feet, eagerness lighting his eyes and features.

“Do you think Cousen Alexandra is with them?” asked Rhyis. The wind stirred his thick, wavy locks of russet-brown, falling like a crown of dark tendrils that framed his features. His face was soft, cheeks flushed with pink from the cold, and freckles dotted the bridge of his nose and splattered across the crimson and white skin. Like his sister, Ashania, Rhyis had their father’s eyes - violet that shone with a light which made them even brighter than Lord Rhyis’. He wore a black doublet, striped with trimmings of gold. A cape of golden-embroidered darkness tumbled down his slant shoulders, a white wolf’s fur trimming at its borders. It looked almost too big on him, but their mother, the Lady Jacqueline, had expressly instructed stern punishment was to be enacted on if she had seen his brother stripped of it. Even Amayian had been warned, and he had never been one to defy the will of the Orlesian matron.

Amayian pushed up on the tips of his toes, narrowing his eyes as they flickered from banner to banner, seeking for House Trevelyan-Dulaphin of Kirkwall. Sunlight sparkled like glittering beads and caused the white marble walls of Vasenarg to shone as if wrapped eternally in its golden embrace. The wind came soft and gentle and sweet, fresh morning dew dancing with the cool air. Despite his mother’s many worries, Amayian had doubted that either his brother, his sister, or himself would have caught any shivers. But there would have been no point in bringing that up to his mother. Uncle Esmarian had once jested that their mother had been Andraste herself, with the way she conducted herself in a very clean and stern matter, but caring nevertheless. Lady Jacqueline had not denied it.

“I don’t see it,” he whispered back, and turned to find his brother’s lips pulled into a pout. “She’ll be here soon, no doubt.” Amayian understood his brother’s disappointment. Even he was filled with a sense of it when the great sea of multi-hued banners were neither the one they searched for nor sought. Yet, a part of him knew that the Trevelyan-Dulaphins would not turn their noses to Lord Rhyis Trevelyan. No one could even do that, not even Uncle Maxalias.

He tugged his cloak closer over his shoulders and hunched a little over, taking a soft breath. Without Alexandra’s presence, Amayian knew that this visit would not be a good one in any sort of manner. The bailey was soon filled with shining armor gleaming silver with scabbards clacking against metal-covered thighs. The sounds rang in his ears like thunder across a storm-filled sky. His fingers twitched and clawed at the soft texture of his cloak, and he wished he had the ability to disappear into the shadows, away from the rising tide of Templars who had blood connections to his family.

A feeling pulled at his stomach, a heated flame that sought to escape from the confines of his body. It boiled his blood, seared and sizzled beneath his skin to make it feel like his flesh was shifting with burning water. A brittle, chilled hand clawed at his chest, hammering icy pains across his shoulders and down to his fingertips. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. A storm of fire and ice, flecked with lightning which crackled tendrils with the frosted hand.

For the briefest of moments, only the sound of the wind was in his ears, tilted with the clacking scabbards against the armor of Templar family members. But he straightened himself, clamped his hands together and halted their trembling. His fears of the Templars were often abdicated with the knowledge that his father would protect him from any of their zealous actions. It did not keep the fear entirely at bay or subsided in any meaningful way.

Though he did wanted to flee into the shadows, hide in the safety of his bedroom, but he did not. Instead, he shifted his heels, dug his feet into the softening mud, and stood his ground, like his father had. Hairs at the back of his neck prickled.

The sea of banners rode forward like an unsheathed blade, before spreading like colorful wings. The gates were spread wide, and the Trevelyan horde seemed to gush forward like a running river, Amayian worried that there would be no more room for any other visiting lords. It seemed to him that all of Thedas swarmed the bailey, like a buzzing hive of silver-gleaming swords and burnished armor of gold and copper and white, with clouds of purple and black and crimson and gold and emerald and azure whirling and whipping overhead.

Glancing a little to his right, past his sister who wore a gown of white laced with gold, Lord Rhyis and Lady Jacqueline of Vasenarg stood erect and unmoving, like the like the gleaming walls of Vasenarg herself. Though, Amayian thought them more terrifying.

Lord Rhyis wore a black doublet with golden buttons flashing with pale light down the center. A cape as dark as his doublet cascaded down his broad-shoulders, like a river of darkness trickling down the face of a mountain. Little adorned it, besides the bear fur trimming across its shoulders and borders. His long, lushed black hair fell in raven waves, peppered with hints of gray. His features were sharp and chiseled, high cheekbones and a sharp jawline with a close-cropped beard covering his cheeks and jaw. His mouth was pulled tight and straight. He looked as if he was the Vismark Mountains staring down at the flowers of a meadow. A force greater than the bright colors of life. Amayian felt a sense of pride fill him. There was no other man as great as his father, Amayian was sured. That pride allowed himself to straightened his back and banished the tremble from his hands.

Lady Jacqueline stood as magnificent as his father appeared strong. Her long waves of the same brown that Ashania and Rhyis both had, tumbling in heavy locks, like a shuddering shroud framing her features. Hints of laughing lines adorned the sides of her golden-flecked green eyes, but her lips were frowning as tight as her father’s. Mother dislikes it as well. That did not sit well in his stomach.

The widening, colorful sea parted, leaving a road from the gatehouses to them. Then, Amayian saw the banner: two rearing, golden steads flaking a flame upon a black field stirred toward the west. The banners of House Trevelyan-Daluphin. Uncle Maxalias is here. He leaned once more on his toes, nudging out his chin to see if he could catch the sight of the black wooden wheelhouse. At the head of the approaching entourage rode Lord Maxalias, a slim man with skin as pale as snow and thick black, wavy hair cut short. His nose was long, sharp, and straight. His purple eyes were a dark violet, speared with a deep, harsh blue, but on his lips was a soft smile - though it never reached his eyes. Lord Maxalias dressed in vivid colors of silk: a crimson coat and breeches, a creamy-white waistcoat lined with golden buttons. Across the coat’s shoulders, running down in floral patterns to trim at his cuffs, were golden embroidery. It seemed to practically shimmer beneath the life. Riding at a mere trot, Lord Maxalias looked as gallant on the horse as a knight from the tales. But a cold pressure weighed heavily on Amayian’s shoulders at the sight of him, and he fought a shiver.

Behind Lord Maxalias rode the wheelhouse, which trembled and shook with every bump of a scattered pebble or risen earth. It was black, like the banners that wove through the air on the curtain walls. Golden paint covered the wooden’s corners, bringing out the black more so than the gold. But Amayian knew what hid in the hobbling carriage. The thought brought a semblance of a smile to his lips, and he clenched his cloak tighter to his chest.

Turning, the wheelhouse came to an abrupt stop, heaving forward a little, before settling back with a low groan by the wooden axis and wheels. The clattering of a thousand voices silenced with the halt by the wheelhouse. Most of the Trevelyans had came by horse, embodying the ideal of their heraldry. Not even great-aunt Lucille had came with her wheelhouse, though the woman neared her fiftieth year. Uncle Maxalias seems happy that he drew everyone’s attention, thought Amayian, glancing at his uncle and the door to the wheelhouse, expectedly.

Lord Maxalias swung from his horse with swift elegance, landing with a soft bounce onto the earth. Spreading his arms wide, he turned on his heels, leaned back, and smiled brightly. His purple eyes caught the sunlight, softening the indigo to a paler blue, though they glimmered with mischievousness. “My beloved cousin, the Storm of Starkhaven.” He laughed merrily, but a chilled hand shrouded the bailey, and both feet and hooves of men and horses alike shifted.

Lord Rhyis neither shifted nor gave any indication that he was pleased at the sight of his cousin. Instead, his mouth tightened, the wind fluttering his hair back. His father’s eyes narrowed, the Lord of Vasenarg said, “Maxalias.” He did not offer his hand.

Uncle Maxalias’ smile did not falter for a moment, but something flashed in his eyes which hurled Amayian’s stomach, a glint of sharp ice that made his paling eyes paler and colder. Turning his gaze away, they landed upon Amayian’s mother, who was as straight-backed as his father. “Jacqueline, as beautiful as ever.”

Her mother merely inclined her head for a moment or two. “Lord Maxalias.” The title on her lips was harsh and filled with disgust that even his mother could not hide.

The door to the wheelhouse swung gently open, pulled back by a foot soldier in silver armor and green cloths and brown leather. His shortsword hung in a scabbard plain and worn, and the silver of the guard glimmered faintly beneath the light when it caught it. But Amayian could not see his face, even when he turned to stand flat against the wheelhouse, door handle in hand. His face seemed entirely made of shifting shadows, but a pair of golden-hazel eyes burned with a calm and serenity. Kyal. A golden-hazel eye winked when it caught Amayian staring, but quickly returned to gaze off in the distance.

A woman stepped down, garbed in a dress of emerald green satin laced with intertwining vines across the corset and sleeves, which draped with sheer, translucent cloth toward the ground. Her long hair was a mane of wavy locks and of a rich deep brown, framing a square-jaw, with soft cheeks tinted with a hint of rose. Golden-green eyes peeked out beneath long, black lashes, twinkling. A smile danced upon full, small lips.

Aunt Amélie, he thought, watching as she slipped one of her hands into the other. His mother’s younger sister. Lady Jacqueline and Lady Amélie were both daughters of the House of Talayene, an old cadet branch that had split when one of Amayian’s many ancestors married into a Orlesian house with a sickly lord as her husband. He had died, and his wife had taken command as the matron of the household, installing her son as the new lord and declaring the House of Du Valus to be renamed the House of Talayene. Ever since then, Amayian been told, his family had a strong influence in the northwestern parts of the Orlesian Empire. Sizable enough for them to claim the title of Dukes. Enough to catch the eye of the Storm of Starkhaven.

“My dearest, eldest sister,” said Aunt Amélie, pulling the sides of her dress up, crossed her legs, and knelt a little to the earth in a humble. She then brought Amayian’s mother into a warm hug, kiss both cheeks, and cupped them with gloved hands. “Why don’t you smile? It's been years since I last saw you do so.” Glancing at Father, Aunt Amélie’s eyes were frosty and narrowed to slits. She leaned close, whispering something in his mother’s ear. Something which caused Lady Jacqueline’s shoulders to tremble with laughter. Amayian shifted to side to side on the heels of his feet. His Uncle had warned him to be wary when he saw Trevelyan woman interluding with one another. But it did not seem entirely too bad. It had gotten his mother to laugh, and that was what mattered, did it not?

His mother and father spoke in soft words with Uncle Maxalias and Aunt Amélie, leaning together in a huddle as the bailey was continued to be filled with the sounds of laughter and chatter, and Amayian was slowly believing that the entire world was streaming through Vasenarg’s gatehouse to clog the castle.

Rhyis whimpered in disappointment and poorly hidden annoyance. His fists were balled into tiny fists, bottom lipped pumped out into a pout, and his cheeks flushed bright red. Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, Amayian pulled him into a hug, his own dread tugging at his stomach. Did they leave her back at Kűrgaz? Instead of letting himself reveal that dread, Amayian smiled and kissed the top of his little brother’s head. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “We’ll see her next time Uncle Maxalias and Aunt Amélie visit.” He did not think that he sounded as assured as he would have liked, but his brother seemed to have bought it well enough. Sniffing, the pout his brother had worn retreated a bit and he pressed his face flushed against the silk of Amayian’s doublet.

Then, the wheelhouse creaked once more, and a shadow slipped down from the doorway, landing with a slight jump onto the earth. Black, billowing curls trembled in thick waves by the wind which came eastward. A small, childish smile played at her lips, and large, almond-shaped green eyes, speckled with gold, shimmered like light spearing through evergreen trees. His cousin stood only a little taller than him, with a soft face and rosy cheeks. She had her mother’s eyes, but her glimmered more green than gold, as if the sun dripped pools of light into a meadow dancing with flourishing grass.

Rhyis untangled himself from Amayian’s waist and lunged forward, draping his arms tight around their cousin’s neck with enough force that Amayian was sure he thought his cousin lost her breath. But, instead, she merely giggled and wrapped an arm around Rhyis’ waist, a lopsided grin plastering her features. “Hello, little cousin,” she laughed, with a voice as sweet as summer air.

Alexandra Trevelyan was always the sunlight at the soirees his siblings and Amayian were forced to attend, a breaker of darkness as boredom from which would have slowly settled on them with time’s slow crawl. She knew how to make Amayian laugh, and with a mind that matched Ashania, she shown as a beacon, a symbol of what a Trevelyan ought to be, even if she was little more than a year older than Amayian was.

Aunt Amélie’s voice broke the joy like a howl from a wolf. “Alexandra,” she said shrilly, “greet your aunt and uncle. It is unbecoming of a lady.” Her lips were thinned, jaw set tight, and Amayian watched as his cousin’s cheeks flushed the brightest of red.

Hesitatingly, Alexandra released Rhyis, whom pouted and crossed his arms over his chest with a huff. Mother sent a dark, but not unkind, look toward her youngest child, and spread out an arm, combing her fingers as an offering. Rhyis took it, and slipped to nuzzle his face against the skirt of Lady Jacqueline’s dress. Amayian noticed the smile forming at his mother’s lips.

Alexandra curtsied with only the slightest mistakes, and rose to clasp her hands at the front of her dress, like her own mother. She smiled up at Amayian’s mother and father. “Greetings, Uncle Rhyis, Aunt Jacqueline.” Her words came strong and vibrant, unlike the softness of a lay sister or the Revered Mother when uttering prayers in the chantry. But she seemed to whittle beneath the gaze of her mother and father, and brought her own stare to rest at his parents’ feet.

It was his mother who saved his cousin from inflaming her cheeks with crimson. She knelt down, fingers raking through Esmyial’s wavy locks, and pressed a kiss to Alexandra’s forehead, pulling back with a smile. “It is good to see you again, Alexandra. Maker, you’ve grown. You’re almost up to my stomach.” She laughed and rustled Alexandra’s hair, who pouted, puffed, and soon joined in with the laughter. Amayian felt a smile blossom on his lips. Rising from her bent position, Jacqueline Trevelyan notched an eyebrow. “Where is little Malanias?”

“Alas, we were forced to leave Malanias at Kűrgaz with our other servants.” Uncle Maxalias shook his head, sighing, as if that was the most disappointing news in the world.

Father spoke, and when he did, Amayian jumped at its sudden arrival, like a clap of thunder from a storm that seemed to have ended. “Then let the Maker preserve him.”

Amayian’s mother followed suit, tilting her head in a soft bow, the words uttered gentle and not loud enough to be heard, but he knew what she said well enough. Ashania brought her hands to her lips, cupped together, eyes closed, and by that point Amayian was compelled as well. Malanias was only two years old, but even Amayian saw that the boy had little in him to survive. It had hurt his heart to see him so thin and small. The babe smiled and laughed easily, even with the shadow of death crawling over him. The Chants gave a soft, warm beat to follow in his blood and quieted an uneasiness which lingered unexpectedly on his chest. When he lifted his eyes, the sun glowed warmer, somehow.

“Thank you, Uncle Rhyis,” said Alexandra chirply, and the wind eased into a soft breeze to allow her hair to finally settled about her shoulders, like a rippling curtain of darkness.

For a moment, his father seemed to smile, but it disappeared as swiftly as it came. He turned to Uncle Maxalias, who’s smile never waved, not once. “Ashania, Amayian. Take your cousin with you to one of your bedchambers. I’ll send the others to you once they arrive and I greet them.”

Ashania and Amayian bowed, and the wind curled up, splattering his cloak behind him in a hard whip. His sister smiled, nodded, and said, “Yes, Father.” She entwined her arm with Alexandra’s, and nearly dragged her along with a light skip to her step. Rhyis soon followed in a run, nearly tumbling to the ground. He steadied himself and continued on, laughing. The guards at the keep’s bronze doors pushed the open with a loud creak which was drowned out by the chatter.

He glanced up at his father, and bowed once more to his uncle, aunt, mother, and father in silence. “My lord,” he whispered, “my lady.” His uncle and aunt smiled, though they did not reach their eyes. They were cold, distant, detached, though Aunt Amélie seemed warmer - only a touch, however.

Father merely nodded. “Go on.” His voice seemed softer than before. His mother ruffled his hair and laid a kiss to his forehead and smiled.

The sounds of the Trevelyans grew fainter as Amayian walked up the marble stairs, the echo pounding in his ears, and weakened the laughter and the prattle. It sounded like drums in his ears, and the hallway was casted in faint balls of orange and gold, seemingly bouncing in the air as darkness seeped. With trembling hands, he stepped through the threshold into Vasenarg’s great, black maw.

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