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phykios · 4 months

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If I Were A Blackbird, part 13 [co-written with @darkmagyk] [read on ao3]

It had been two years, and still the words were burned in her mind:

Wisdom's daughter walks alone,

The Mark of Athena burns through Rome.

She had had the first part on a piece of paper, crumpled and worn for two years, as she held it in anxious hands and tried to figure out what it all meant.

May Castellan had said the second part to her, whispered it in her sing-songy voice the first time Percy had introduced her. "The mark of Athena burns through Rome." Then Luke had handed her the second part, a furtive message from a secret oracle disguised as a note from his mother.

To his credit, as a mortal, there was no way he could have foreseen how it would have made her lose her mind.

Before she had met May Castellan, all she had had to guide her in her quest had been an old, dusty legend, scattered across extant manuscripts all over the world. It had taken years to piece them together, carving out time between her classwork and her family duties to pop into some of the world’s biggest libraries to poke around their archives. Sure, obscure texts by Greek and Latin authors didn’t necessarily fit into her thesis on the perils of weaponized philanthropy, but was the Vatican Apostolic Library really going to turn down a request from a princess, even if said request wasn’t really related to theological history either?

No, they weren’t. And so, piece by piece, she reconstructed the story: long ago, as the Romans swept across the Greek world, something had been stolen from her mother. Something huge, and incredibly important. It was taken, and it was hidden away, somewhere in Rome.

Now, every few months, Annabeth found herself in Italy, trying desperately to find her mother's mark, and what it was supposed to be burning. And failing, each time.

She had combed every inch of this city that she was allowed to, several that she wasn't, and several more which would have gotten her into hot water, princess or no. But it wasn't in the Colosseum, and it wasn't in the Pantheon. It wasn't in any of the relatively newer places, like the Trevi Fountain (yuck, Poseidon) or the Vatican (yuck, Catholicism). She had walked up and down the Appian Way, descended into the buried tomb of Cestius, and even snuck into the Farnesina after dark (yuck, fascist architecture)–and still, nothing.

She was running out of places to check, even armed with her hat.

Rather than let her most recent failures get her down, however, she decided to take advantage of her surroundings, grab some gelato, and settle down at a cafe on the banks of the Tiber River.

She’d ditched Hans at her hotel. He probably knew she was gone by now, he wasn’t stupid. But she’d been crisscrossing the city so much, he probably wasn’t on the way to waylay her just yet.

She had on a Yankees hat and big sunglasses. And though her public profile had raised quite a bit in the last several years, between her father’s ascension and her very public romance, she wasn’t super worried. Without Percy being the hot one, or too many jewels on her person, or a sash or whatever, she wasn’t likely to be spotted.

The sun was bright, and would have blinded her, were it not for the shadow of the Fabrician Bridge blunting its intensity. As the only bridge in Rome built by a son of Athena, it was also the only bridge which had survived intact to the modern period. She always loved coming here after a long, unfruitful search–it felt like the single place she could be comfortable in Rome, a little Greek oasis in the middle of a harsh, Roman landscape.

There was a nice breeze off the river, gently fluttering the leaves on the trees of the Tiber Island, playing with the ends of her curls. She’d been tossing around the idea of cutting her hair again, Percy had really liked playing with the bob she’d had for several months last year. She hadn’t though, because–not to get ahead of herself–she was pretty sure she was going to be having a wedding in the next year, and so she should probably hold off until afterwards.

On most days, to her mind, it was just shy of an inevitability. She sometimes got worried, got bogged down by what ifs and that big scary secret. But she was pretty damn sure she was marrying Percy Jackson.

And she had ideas about what her hair would look like. And her dress. What tiara she’d wear. What flowers she’d choose.

Where they’d go on their honeymoon.

Gods, she wished he was here.

It was so easy, as she sat by the Tiber, to pretend that he was. That instead of combing the city looking for a monster, they could eat pizza and gelato, see the sights, and just bask in each other. They could explore the city like they were Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck. But with a happier ending. And with no deception.

Soon. Soon she would lay all her cards on the table. And soon it would be alright.

So lost in her wonderful daydream, it took her a split second to notice the Vespa which had pulled up alongside her table. It was an old-fashioned model, baby blue, bright even against the perfect blue Italian sky. On the scooter was a couple: the driver, handsome, with a gray suit, and his partner, a petite woman with a sharp bob and thick, dark eyebrows.

“You’re here early,” said the man, in his deep voice.

Annabeth blinked, mouth hanging open.

Had she accidentally manifested her daydreams? Uh, again?

Sensing her thoughts, the woman laughed. “No, dear, I’m afraid you’ve mistaken us for someone else. My name is Rhea Silvia, mother of Rome.”

Oh gods. A god.

“And this is my husband–”

“Tiberinus,” said Gregory Peck, reaching out his hand.

“God of the Tiber?” she guessed, gingerly shaking it. Oh gods. Two gods.

“Indeed. And we know who you are. Yet another child of Athena, seeking the highest honor she can bestow.”

She stiffened. As carefully as she could, she slipped her hand closer to her knife, holstered beneath her shirt. “How do you know who I am?”

But Audrey–uh, Rhea–just smiled at her, that perfect, movie star mouth gracefully curving upwards, eyes sparkling. “Well,” she said, gesturing towards the view of the bridge. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Annabeth successfully pushed down her blush.

“Fear not, child, we mean you no harm today. We’re merely curious, is all.”

“...About what?”

“Well, like my husband said, you’re here early. Or possibly late. It’s hard to keep these things straight, sometimes.”

Annabeth frowned. “Early… for what?”

They tittered at her, not unkindly, but Annabeth still felt her face heat up. “If you have to ask,” said Tiberinus, “then you really are too early.”

“And alone,” Rhea added. “Where is your champion?”

“My champion?” She really hated being on the back foot.

“Yes, dear, your champion.” Rhea smiled again, and this time it was patronizing. “Perhaps you should come back later. Maybe… in a year or so?”

Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, centering herself before she flew off the handle and attacked the pair of gods for being deliberately obtuse. If she lost her cool every time a god annoyed her, she would have been vaporized a long time ago. “I’m sorry,” she said, as evenly as she could muster, “I’m not sure I understand. What am I supposed to be early for?”

“Or late for,” Tiberinus pointed out. Annabeth did her best to grind her teeth as quietly as possible.

“Late, early, whichever it is,” said Rhea, waving an elegant hand, “now is clearly not the right time. No champion, no documents–you’ll just have to come back.”

“Great,” she sighed. “I’ll just pencil in a bimonthly trip to Rome, then. Helen will love that.”

The two gods peered at her, unmovingly. Clearly sarcasm was not a useful tool with these guys.

Biting back another sigh, she plastered on her best princess smile–polite, accommodating, and just a little bit vacuous. “Okay. I promise that I will come back to Rome.”

“With your champion!” Rhea chirped.

Annabeth nodded, face straining. “With my champion. Which is, uh, who, again?”

“Why, your friend with the sea-blood!” she said, as though that cleared everything up. “He will be a great boon to you in the coming years. Keep him close, dear, and keep him ready.”

Sea-blood. Her friend with the sea-blood. Who could that be?

Wait–they had said–“You’ve met other children of Athena before?”

“Well, of course!” Tiberinus nodded, like it was no big deal. “Her chosen are all drawn to this place, naturally. But you,” he said, pointing a finger at her, “you have certainly come the closest to your prize. I can see what your mother sees in you.”

Her mouth dropped open, a fire brewing in her belly.

Tiberinus smiled at her, the same slanted grin, full of trouble, that had completely entranced her when she was thirteen. And again at twenty-five. “Well,” he said. “Until next time, wisdom’s daughter.”

He revved the engine of his scooter, and Rhea settled back into her seat, wrapping her arms about his waist. With a dainty laugh, she wiggled her fingers at Annabeth with all of Audrey’s perfect grace but none of her charm, and the two gods sped off, following the length of the river Tiber, until they passed the Fabrician Bridge and rounded the corner, out of Annabeth’s sight.

Now out of danger, she collapsed into her seat, running her hands over her face. Her heart suddenly started racing, delayed adrenaline coursing through her body.

You’d think after years of randomly running into gods, she’d be used to the feelings of terror by now.

At least they had been nice. Or, if not nice, then not overtly hostile.

And they had even been kind of helpful, in their own, annoying way.

She was supposed to be here, but there were a few things she needed first before she came back. Documents, whatever the hell that meant. And a champion. Her “friend with the sea-blood.”

Maybe they meant Hans? A bodyguard could sort of maybe be the modern version of a champion. And he was a legacy of Njord, so technically, he did have sea-blood. Kind of. A little bit. It wasn’t exact, but it did fit him, from a certain point of view, and maybe even well enough to satisfy Tiberinus and Rhea’s conditions.

Her hands slipped off her face, and her mind began to wander again.

“Sea-blood.” Honestly, she had no idea what that meant. But for whatever reason, it made her think of Percy. He spent so much time in the water, he might as well have ocean in his veins anyway.

She shook her head, clearing her thoughts. Percy wasn’t her champion, she just missed him, and that was why she was thinking about him.

Gods, she hated Rome. The gods that were just different enough to make the sameness rendered alien. Dismissing of Athena as the warrior she was. And then the ancient empire got itself subsumed by Christianity.

She wondered whatever became of the statue they stole from her mother. She glanced around. She knew enough about archaeology to know that Rome, like most ancient cities, was built on top of itself. Could there really be a glowing gold statue of Athena, somewhere beneath the modern city?

From her pocket, her phone buzzed, bringing her back to the real world. To her scheduled appearances and her professional obligations. To the next problem she had to deal with.

But still, there was some light at the end of the tunnel. She now had more answers for her quest than she had before. And, in just over a month, she was going back to the Olympics.

***

Panting, Percy sat down on the stone stairs with a solid thud, dropping his head to his knees, just barely keeping himself from sitting on the plastic bag which contained his offering. Sweat poured from his forehead, his hair sticking to his ears and neck, and his chest heaved as he panted, his lungs sucking in as much air as his body could possibly handle.

Athens had everything–incredible views, delicious food, more ancient ruins than you could shake a stick at, and hills. So. Many. Damn. Hills. The entire city undulated, rippling beneath the weight of its history, and he felt it in every godsdamned step up to the top of this godsdamned hill. Which was on top of another godsdamned hill!

He was an Olympic athlete, for fucks’ sake! He was in peak physical condition! He shouldn’t be getting his ass kicked by a stupid mountain!

Next to him, a Greek woman breezed past him up the steps as she chatted to someone on her phone, effortlessly ascending the mountain in her four-inch stilettos, a designer bag perched delicately on her arm, her white skirt flapping gracefully in the afternoon breeze.

With a groan, he shoved himself up from his seat, wiped his forehead with his shirt, and continued moving upwards.

He should have just cut his losses and taken the stupid cable car to the top of Lycabettus. But then Hera would probably be mad that he hadn’t done it the “traditional way” or some shit, and he wanted Hera on his side right now.

Eventually, finally, he crossed the final step, and he staggered towards the wall, bending over at the waist as he gripped the stone lip. Tourists milled around him, their voices drowned out by the roaring of blood in his ears as he struggled to regain his composure. Again–he was an Olympian. Twice over. Literally. This was pathetic.

Closing his eyes, he held his breath, suppressing the instant cough that tried to burst through. It was a trick that Chiron had taught him when he was a kid–he just had to slow his heartbeat, and his breathing would follow. His buddy Jason had told him he did a similar trick to calm down after a sprint. It was nice to know that the technique worked equally well for both mortals and demigods. And after a while, his breathing did slow, and his heart stopped trying to explode out of his chest. However, that just meant that he was ever more acutely aware of his stomach, tight with nerves.

And this wasn’t even the last stop on his little pre-games tour.

Slipping around the crowds of tourists, he made his way over to the little white church at the top of the hill, dodging selfie sticks and stuffed backpacks, until he reached a short, black-iron gate. Stopping quickly to scratch the ears of the tabby cat who lounged in front, he slipped through the gate, making his way through the slightly overgrown garden, until he reached the mouth of a cave, hidden from mortal eyes.

He was surprised neither Nico nor Hazel hadn’t known about the shrine. Underground was generally their area of expertise, especially Hazel, but Percy had only heard about this place from Luke, who had heard it from one of his half-siblings, who had wanted to marry his girl there. Presumably, said girl was also a demigod, because who else would want to get married at an ancient shrine to Hera?

Not Percy, anyway. Besides, he had a feeling that his wedding, whenever it was, would be held in a certain cathedral in a certain Nordic city.

Still, it probably wouldn’t hurt to put in an offering to the goddess of marriage.

Despite the size of the cave, the shrine was fairly small. Presumably it had been much bigger in ancient times. Encircled by columns in various states of decay, in the center of the chamber, an eternal flame still flickered, resting atop an unblemished table made of ivory and gold. Behind, the chryselephantine cult statue of Hera stood, as tall and imperious as always. (Percy had met her once, when he was tasked with rescuing a sacred bird. As the child of a broken marriage vow, Percy got the sense that he wasn’t her favorite person.)

From the plastic bag, he withdrew a red, paper box, honey already leaking out from the bottom. Resisting the urge to lick his fingers, he opened the lid, revealing twelve sticky dough balls from the best loukoumades place in Athens. And he would know. He’d eaten plenty of them.

There really was no script for this sort of thing, so Percy just decided to speak from the heart. “Lady Hera,” he said, presenting the box, “I come to ask for your blessing for my upcoming wedding.”

The fire seemed to respond to the food, the smoke almost grasping for it with blurry, spectral fingers.

Perhaps he was jumping the gun a little bit. He hadn’t even asked Annabeth yet. But he might not get another chance to hike back up the hill before training began, and he wouldn’t be able to rest until after his race. “I’m going to ask her to marry me after my race,” he said, making his oath before the shrine of the goddess, “and I would be most grateful for your blessing when the time comes.”

The statue said nothing, looking down her nose at him, but when he tossed in the box of sweets, the fire rose up, a cozy, burnt orange, the pops and hisses of melting sugar almost playful, filling the cave with the warm scent of cinnamon and honey.

Well, that was about as much answer as he could probably have expected.

Without another word, he bowed to the shrine, then took his leave, edging his way out through the overgrown garden, and the crowd of tourists surrounding the church. Picking his way down the mountain path, he checked his watch. It was later in the day than he would have liked, but not so late that he wouldn’t make it in time for dinner with the Americans who had already arrived for the games. The Greeks did prefer to eat late, after all, and jet lag was kicking all of their collective asses.

Two metro stations, a tram, and a ten minute walk later, Percy found himself at his final stop��the Hellenic Maritime Museum. The long, curved, building was nestled beneath a highway, facing one of the many harbors of Piraeus, its courtyard partly shadowed by the direction of the afternoon sun. Gratefully, Percy slipped off his sunglasses, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the new, less blinding light. Between each evenly-spaced column–intercolumniation, whispered the Annabeth who lived in his brain, and Percy smiled to himself–was a cannon or a gun or some other piece of modern ship equipment, pointed squarely at the smattering of tourists as they rambled along the edge of the marina.

Inside, the space was blessedly sparse, especially after the cramped, overcrowded Acropolis. The bored port officer at reception waved him past as he flashed his old student ID at him, never once looking up from his phone.

It was a nice little museum, although Percy couldn’t help but laugh as he rounded the corner and was immediately greeted by a replica of the Artemision Bronze. Two thousand years of wrongful identification, and his father still couldn’t let that one go. Maybe if Poseidon actually had the bronze trident, like he claimed, he should arrange for it to be discovered, and then they could clear this whole mess up, and settle the debate over the statue’s identity once and for all. Until then, however, the god of the sea would have to content himself with a sacrifice from a son who sought his favor.

Poseidon’s had been tricky. Zeus, to whom the Olympics were dedicated, got a sacrifice of the best souvlaki in Athens, burned behind some scaffolding in his unfinished temple. Hera, patroness of marriage, similarly got loukoumades from the best and oldest shop in Plaka, delivered to her at the top of the mountain. Athena, as goddess of the city and battle strategy, got a brand new Yale sweatshirt, which would hopefully flatter her wisdom-related sensibilities enough to grant him victory. Hopefully, too, she would be impressed at how he managed to dodge the security guards to sneak into the Parthenon to do the deed.

Ultimately, it was Estelle who came up with the perfect gift for his dad, because his little sister was a genius.

So there Percy was, a box of salt water taffy from the Montauk Salt Cave stuffed into his backpack, wandering through the deserted maritime museum, looking for his father’s shrine. It hadn’t been by the scaled down model of a trireme. It hadn’t been by the portrait of Percy’s two-centuries-older-half-sister, Laskarina Bouboulina. And it hadn’t been in the tiny, unmanned gift shop. Percy had even looked in the bathroom behind the check-out counter.

Frowning, he doubled back, peering behind every ship model, peeking around every corner, investigating every patch of exposed wall for some kind of sign, preferably one that said “Secret Shrine Here.” So engrossed was he in his quest, that he squarely bumped into another tourist who had wandered into the museum, who had been admiring the bronze statue. “Signomi,” Percy blurted, and then, hedging his bets that the man probably spoke English, based on his Hawaiian shirt, puka shell necklace, and sandals, said instead, “Sorry.”

“It is quite alright, Percy,” came a deep, stony voice.

He froze. “...Father,” he replied, carefully. Risking a glance behind him, he saw that the port officer was nowhere to be found. Hopefully the guy was taking a smoke break or something, and that his dad hadn’t vaporized him.

Poseidon never turned his gaze from the statue, his stare intense enough to burn a hole through it. “I trust your journey was uncomplicated?”

Percy shrugged. “More or less.” Zeus had let him live once more after trespassing through his domain, so that was nice.

His father nodded, slowly turning his head. “And you are prepared for the games, yes?”

Percy sighed. There it was. “Yeah, dad. I'm ready.”

He had met his godly father a few times over the years, which he understood to be very, very rare. According to Chiron, you could really only count on them showing up if they needed you to bring glory to their name. For Luke, it was retrieving a golden apple. For Nico, it was tracking down whoever had stolen the sword of Hades. And for Percy, it was winning gold at the Olympics.

His father hadn’t been upset at his display four years ago… but he certainly hadn’t been happy about it.

“Then why were you wasting your time with my sister, Akraie?”

“Who is–?” Of the heights, his brain helpfully supplied, then added Hera, dumbass. Oh. “You… saw that?”

He frowned, lines etching his face like an ancient cliffside, carved by water. “You think I am not always watching you? That I have not watched your movements with great pride?”

A warm thrill went through him, and he slung off his backpack, rummaging through it for the box of taffy to try and hide just how pleased that made him feel. “Well, if you’re worried about feeling left out, I got you something, too–”

“Tell me why you made a sacrifice to her.”

It was Percy’s turn to frown as he looked back up at his father. “I mean, I also made offerings to Zeus and Athena–”

“You asked her for her blessing for marriage, no? To your companion, Annabeth?”

The warm feeling turned to ice in an instant. “How do you know about her?”

“It is as I said. I am always watching you.”

Suddenly that was a lot less comforting than it was a second ago.

“I do not like her.”

“Your sister?”

“Your princess.”

Percy straightened. “Excuse me?”

“She is a distraction,” said Poseidon, grimly. “A liability. Many a great hero has been led astray by a woman at his moment of triumph.”

“It’s just the Olympics,” Percy protested. “It’s not like the fate of the world hangs in the balance.”

“And then there’s her background. What are you doing, cavorting with our enemy, boy?”

He gripped the strap of his backpack, knuckles turning white. “Don’t talk about her like that.” She was nothing of the sort. She was kind, brilliant, beautiful, funny, and made him feel every inch the hero Poseidon wanted him to be. And what the hell did he mean by their “enemy”? The opposing team?

Swift as a tsunami, Poseidon stepped towards him. Percy was a tall guy, about as tall as his father normally when he decided to swing by, but now he was forced to look up slightly. Gone were the Hawaiian shirt, the puka shells, the worn leather sandals, and in their place was a richly decorated sea-green robe, a crown of celery, and a stern stare. “Theseus was led to kill his issue on the false words of Queen Phaedra. Bellerophon’s union with Philonoe stoked his ego so high, it could only be matched by his fall from the heavens. I will not,” he said slowly, like a crashing of rocks, “see the same fame for you, my favored son.”

Percy swallowed, an unidentifiable pit in the core of his being, gritty and irritating as an oyster.

Like the king that he was, Poseidon held out his hand. When Percy could only stare dumbly at it, the god said, “Your offering?”

“Oh,” he started, snapping back to movement. “Uh. Right.”

Suddenly, though, he didn’t exactly want to go through with it. But it would be rude not to. So, with a little reluctance, he handed over the box, and valiantly kept his smart mouth in check.

Their business concluded, Poseidon nodded, turning away. “Glory to you, my son,” he intoned, dissolving into the air like mist. “And heed my warnings.”

And then he was alone.

“Heed my warnings,” Percy snarked to himself, slinging his backpack on to his shoulder. “Bleh bleh bleh.”

Mood soured, he made his way to the bus stop, sunglasses and frown firmly on his face.

His father was wrong. Annabeth was not a distraction.

She was his inspiration. And he would win that gold, no matter what.

#my fic #pjo fic #percabeth #pjo #princess sailor au #it's a christmas miracle!

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theresattrpgforthat · 1 year

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THEME: Map-Making Games

This week's games are centred around map-making or city-building games.

The Quiet Year by Avery Alder.

The Quiet Year is a map game. You define the struggles of a community living after the collapse of civilization, and attempt to build something good within their quiet year. Every decision and every action is set against a backdrop of dwindling time and rising concern.

This game uses a deck of cards and a map that the group will communally elaborate upon, picking up characters and elements of the setting to answer questions as the game goes on. You will play through four seasons, and at some point in Winter, the game will suddenly end.

If you like this idea, but would like to play from the perspective of monsters putting their lives back together before the Humans come back, you should try The Deep Forest, by Avery Alder and Mark Diaz Truman.

The Shrike, by sadpress.

It is early evening aboard the airship The Shrike. Far below us, rich pine forests roll past. It is fine flying weather, and the skies around us, for now, are empty. Soon pale miniature cliffs slip away beneath, and now we are over the vast dark sea. The sun's glow on the horizon fades. One by one the stars come out, but they fail to illuminate the waves below. We are hurtling in the quiet darkness. We put on our lanterns. Our voyage has begun.

The Shrike is a game about fantastical voyages aboard a skyship. It's inspired by Avery Alder's The Quiet Year, John Harper's Lady Blackbird, Italo Calvino, Ursula K. Le Guin, and utopian and dystopian fiction. It features four complete adventures (two multiplayer, two for solo play).

Adventures for The Shrike provide a level of detail between traditional game-books and oracle-based games such as The Quiet Year. You'll encounter people, places, and other prompts, but you'll also have the flexibility to build your own world and tell your own stories.

If you are interested in this game, you might also be interested in The Shrike Voyage Generator (which is still in alpha!

Cul-de-sac, by Clint Smith.

Cul-de-sac is a neighbourhood-building RPG exploring the connections, or lack thereof, between people living in close proximity. Players collaboratively create the occupants of a neighbourhood, what their lives are like, and what secrets they hold.

This game uses Tarot cards, with the Minor Arcana representing the everyday occurrences of the neighbourhood, while the Major Arcana represents significant events. The Neighbourhood centres on the families of the neighbourhood, and you will spend 12 turns exploring the personalities of the Cul-de-sac. Each turn has two phases: the Day Phase and the Night Phase. The Day Phase tells us about new events; the Night Phase tells us about the cult-de-sac’s personalities.

This game is a very interpretive game; it’s also simple and pay-what-you-want. It’s inspired by games such as the Quiet Year, and I’m sorry did you say street magic, which, as you might have guessed, have had a big impact on map-making games in the indie scene.

The Station, by pidj

The Station is a GMless worldbuilding game where players take turn answering prompts about a train, a station and the people. The Station explores how places shape people and people shape places in the vein of i'm sorry did you say street magic by Caro Asercion and The Quiet Year, by Avery Alder.

The Station uses no dice. It uses playing cards, paper (such as index cards) and points. The game is A6, fully illustrated and laid-out, and is 16 pages long. Play time is adjusted by setting the number of Train Progress cards required to begin resolution or by changing the size of the deck. Draw cards and answer questions to build a world. The prompts are genre-agnostic and you will have plenty of opportunities to ask your own questions of the table. When your time is up, collaborate to bring the game to a close in a bitter-sweet resolution. Spend points to resolve the stories of some of the characters you have collaborated on and bring your time together to a close.

If you like the quiet everyday magic of Studio Ghibli movies, this might be the game for you. The artwork carries a mix of whims and mundanity, and the game is set up so that everyone has some level of creative control.

What the Water Gave Us by JordannaGeorge

What the Water Gave Us is collaborative storytelling game about strange things that come out of the water, and how the community deals with it.

This game also uses a deck of cards, and players will take turns drawing cards and answering questions about what exactly is coming out of the water - and whether or not it turns out to be a blessing or a curse. The game plays out over the course of a four seasons, with the option to continue playing after the first year if you feel like you haven't fully fleshed out the narrative yet. It's simple to set up, with an easy oracle to get you started. If you're looking to tell a story specifically about seaside or lakeside towns, or if you like stories about the mysterious and unknown, this might be the game for you.

Questlandia (Second Edition) by turtlebun.

In Questlandia, you and your friends will invent a world from scratch. It might be fantastic or bizarre, from a remembered past or imagined future. You’ll paint a picture of your society and its people, their laws and customs, how they live and how they dream.

But your society is failing.

As you play, your characters will attempt to find beauty and purpose amidst the chaos of a changing world.

Questlandia is a tabletop roleplaying game that creates fantastical worlds in states of change. It may be medieval fantasy in a ghost-haunted kingdom, neo-noir in a roboticized undercity, or microscopic slipstream suburbia in a puddle.

The concept of Questlandia is beautiful and enchanting, and it lends itself to new and exciting worlds in which you can play using the same system, or re-visit with a game of your choice. The second edition uses a deck of cards as well as d6s: cards to build the world, d6's to explore the conflict that is befalling your beloved world.

The first edition of Questlandia is $2 cheaper, and can be found here.

An Altogether Different River by ehronlime.

It has been some time since you’ve left home, but now it’s finally time to return. To what, though?

The home you held in your mind, and the home you will encounter will not be the same. You are not the same.You can’t step into the same river twice. You can’t go home again.

This is a GM-less roleplaying game meant for 2 to 4 players and a single session of about 3-4 hours. It is inspired in parts by Downfall, by Caroline Hobbs and Microscope, by Ben Robbins. It is about a Town, the people who have left it and returned, and the people who stayed behind.

This is a game that is just as much about a town as it is about the people who live in it. It explores themes of change and growth, and the feeling you get when you go back to a town that isn't really home anymore. At the end of the game, you'll likely have questions unanswered, so if you like finishing games with a bit of bittersweetness, you might want to try this one out.

An archipelago-based fishing town, separated by its various islands, gathers annually to celebrate the turn of the harvest.

A collective of magical artists embarks on an ambitious project: a guerrilla public transit system powered by enchanted street art.

In a sprawling metropolis decades from now, breakthroughs in biotechnology offer citizens superpowers far beyond mortal ability.

This city that we call home has a magic all its own. It is wonder, and joy, and spirit — and with that spirit, we breathe life into our city together.

i'm sorry did you say street magic is a GMless city-building story game for two to six players, that runs three or more hours. Discover and imagine a city filled with life and vivid detail, packed with a myriad of neighborhoods, landmarks, and residents. Discover their true names, and the ways that they intersect—then set events in motion that will change or alter their relationships.

This is an enchanting game, with the breadth you need for any city, whether it be fantastical, futuristic, or modern-day. You can mix and match with different themes, and each player has a chance to imbue the city with their own personal touch. At the end of every round, one player instigates an event that will certainly stir up excitement, but wil usually won't be resolved by the time the game is over. If you're looking at establishing a setting for a game with distinct city sectors and characters that act as emblems for a larger neighbourhood, if you want a game that hands a series of story hooks over to the GM by the time you've finished, this is absolutely the game for you.

The author has also written a supplement that you can use to generate true names if you want some inspiration. It is called there are names more powerful here than our own.

#indie ttrpg #ttrpg maps #city builder #dnd #tabletop games #game recommendations

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rosalyn51 · 6 months

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emmalovesfitzloved · 2 months

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Introducing…

Louisa de Claremont (vol. i)

Seductress. Disturbing. Huntress. Mischievous. Romantic. Troubling. Calculated. Guiltless.

-All Souls Series by Deborah Harkness

#Louisa de claremont #All souls trilogy #all souls moodboard #all souls series #a discovery of witches #Book of Life #Time's Convert #blackbird oracle #the blackbird oracle #Matthew de claremont #Diana bishop #emmalovesfitzloved’s all souls moodboards #all souls

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teach463146 · 30 days

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View this post on Instagram

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#matthew goode #deb harkness #a discovery of witches #blackbird Oracle #Instagram

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bonnieisaway · 7 months

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Thirteen's father: Women cant master the sword, especially not you, you're too scared

Thirteen: Proceeds to master plum blossom defense, is trained in the twin blades art, prince of green cloud taught her to fight and a special skill, is trusted with the thousand demon daggers by Seven, the strongest shadow killer in the world would genuinely die for her, has thrown down with Blackbird, Manjusaka, Shimen, Seven, and the blind oracle and lived, stronger killer than her father ever had been because she has somebody to protect now, basically powerduoing her way through life with Seven, an entire extra sword in her hair that she's capable of using, proficent in hand to hand combat without a weapon, was able to survive Manjusaka when she had no weapon, her eye stabbed out, and was poisoned, has killed high ranking Stanians, fairly high ranking assassin just at the start of the show alone,

#scissor seven #killer seven #thirteen #meihua shisan #plum blossom thirteen #literally how did he fumble that fucking hard #“you cant fight” Thirteen:#Imagine shunning your daughter cause you think women are weak and then she's able to go head to head with almost every shadow killer #Imagine shunning your daughter cause you think she's worthless and then the strongest killer in the world is her number 1 simp #and would do ltierally fucking anything for her #i feel like i could keep going but im lazy

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kopfkino-o · 11 months

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The Seer’s Stone - Chapter Five

Summary: Elain Archeron is tired of being the “lovely, sweet gardener” everyone wants her to be. After losing her beloved, her humanity, her life, she’s ready to claim her own path forward with the help of her friends, Nuala and Cerridwen, as she searches far and wide for the mysterious Seer’s Stone: an ancient artifact of old rumored to once belong to an ancient Oracle. But will fate itself step in to stop her? Or will Elain defy the strings of destiny that bind her and forge her own path forward, choosing her own fate, friendships, future, and love, along the way.

Pairing: Elain x Azriel

Timeline: Post-ACOSF

Wordcount: 3800

Taglist: @downingg2001 @gracie-rosee @nivem565 // Let me know if you want on (or off) the tag list for future updates! Thank you all for reading <3

Read:

Chapter One | The Crone’s Trade

Chapter Two | The Oracle of Seraphyros

Chapter Three | Last of Our Kind (Azriel)

Chapter Four | An Empty Seat

THE SMUTTY STUFF - A PREVIEW

Author’s Note: Not saying I’m going to write a Tarqwyn fic, but also not going to say I’m not gonna. Writing Elain and Azriel together on page was so fun and I can’t wait for where their story here is headed 👀

Thanks for reading, y’all!

- Court

Cassian teased Elain the entire flight up to the House of Wind. He tickled the extra sensitive spot between her collarbone and neck, sought out only the hard updrafts of cold wind that ripped at the skirts of her pale purple dress, and pretended he was about to drop her not once. Not twice.

But thrice.

Elain was pale and wobbling by the time he all but dumped her onto the terrace of the House, his laughter so loud and rich it echoed off the red stone walls that made up the private home and stirred a flock of blackbirds perched amongst the rocks to flight. She would have thrown up right then and there on her brother-in-law's shiny leather boots if she wasn't half as much a proper lady.

“Rhys would have never done that to me,” Elain insisted, stumbling as she tried to make for the wide-open terrace doors.

Cassian’s laughter deepened further. “Well I’m not Rhys, and this is no Riverhouse. Best leave your expectations at the door, sweetheart.”

“I suppose I should expect nothing less from the couple who allows a magic house to cook and clean for them.”

“The House is our friend, thank you very much.”

“My point.”

Cassian cracked a smile. “Is it just me or have you grown some claws, Lainey?”

“Always had them," Elain said, throwing a smile at him. "You all just never bothered to notice.”

With that, she snickered at the look on his face and strode proudly into the House of Wind.

Elain found Emerie and Gwyn sitting inside, both women were slick with sweat and panting heavily, their Illyrian leathers and sheathed weapons somehow perfectly at home amongst the casual décor and sunny interiors. The former waved weakly at her, clearly exhausted, while the latter sprung up to her feet, teal eyes sparkling and a wide smile spreading across her freckled face.

“Elain! Cauldron spare me, I’ve been waiting to talk to you.” Gwyn grinned, bounding eagerly over to her. “I tried that recipe from baking club, the one with cinnamon and cardamom. I browned the sugar and left the butter out to melt overnight, just like you suggest, and well, the dough looked fine. But then when I put them into the oven, well, things sort of took a turn for the worse—”

“What she means to say is she almost set our new apartment on fire,” Emerie said plainly, the Illyrian woman's hazel eyes bright and clear.

“Almost, and did, are two very different words. Linguistically speaking.”

Emerie shrugged. “Schematics.”

Gwyn stuck her tongue out at the other Valkyrie. “If I wanted a grumpy opinion I would have just marched down to the Library and asked Merrill."

Elain cocked her head at the mention of the High Priestess, the woman and her moods all too familiar to her as of late.

“I thought you’d finished your last shift at the Library ahead of your trip down to the Summer Court.” She said.

“Oh, I have, but I still like to visit my friends there to catch up on the drama every now and then. Plus, I just... wanted to spend a little more time there before I depart for Adriata." Gwyn shifted nervously on her feet, her teal eyes flicking toward the wide expanse of widows. “I’ll be away from Velaris for two whole months if you can believe it. Apparently, learning the art of the spear is, apparently, no easy feat.”

Elain nodded, remembering the priestess's mention of her plans to travel south to the Summer Court to learn the art of the three-pronged spear from the southern court from their time spent working together on the details of Nesta's mating ceremony a few months prior.

All of the Valkyries who were comfortable with leaving Velaris were soon due to travel far and wide across Prythian to expand their knowledge of different weapons, fighting styles, and battle strategies. Gwyn amongst the ranks of them, and, apparently, the one who came up with the idea for the journeys in the first place.

“I hear Adriata is beautiful, though. Feyre often speaks highly of the city” Elain said. “And the High Lord who rules it."

Cassin coughed pointedly from where he leaned against the doorway.

."I've always wanted to travel south and see the white-sand beaches and bright blue water of Summer. And the Spear-Daughters of Summer are amongst the fiercest warriors in all of Prythian. Save for us Valkyrie, of course. But,” Gwyn shook her head, teal eyes dropping down to her feet. “ I mean, Mother bless me, I’ve never even left the Night Court before. The idea of traveling so far is just so... new.”

Elain blinked and a lovely, hope-filled image shimmered in her mind's eye.

Yes, so very new but how very beautiful.

She couldn't stop herself from reaching across the space between them and taking Gwyn's hand in her own, squeezing it once and offering a smile she knew was not her place to explain but one she could not suppress.

"I have a feeling you're going to be happy there, Gwyn. Truly happy." She said.

The priestess quirked a copper brow, her freckled lips parting as if to question the statement further, but then Nesta was sweeping into the room, her beautiful face fixed with a general’s hardness and a goddess’s grace, sword flashing silver at her side.

She paused in the doorway, straightening at the sight of her little sister, and raked Elain over with a critical eye that saw everything and missed nothing. Nesta’s lips twitched at the sight of Elain’s unruly hair, her wrinkled and wind-tousled clothes, the flush of green still on her face.

Then frowned.

“Why do you look like you’ve just survived a tornado?” Nesta asked.

Elain threw an accusatory look at where Cassian was leaning in the doorway, smiling smugly as he cleaned his nails with a hunting knife, wings splayed wide and haloed by the sunny terrace beyond.

If Nesta was iron and frozen flames, then he was steel and crackling fire. Two sides to the same coin, honed and tempered by sheer grit and determination. A perfect match.

"Bumpy ride," Elain answered sweetly.

"You're green. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Nesta. Just a touch... flight sick."

Her older sister’s eyes narrowed further. “Well, if you’re going to be sick, try not to lose your lunch on the carpets. The House is willing to do much and more, but cleaning up vomit is not one of them.”

Cassian barked a laugh. Emerie merely rolled her eyes.

But it was Gwyn who leaned in close and whispered to Elain, “She found that out the hard way.”

Nesta scowled. "I can hear you, Berdara."

"Perhaps that's the point, Nes," Gwyn said sweetly, tossing a curtain of copper-brown hair over an armored shoulder before turning to Elain and gently patting her arm. "I'll send you those spices you asked for as I find them. But, until then, best of wishes, Elain. The next time you see me, I'll be good and properly trained on how to drive a spear thrown a grown male's gut."

With a wide smile and dramatic flourish, Gwyn scooped up a wooden stave from the corner of the room, brushed past Cassian as if he were nothing more than a mere stalk of wheat, and sauntered out into the blinding light of the terrace and training ring beyond.

"Mother spare me," Nesta rolled her eyes, though even she couldn't hide the smile turning up the corner of her lips. "A few months out of the Library and she's got enough confidence one might think she's the future Princess of Adriata."

Elain only smiled.

A lapse of silence settled between them and Elain used it to glance around the room, noting the changes that had been made to the House since the last time she visited. The once heavy velvet curtains were replaced with light linens that billowed in the wind and light bright, natural light pour into the space. The old, dusty furniture had been replaced with more modern, but still comfortable, outfittings and nearly everywhere she looked a bookshelf lined the wall.

Even the marble of the hearth was new, the stone simple but chic and, above it, hung a portrait of Nesta and Cassian clad in armor and proud atop the high peak of Ramiel, swords raised and heads haloed with writhing crowns of silver flame.

Something in Elain's heart tightened. It felt strange to see this place, this home, filled with so many things that reminded her of her sister. And the new healing and happiness she’d found within it.

"What?" Nesta asked, the question almost self-conscious.

Elain shrugged. "Nothing. I just like what you've done with the place."

"You came all the way here to assess my interior design tastes, then?"

"No."

Nesta glanced over at Emerie and Cassian and gestured with a slight jerk of her chin toward the open doorway. Leave us, that gesture said. The former groaned as she rose and trudged, albeit slowly, on muscular legs for the door, collecting a longsword and wooden shield as she went. The latter merely winked, blowing Elain a kiss and offering Nesta a look that would have had anyone else blushing red before swaggering out to the training ring.

Finally alone, Nesta let her guard down, the hardened general softening to a concerned older sister. Even the hard glint in her blue eyes seemed to ease up.

"Is everything okay? Your head, the visions?" She asked softly.

"Yes, Nesta. I'm—"

"And Feyre, the babe?"

"Everything is fine, Nesta. I swear it.” Elain assured feverishly. “I've just come to fetch a book, that's all. No need for any worries. Everything is perfectly fine. ”

Nesta blew out what very well might have been a sigh of relief but then the worry furrowing her brow turned hard one more and the thin line of her lips became a scowl.

"You came all the way here for a bloody book?"

Elain nodded. "I need it for a gardening project. The collection of the local flora and fauna is far more impressive in the library here than in the one Rhys and Feyre keep at the Riverhouse."

The lie came so easily it felt almost as if it were the truth.

Elain's gut twisted at the realization, twisted and withered at the utter lack of suspicion in Nesta's eyes. Nesta, who she had shared every secret with. Nesta, who had always been there and always understood. Nesta, who was her older sister and closest friend. Elain had never lied to her, never had a reason to, until now.

Until these last few months.

A clash of steel on steel drew Nesta's gaze out towards the veranda. Once that might have hurt her, might have made Elain feel small and overlooked, but she understood more now, could See more now. She and her sister had different purposes now, new lives and relationships that demanded more focus, more attention. Nesta had her Valkyries and her mate. Elain had the twins and her gardens and her ugly little secrets.

"Alright," Nesta said finally, nodding slowly. "Ask the House if you need help. It can find just about anything, anywhere, but only if you're polite. Come find me before you depart. We can take the stairs together if you're feeling up for it."

"I'm not sure my body could physically handle that," Elain chuckled.

"You'd be surprised what your body can do when you put your mind to it."

Oh, but Elain did know. Perhaps a little too well.

But she merely smiled, grabbing her sister and hugging her tight, before bidding Nesta goodbye and watching, lovingly, almost enviously, as her older sister strode out to the training ring and her new life that waited within.

Alone and unwatched, Elain wasted no time getting down to business, hurrying at once for the stairwell.

The floor above was occupied by House of Wind’s library at the end of the hall with private bedrooms lining the narrow space on either side. Elain moved swiftly past them on silent feet, checking every other heartbeat over her shoulder until she stood before the closed door of the last bedroom on the left.

She wasn’t sure how she knew this particular one was his, only that she could feel it. Could scent it. She’d never been inside, never even been close, but she knew it in her bones.

Heart in her throat, she knocked once.

And waited.

When there was no answer she knocked again, louder now.

Again, no answer.

So Elain rallied her spirits, forcing down every worry and fear that warred within her and tried the doorknob. Unlocked. She glanced one last time down the hallway towards the stairwell before slowly pushing the door open.

The space beyond was well-lit, the linen curtains thrown away from the wide panel of windows that illuminated the meticulously neat and utterly empty room.

The worn leather couch was unoccupied and the nearby neat column of books was seemingly untouched. No cloak hung from the iron peg in the entryway and her delicate ears caught no whisper of movement within.

“Hello?” Elain called out anyway, nerves a maelstrom in her stomach.

But, again, no answer came.

So she gathered her skirts and slipped quietly into the Spymaster’s bedroom.

The scent of mist and cedar and something more floral hit her at once. It was so familiar, yet the space around her so foreign. Elain couldn’t stop herself from taking in her surroundings, feeling as if she'd d stepped into another realm, a world entirely of his own that gave her the chance to steal an intimate look into his personality.

The unlit heart was completely devoid of ash or burned logs as if it’d been a long time since a fire had been lit within it, if ever at all. Nearly every visible surface was lacking even a speck of dust and every single thing within the room seemed to have a methodically dedicated place.

Artwork hung on the walls, some pieces clearly done by Feyre’s hand, others older, more classic. A long bookshelf occupied the western wall and was stuffed full of books and greenery and trinkets from worlds Elain could only ever dream of visiting. Whirling golden instruments from the Dawn Court, fur-trimmed masks from the Winter Court, and tiny, carved wooden bobbles that could only hail from the Human Lands.

A potted Kingsflame flower bloomed in the corner, healthy and vibrant as if it’d been tended to both night and day, while a collection of seedlings were just now greening on the window sill. A star-sphere and a looking glass sat upon a nearby table, a bushel of carefully dried flowers and a worn hunting tapestry hung carefully above it.

And the books, Mother bless him, there were so many books. Perhaps even enough to rival the collection in the Library just down the hall. They occupied every spare space, all neatly stacked with obvious care.

Elain drifted further into the room, rounding a cutout in the wall and mounting a small set of stairs up to where a large, four-poster bed occupied most the space. It was made, clearly long-since slept in, but the bedding was surprisingly worn, the cobalt and amethyst quilt threadbare and bearing the hallmarks of something obviously handmade.

She found what she was looking for just beyond the bed.

The large, elegant desk was framed perfectly by a cascading beam of sunlight as if it’d been waiting just for her.

The stacks of papers atop it were neat, the collection of scrolls and tomes in the cubby nearby even neater. A large ale glass that reminded her of the one her father used to drink from held a collection of quills and writing utensils, a fresh pot of ink capped and waiting beside it. Even the small astrolabe resting at the desk’s edge was clean and neat, the interlocking golden spheres polished so thoroughly they shined in the sunlight.

Elain approached it as if she were in a dream, her attention clouded by her plan.

Find a map of the Prison, commit to memory, and bring it back to Kalla and the Twins so they could help her design a plan for infiltration. Find the fragments of the Stone, find the Staff.

Easy enough, Elain thought sarcastically.

She opened the unlocked center drawer and began to shuffle through the papers inside. Her eyes flew over the papers, drinking in different codenames and dossier titles and reports from spies in any and every court. If there was a secret, it was here. If there was any kernel of hidden knowledge, it was here. None of it mattered to her, though. Her course was set, her mind decided.

The Prison, the Middle, the Autumn Court. The Stone, the Staff, the—

"I never took you for a snoop."

Elain jumped at the low, soft voice and her hand immediately fell away from the map of the Prison she'd wriggled free, flashing instead to the dagger concealed at her side, and whirled.

Only to find Death standing in the doorway.

Azriel was dressed all in black: black knee-high leather boots, black leather breeches, a black tunic with black iron fastenings, black scaled pauldrons with matching black gauntlets, and a black cloak that flowed from his shoulders like smoke, even his hair was fully black in this light, but his eyes were bright gold and his face was flushed with life and color, as if he'd just come off a cold wind. Shadows swarmed around him, snakes twinning and whispering around his hands and shoulders, already murmuring her secrets.

Beautiful. Terrifying. A face she’d seen in countless dreams.

Elain snapped her hand behind her back, straightening at the sight of him, and forced a demure smile, steeling herself against his assessing gaze until she was nothing more than a trembling fawn. Innocent, unaware, and entirely unassuming.

"Cassian asked me to fetch something," She said sweetly.

Azriel only cocked his head. "Did he?"

"Training plans. For the Valkyrie’s afternoon drills."

Azriel took another step into the room, shadows swirling. One in particular curled around his neck and murmured in his ear, whatever secrets it whispered drawing a small smile across his lips.

“They tell me when you lie, you know.” He said softly.

Cauldron spare me.

Elain swallowed hard, racking her brain for an excuse. “Nesta asked me to help find your travel long. She wanted to know if you'd be back before the Valkyries head out for their trips abroad."

"That's not it either, is it."

He took a step.

"Mor was worried about you."

Another step.

"You lie again."

They were so close now she could smell the wind on him, could see the veins of emerald in his hazel eyes. Could see the pale smattering of freckles that graced his cheeks, tiny constellations dusting his golden skin as if the Mother herself had tossed them there.

“I needed a map.” Elain breathed.

Azriel hummed. “That’s more like it.”

He reached behind her and gently plucked up the documents she'd discarded between scarred fingers. Elain watched anticipatingly, heart hammering in her chest, as he unfolded them and studied the various maps of the Prison Isle with eyes that gave away nothing. A beautiful, tortuous face that gave away absolutely nothing.

“Why?” He asked after a long moment.

Elain straightened. “It’s none of your business.”

“Is it not?" Azriel countered. "You are here in my bedroom, uninvited, trying to steal from me after all."

“I wasn’t stealing, merely borrowing. And your door was unlocked besides.”

Azriel leafed through the maps again, hazel eyes churning. Unable to bare the tension between them, Elain eached for the map and tried to snatch it from him, but he was too tall, too fast, for her to even come close. Instead, she found her fingers curling over the strong expanse of his forearm, his burnt skin warm beneath her grip. Their eyes met over the sparse space between them.

This was a mistake.

Elain yanked her hand away, fumbling as she took a step back. The edge of the desk pressed into the column of her spine but the dul pinch was a welcome reprieve from the heat building in her blood. Mother spare her, why did he have to have this effect on her?

"Why?" Azriel asked again, voice softer this time.

Elain sighed. "I just...I need to see if something's there. If something I thought might not be real is, in fact, very real after all."

"You saw something."

I wasn't a question. And Elain certainly wasn't about to answer. She tried to draw further away from him, desperate to put space between them, if only to stop the strange feeling that swirled in her belly whenever he was near, but Azriel only drew nearer.

"The Prison is not to be considered lightly," Azriel said. "The Isle itself is largely uncharted. The land is just as much a monster as the creatures locked away on it. It's law unto itself, unchecked and untamed."

"Right, because I'm utterly incapable of taking care of myself. I suppose you've forgotten it was me who stabbed the King of Hybern just like everyone else."

Elain could see the blow land. Something in Azriel's eyes flickered out at her words, the harshness with which she spoke them, but Elain refused to let herself feel guilt over them.

Desperate to be away from her, from the weight of his sad hazel eyes, Elain moved to shove past him. She didn't need the physical maps to navigate the Prison's vast isle and complex passageways. The mere glimpse of documents was all she needed. Her magic could help her recall them later, and in near-perfect detail too.

Azriel's hand flashed out and caught her wrist. A bolt of static skittered up her skin from where their bodies touched. "I don't doubt you, Elain. I never have." He said gently. "But you just can't wander into the Prison without a plan. There are residents there who scare even Rhysand. Who scare even me. I won't let you go alone."

"I'm not going alone. I do have friends, you know."

“The twins might be privy to a lot of things, but access to the Prison is not one of them. Rhys has only granted myself and a select other few the ability to bypass the wards there. No one else could ever even dream of getting past that sort of magic without his knowledge. Or his approval." Azriel released her wrist. Her skin felt cold without the warmth of his touch. "And something tells me you don't intend to ask Rhysand for that."

"Rhys would grant me a palace amongst the stars if I asked nicely enough. Feyre too, for that matter." Elain said defiantly. She wasn't going to back down on this, not now that she'd finally spoken her mind. "Besides, I don't need Rhysand's permission. I don't need anyone's."

Azriel chuckled, the sound sending his shadows skittering and warmth radiating through her bones. "I’m not sure I’d call that spelllspinner you’re hiding away in the Library a friend. She’s far from trustworthy from what I’ve gathered.” He said and Elain did not fail to note the sly little smile that curved his lips. He knows about Kalla then. She did her best to master herself, unwilling in letting him know he’d surprised her with that reveal. “It’s not like she’ll do you much good, either way,” He continued. “One mere tug at the threads of those binding the spells to the Prison and your spellspinner will scramble her mind so thoroughly she'll forget her own name.”

Elain had been afraid of that. While Kalla was confident within her own abilities to manipulate and break the threads of magic, the twins hadn’t been so convinced, both Nuala and Cerridwen afraid of something exactly like this. The Prison was old, they’d warned her, and it’s magic older still. Breaking past those wards would be no easy task, especially not without Rhys or someone who carried his expression permission to step foot on the Prison Isle.

But Elain had hoped, Mother had she hoped…

Closing her eyes, Elain drew in a long, steadying breath and loosed it on a slow exhale. "Are you going to try and stop me?" She asked him finally.

“No. Never.”

“Then what do you want, Azriel?”

Now it was the shadowsinger who drew in a deep breath of his own. Azriel met her eyes when he finally answered, his voice soft but resolute. “Let me help you, and Nuala and Cerridwen, with… whatever it is you’re trying to do. I won’t ask questions, won’t pass judgment, only lend help where I can.” He said. “You want on the island without Rhys or Feyre knowing? Fine, consider it done. The Prison is no place for recklessness. I won’t stop you, Elain, but I’ll be damned if I don’t do everything in my power to try and keep you safe.”

Azriel extended the maps he’d caught her with as if he were offering an olive branch. Elain could only stare at him. His words were both hope and heartbreak.

“You don’t have to face the darkness of that wretched place alone. Let me help you, Elain.” The spy master of the Night Court, the man who they claimed was Death given form, pressed. “Let me face that darkness with you.”

Elain eased the maps from his burnt fingers and tucked them into the pocket hidden in her cloak lining before meeting Azriel’s hazel eyes. She offered him only one word in answer before brushing past him and striding from the room.

“Fine.”

#The Seer's Stone #The Seer's Stone fanfic #elriel fanfiction #acotar fanfiction #elriel #pro elriel #elain archeron #azriel shadowsinger #acotar fanfic

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