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adrift-in-thyme · 3 months

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Febuwhump Day 4: Obedience (Link/Midna)

Ao3

CW for blood and injury, torture, and mild body horror

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Midna is no stranger to the sound of screams.

Her people had cried out when Zant had taken the throne and transformed her beautiful kingdom into something dark and twisted. Their cries of agony and anguish had echoed in her ears as she fled, a hideous imp, humiliated and furious. And they have remained with her all this time, spurring her onward toward salvation and victory.

But the noise that fills the air now is terrible in its own right. It pierces her skull and sets her heart racing erratically in her chest. And it feels as though it has been going on for eternity.

In reality, however, it has probably only been a few minutes. It doesn’t matter though. Midna has never derived joy from seeing Link suffer. This time is no different.

“Midna,” Zant’s leering voice reaches her ears once more, cascading smoothly over the waning sound of the hero’s hoarse screams. “Be an obedient dear and lend me your power. Do so and your precious, little human need not suffer further.”

Midna’s gaze travels down to where Link kneels mere feet away from her. His body is rigid, held in place by invisible bindings. His cap has fallen a short distance from him; his tunic and pants are splotched with mud, sweat, and blood. Tears stream down his ashen cheeks and well in his eyes, turning their gray the color of a stormy sky. But there is fire in them.

“Don’t,” he gasps, voice painfully ragged. “Please, Midna.”

Zant flicks a hand and the hero tenses further, an agonized whine breaking free.

“Quiet, dog,” he growls. “Count yourself lucky that I have allowed you the dignity of this form rather than letting the twilight have its way with you.”

“Lucky?” Midna shrieks, unable and unwilling to restrain herself. The nerve of this man! Calling himself her king, banishing her from her kingdom, demanding her aid…and now, hurting the hero. Her hero. “Being a human in a twilight realm is excruciating and you know that full well!”

“Come now, Midna,” Zant purrs, rounding her once more. His attempts at sweetness are as sour as his breath. “Calm yourself. This…human is pathetic in comparison to us. He has enjoyed the fruits of his people’s cruelty for far too long. It is time he felt some small portion of what we have endured.”

Midna is seething now. If only she were in her true form. If only she had that shadow crystal. She would rip this monster’s limbs off and cast him into the light-filled world he so detests.

“What we’ve endured?” She spits. “What about the things my people have suffered by your hand? You call yourself their king while you turn them into disgusting beasts!”

She kicks out, struggling against her bonds. But they hold fast, as suffocating and restrictive as this world.

“I have made the kingdom what it long should have been,” Zant replies, tone darkening. “You would have had it fall into obscurity and disrepair. You would have had our people forget all that they have endured because of the light dwellers.

“But you evade the question, my fallen princess. Will you help me or not?”

Link’s eyes find hers. He is breathing hard, shuddering beneath the weight of his own form. And yet, he smiles. It is only the slightest upturn of the lips, like a thread of twilight stretching bravely into the world of light. But Midna sees it all the same.

“Never.”

The word when she speaks it, shatters the momentary silence. She doesn’t have to see him to know Zant’s expression has turned murderous.

(Though, if she’s being honest, does it ever not look murderous? The man is vile.)

Her eyes, however, are only for Link. He is looking at her with pride in his gaze, pride and…maybe the beginnings of something else? She can’t be certain.

Whatever it is, she doesn’t deserve it.

“No?” Zant laughs and it seems to echo in the cavernous space. “Well then. You truly have fallen far Midna, to conspire with light dwellers in such a way. It nauseates me!”

Power surges through the air, a projectile of pure darkness slicing its way toward the hero. The energy it emanates is so dark, so sinister the air reverberates with it.

Midna gasps as she realizes what is about to happen. With an enraged screech, she struggles even harder than before. But she is helpless to stop it.

Darkness, fierce and sharp, collides with Link’s chest. It keeps going, shoving aside flesh and muscle and bone to burrow deep into his heart. His eyes go wide, blood bubbling from his lips as he chokes on a cry.

“This light dweller pretends to care for you and your world,” Zant sneers. “Perhaps, then, he will enjoy internalizing the shadows you inhabit.”

A skull-shattering scream pierces the air. Link thrashes, fighting desperately to get loose. Streaks of black crawl across his skin now, craters of molten obsidian amongst bloodless white.

“I wonder how much he can take before he breaks,” Zant muses.

He twists sleeve-hidden fingers and abruptly, Link crumples. Shadows dance in the air around him as he transforms. And then a beast lays twitching on the ground before her.

“No, stop!” The shout breaks free before she can restrain it.

But Zant doesn’t seem to even hear her. He is too enraptured by his own sadistic glee at Link’s agony.

The shadows around him grow thicker now, more potent. The obsidian marks spread like jagged lines of ink and blood oozes in their wake. They mar the hero’s lush gray coat, trickle into his once-bright eyes.

Midna inhales a ragged breath. If she doesn’t stop this, if she doesn’t act Link will die. That cannot happen.

She needs him to help her save her kingdom and her people. She needs him to save that little country town of his, and the kids who gaze at him like he is the sun itself, and the family he adores despite how they so violently despised his wolf form. She needs him to save the land Zelda has sacrificed so much for, the land Link looks upon with wonder.

She needs…she needs him.

So, she takes a deep breath and focuses. There is a crack, she realizes with a spark of hope, in the magic Zant is using to restrain her. She isn’t certain how she didn’t see it before. Perhaps, it wasn’t even there before.

It doesn’t matter. All that’s important is the way she can exploit it.

Midna forces her hands inside it, pulls it wider and wider until it is a gaping hole. Then, she shoves herself through, shattering her bonds as she does so. And when she opens her eyes once more, she is free.

She hits the ground with a dull thud and scrambles up. Zant whirls to face her, a screech of indignation ringing out as he unsheathes his swords. But she is too fast for him.

Fiery locks fly free, scooping the still-shuddering hero into their silken folds. Magic surges through her panicked and quick. And with a burst of sharp shadows, they are gone.

She lands them in Hyrule Field, for lack of a better place. It is far from most villages at least, with their mindless terror and ready torches. Gently, she lowers Link into the blades of green grass.

She can only hope that the teleportation wasn’t too much for him. But what other choice had she had?

“Link.”

Midna reaches out, ghostly fingers brushing his cheek. The word hitches in her throat, traitorous emotion struggling to break free. Fiercely, she shoves it back down.

“Come on, you idiot! Wake up!”

As if in response, his breath stutters. Gray-blue eyes flutter open, flitting about in a panic before they land on her. He shifts, brushing his nose against her immaterial form. A low whine echoes in his throat.

Midna lets out a shaky sigh. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. He didn’t touch me. Worry about yourself like you should.”

Link huffs a breath, seeming indignant. But his efforts are weak. His usual snark is gone with his strength, sapped by the madman who had sought to use him.

Shaking her head, Midna turns to gaze at the castle that bravely rises past the horizon.

“You just hold on, Link,” she murmurs. “I’ll get you the help you need.”

And after that? She’ll find the might necessary to hurl Zant into the sun.

#febuwhump2024 #febuwhump day 4 #torture tw #blood tw #injury tw #mild body horror #angst #whump #trin writes #pre-lu #loz #twilight princess #midlink #I love the lakebed temple cutscene SO MUCH #and on my recent replay thought #‘hey what if link got tortured like midna was?’#had a bunch of dark magic poured into him instead of light #and lo and behold this came out

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joequiinn · 1 month

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Cirice | E.M. x Death!OC blurb

Eddie wakes up in the Upside Down, undead and trapped. A Reaper of Death begins to take a particular interest in the undead man who doesn’t belong...

[ for context: ramblings pt one | ramblings pt two ]

I make absolutely no promises that this will go anywhere because I am the slowest and most forgetful writer on the planet, but I thought maybe I would just post a lil blurb experimentally? Get some thoughts since I'm not very good at editing my own work? Also uuuh Death is an OC now instead of a reader insert because it became too complicated to write once I realized the scope of my ideas soooo... (@ali-r3n in case you were interested 👀)

Word Count: 1.2k

Can't you see that you're lost? Can't you see that you're lost without me?

Waking from the dead in the Upside Down was not on Eddie’s 1986 bingo card. Hell, if someone had suggested the concept of the Upside Down to him only a week ago, he would have looked at them like they were crazy. Places like this weren’t real. Shit like this didn’t happen. Especially not to Eddie Munson.

But this was very fucking real, and it did happen to Eddie Munson.

Eddie willingly ran into danger, into the arms of death for the sake of Hawkins, a town that never gave him anything, a town that came to hate his guts. This sacrifice was Eddie’s final act to save his friends, to save Hawkins. To save the damn world.

So, why the hell was he… alive?

Was he alive? Despite the obvious smattering of bites and lacerations that adorned his body, Eddie felt no pain, no lingering aches. It sure felt like his chest was rising and falling with breath, like he still had blood pumping through his veins. And yet… something felt very, very wrong. An unsettled air hung around Eddie, his mind wrapped up in an unidentifiable sense of dread. Something wasn’t right.

The Upside Down hadn’t been quite so frightening when he had friends by his side. But now, it felt colder, harsher, cavernous and empty. Every direction Eddie looked seemed like an endless dark, hissing and whispering with the promise of something evil. The Upside Down felt less like a sad replica of Hawkins and felt more like a dark, endless void.

Vulnerability washed over Eddie like a chill. As he took in his ominous surroundings, he felt like a small, lost boy, a child abandoned in a sick and dangerous world, helpless to find his way.

From where he was, presumably, left to rot by the demobats, Eddie carefully looked all around himself, afraid that he might see something terrible. Or worse, something terrible might see him. The Upside Down was void of any activity, any commotion, any life. It was haunting to see it oh so quiet.

Eddie looked down at himself, at his ripped up and tattered clothes. He could see his skin beneath the fabric absolutely littered with deep cuts, damaged and sure to scar terribly. He wondered how bad his face looked in comparison. Again, it struck Eddie as odd and deeply unsettling that he felt no pain. As he studied his hands, he realized just how ashen and washed out he looked - nearly the same color as the dead bodies he’d seen in shitty horror movies. An uncomfortable pang hit in his chest at that realization.

But he was breathing, he was still alive. He had to be, considering that he was consciously sitting here at this very moment. He had to be, right?

And yet, something within Eddie knew that he was no longer what he used to be.

-.-. .. .-. .. -.-. . -.-. .. .-. .. -.-. . -.-. .. .-. .. -.-. . -.-. .. .-. .. -.-. .

This place should not have existed. This pocket between worlds - this disruption to the cycle of life and death - went against all logic, even the flimsy logic of the afterlife. This tattered, disgusting, offensive mockery of the living world was strange and unbelievable - all creatures of the dead despised this place, were appalled by it.

But despite all that, Death was drawn like a moth to a flame.

This false world and its impossible wonders called to her as if in yearning; its sadness and misery spoke to her cravings. If she had a soul, it would feel a longing for this pathetic world.

Time passed differently for psychopomps. As beings beyond life and death, time was never relevant to their eternal existence. Psychopomps led the fallen to the afterlife, they hunted the living, they killed purely for the fun of it - what place did the passage of time have in any of that?

There were many Deaths of the same name, the same title. Perhaps they followed different paths, perhaps they had varying focuses, but the constant still remained - they were all Death. Of course, one might encounter variation - some referred to themselves as Reapers, others as Banshees, maybe Bone-Men, or even the Devil. But many had always been simply Death.

The particular psychopomp drawn to the world between worlds never referred to herself as anything other than Death. She never thought much on her existence, how she came into being, what her purpose was. She didn’t remember anything prior to this existence. She didn’t know if there was anything to remember. There were all sorts of legends scattered about the underworld and the afterlife, tales told by demons and reapers alike - there was a widely held, but not so far proven, belief that they were all something before becoming Death, but no one knew what exactly that something was.

Once this Lady of Death began exploring the impossible pocket between worlds, she found herself pondering her existence a little more often. Considering that this strange place shouldn’t have existed in the first place, it made her wonder what other paradoxical things could happen, what other unfeasible things could be true. Death wasn’t the only one drawn to this place, of course, as a variety of other harbingers of death also began to visit this uncanny mimicry of the living world. However, she did find it to be a remarkably good place to think, something that she didn’t exactly get many opportunities for - no, as a reaper, there was little time to pause and be left alone with one's own thoughts.

Death found herself often visiting this Undead World, as she took to calling it, taking the opportunities to contemplate the cycles of life and death, of infinite life and infinite death. And once she began to visit the Undead World, Death found it to be utterly fascinating.

First came the boy. A tormented child, trapped in the throes of unknown dangers, suffering day and night at the hands of demons beyond his greatest nightmares. Unfortunately, he got out.

Next came the girl, not quite a woman, undergoing absolute agony upon her arrival to the Undead World. Death hadn’t seen her in quite some time, so who’s to say whether she lived or died.

Perhaps that was why Death kept returning - between its many stretches of quiet, the Undead World would momentarily come back to life with utter chaos and woe before quieting down yet again.

Those moments of chaos, however, were mouthwatering.

Recently, the latest bit of excitement to come to the Undead World was absolutely fascinating - a whole party of mortals entered the world willingly, found their way into this place that had no right to exist. When that happened, it was almost as if the Undead World sent out a signal, calling out to Death to announce the latest arrivals. She wasn’t the only demonic creature to pay the world a visit, desperate to see the torment that would unfold.

And yes, it was glorious, the violence, the mortal foolishness and determination. Of course, curiosity came when it appeared that the mortals defeated the creatures that dwelled in the Undead World.

What did mortals want with a forsaken world like this? Why come willingly, why fight the native creatures of this disgusting place? The lives of mortals were an amusement to behold; humans were full of surprises, and Death relished in it.

She shouldn’t have cared why the humans came, shouldn’t have even paused to consider the circumstances. But the curiosity was overwhelming, her need to know almost consuming, so vastly out of character for her.

And then, she found her potential answer in a body left behind, a body that appeared dead, but wasn’t quite so...

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x oc #stranger things #eddie x death #will this fic go anywhere or will i simply abandon it :)#em

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wedonthaveawhile · 5 months

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The Serpents Hold // Chapter Seventeen

Summary: When Sebastian turns to dark magic to cure his sister, Nova and Ominis find themselves reluctantly thrust into a partnership to aid him. Amid the disapproval of Ominis' family, Nova wrestles with her growing feelings for him and also with the nagging suspicion that Ominis knows more about Anne's condition than he's letting on.

AO3 // Masterlist

Ministry of Magic Headquarters

Department of Magical Law Enforcement

Whitehall

London

Witness Details

Name: Nova Jean Fenwick

Occupation: Apprentice Healer

Date of Birth: 11 Oct 1873

Wand Registration Number: W-2738-UKR

Trial Details

Case Number: C-1892-27861

Date of Incident: 7th February 1891

Date of Trial: 23rd December 1891 [Delayed]

Date of Trial: 25th April 1892 [Delayed]

Date of Trial: 23rd August 1892

Nova fought to drown out the overwhelming sea of robes swarming in her peripheral vision. There were typically fifty or so Wizengamot members present during trials, but it felt like an endless parade of magical law enforcement was pouring through the doors draped in pretentious plum-coloured velvet. Each gown had a flamboyantly embroidered silver 'W' stitched into the chests, most of which were puffed out in an ostentatious display of self-importance.

Forcing herself to ignore the judgmental stares that loomed overhead, Nova used whatever time remained to skim through the details of her statement. Regardless of the countless rehearsals with Sebastian, she still felt like she was set to crumble the moment she faced questioning. As always, she was drawn to the sentence that frightened her beyond belief—hovering just above her scrawled signature.

I understand that any deliberate misinformation can result in severe consequences, including prosecution for perjury, termination of magical privileges or imprisonment in Azkaban.

In courtroom protocol, the Ministry legal team typically claimed their seats second only to the accused. Nova sat alone on the witness bench, holding onto the hope this meant the other key witness had chosen to abstain due to his families current circumstances. That optimism was crushed as the ornate doors gracefully parted open.

In less than a heartbeat, she had dissected Ominis from head to toe, silently suppressing the unease that churned in her gut.

He had shed his youthful features, standing taller and broader, the contours of his cheekbones and jawline now chiselled into sharp angles. He had traded his guiding wand for a sleek black cane which he clutched tightly at his hip.

His mother trailed closely behind him—an ashy-haired, skeletal woman who bore a disturbing resemblance to an inferius drenched in a thick layer of makeup.

Doesn't he bear a striking resemblance to his father?

…Speaking of, I've heard he's not showing any signs of improvement. If he's too unwell to attend his own son's murder trial, it must be dire.

The son’s fiancé is missing too. All the delays they've caused, and only half of them bother to show up.

Ominis retaliated with a cutting glare in the direction of the scandal. The ruthless intensity of his ashen eyes efficiently silenced the judgmental wizards, forcing them to clear their throats and divert their scrutiny.

Faris Spavin, the Minister of Magic, wobbled to his feet. The cavernous wrinkles of his sunken face stretched with the taut grin that spread across it. He shook Ominis’ hand and escorted him and his mother to one of the benches erected around the room in tiers.

The Minister sank into the plushness of his high-backed chair behind his grandiose podium. Silence shrouded the room - broken only by the rustle of parchment as he sifted through a substantial stack of paperwork.

"We convene today for the trial of Sebastian Sallow," he proclaimed, gesturing toward one of the Aurors stationed by the door. "Bring him in."

Despite Nova's persistent nagging about him needing a decent haircut and a respectable outfit, he was more prepared than she’d given him credit for. With slicked-back hair and a jet-black suit that looked suspiciously beyond his financial means, he exuded the atmosphere of someone straight out of the aristocratic section of the Daily Prophet. He was escorted up the shallow steps, the chains adorning the arms of the chair emitted a threatening clink but refrained from physically restraining him.

"These legal proceedings on the twenty-third of August eighteen-ninety-two," droned the minister, his quill springing to life as it diligently initiated notetaking. "The charges brought forth pertain to the engagement in forbidden magical practices that resulted in the unfortunate demise of both Marvolo Gaunt and the accused's uncle, Soloman Sallow."

His monotonous, drawn-out words regarding legalities threatened to lull the attendees to sleep as he delved into details and listed each high-ranking ministry official present.

Sebastian rubbed his freshly shaved chin absentmindedly, his gaze wandered through the crowd until it found Nova. He offered a comforting nod, though the gesture did little to alleviate the tight bind constricting her throat. She studied his features for any signs of reluctance, but he appeared remarkably calm, even exhibiting a hint of satisfaction as he turned to stare up at the bare bones of the Gaunt family.

"Mr. Sallow…” Spavin rearranged his notes, laying out Sebastian’s statement on the counter. “Could you, in your own words, provide an account of your actions and motivations on the days leading up to, and including, the seventh of February eighteen-ninety-one?”

Sebastian immediately had the courtroom captivated with his mournful recounting of Anne's curse. He didn't shy away from the gruesome specifics – breaking down the inner workings of the curse, how it slowly corroded Anne's body until her vital organs couldn't keep up with the struggle to sustain her fragile life. If left untouched, it metastasized. Any attempt to remove it only drove its roots deeper into her flesh. The crowd hung onto every word, their faces shifting from pity to downright horror.

“She passed away in St Mungo’s two days after my uncle. I held her hand…”

An ethereal tapping wove through the air as the enchanted ceiling simulated a gentle rainfall, dispersing over an invisible barrier before it could cascade onto the stand. Sebastian rubbed streaks of fallen moisture from his cheeks, the rain easing in tandem with his attempt to compose himself.

He recounted their sixth year, revealing how he scrambled to find a cure for Anne's suffering and happened upon the lore of an ancient magic-infused relic, avoiding any mention of unforgivable curses.

Nova had been mesmerised by the billowing clouds overhead reflecting the ebb and flow of Sebastian's emotions but was snapped back to attention as he delved into the crucial segment of his testimony.

"There was a rumour at Hogwarts around Marvolo Gaunt dabbling in forbidden magic." There was a hitch in his voice as he nervously surveyed the room. "It sounded farfetched, but with the cure within reach and no idea how to obtain it, I asked him to meet me in the catacombs."

For months, she had pleaded for Sebastian’s cooperation. It was a relief when he finally relented but he had stubbornly refused to disclose why. The sudden turnaround happened at such breakneck speed that she still struggled to trust it was genuine.

She sucked in a breath, but he pressed on without a hint of hesitation.

"Marvolo didn't have any knowledge of dark curses or dark magic, and he demanded that we leave for our own safety. Anne was on her deathbed, and giving up when I was so close felt like murder...." His voice cracked, and a distant rumble of thunder boomed across the ceiling as he sucked in a sharp breath. "He threatened to bring in the authorities and use force to drive me out. I perceived that as an attack, which resulted in a... confrontation."

"Elaborate on your use of the word confrontation," Spavin glared at him over the top of his half-moon spectacles, doubt thinly veiled behind the lenses.

"I tried to stun Marvolo so I could continue the search, but he rebounded the spell. That's it – the next thing I knew, I woke up in hospital."

"You have no recollection of anything in the catacombs, not a single fleeting sound of your uncle's arrival? The ensuing demise of both individuals?"

“No, sir. Nothing.”

Spavin let out a harsh exhale, running the tip of his wand through his thinning hair absentmindedly. "Mr. Sallow, we discovered traces of dark magic at the scene, along with a slew of poorly executed curses—all strictly forbidden by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Can you share your insights on this matter with the court?"

"I don't know much about this subject, but my uncle did. As for whether he used those spells in the catacombs, I can't say for certain, but that's my best guess."

An official seated near the minister's podium chimed in, "Solomon Sallow dedicated twelve years to the Ministry before being discharged for deploying a cruciatus curse to subdue an offender." The revelation caught the other court officials off guard, prompting a ripple of thoughtful murmurs. "It's reasonable to suspect he was well-versed in the curses you speak of."

Spavin silenced the room with a raised hand, "You, Mr. Sallow, triggered this chain of events. You delved into dark magic, invited Mr Gaunt into the catacombs, and, as per your testimony, engaged in a conflict with the deceased. Do you hold yourself accountable for the fatalities?"

Whispers erupted among a few scattered witches on the benches. A handful nodded in agreement, but the majority frowned and shook their heads.

"No, sir. I never intentionally associated with dark magic, and I didn’t cast the spell that ended lives."

Nova shot another glance at Ominis, her gaze snagging on his mother who glared back with absolute disdain. Her son was absorbed in a hushed conversation with a man seated directly behind him—He didn't appear to be a member of the ministry, but he also didn't fit the profile of a Gaunt.

“… Nova Jean Fenwick, to the stand.”

She attempted to heed Poppy’s advice of picturing the crowd nude as she took the seat conjured next to Sebastian, but her imagination didn’t cooperate. The countless faces of the crowd blurred together as they bore down on her, eventually landing on Ominis leaning forward in his seat.

He was clothed in a tailored ebony suit and bore subtle hints of Gaunt. Family crest cufflinks, delicate emerald lining, the serpentine head of his cane—every detail seemed carefully selected to flaunt his heritage. Despite his undeniable beauty, there was a bitter atmosphere that clung to him now, mirroring the emotionless expression formerly worn by his brother.

"Miss Fenwick," The Minister lingered a beat too long on each syllable of her name, scrambling to search for her witness statement. He squinted down at her until his spectacles dug into the sagging flesh around his eyes. "You were a classmate and friend of both Sebastian Sallow and Ominis Gaunt before their removal in their sixth year, is that accurate?"

“Yes, sir.”

"And have you maintained regular communication with both individuals over the past eighteen months?"

"I visit Sebastian regularly. I’ve had no contact with Ominis."

Her response triggered a low hum of gossip throughout the Wizengamot as Spavin persisted in his search for the essential paperwork, "You were present in the catacombs with Sebastian Sallow at the time of the incident… Post-incident, you obstructed justice by fleeing the scene and managed to elude authorities for over thirty hours.”

Nova fought to maintain an air of composure, though she was certain the blood had drained from her face. She'd invested hours fixating on the details of what had happened during Sebastian's supposed ‘unconsciousness’. Planning tirelessly and sacrificing sleep - all to satisfy a man who wasn’t even present. Now, the Minister was glossing over all her meticulous preparations.

“Reports were delivered to Marvolo Gaunt senior, courtesy of Professor Black, no less, suggesting you threatened a student to obtain a tampered potion, leading to your disappearance following the death of his eldest son.”

Upon hearing this statement Ominis eased back in his chair, signalling to the man seated behind him.

“Could you clarify your whereabouts during this critical timeframe?"

Nova didn't pay attention to the minister's question as Ominis' companion rose to his feet and strode silently to the stand. The disruption threw her off. She scrambled to grasp at the fraying strands of their fabricated narrative. A clap of thunder directly above startled her into a panic. Memories of her time in the room of requirement began streaking through her lies, despite her efforts to suppress them.

8th February 1891

Nova was stirred from her fitful sleep by the sound of a distant smash.

Her limbs pulsed in agony as she fought to haul herself upright, taking a moment to adjust her eyes to the dim chamber.

Having already been kept awake by his incessant writhing, she tried not to be annoyed that Ominis’ had now decided to pass the time with a clamorous game of wizard chess.

"Sorry, did I wake you?" His voice was raspy. His head drooped with every slow blink as if he might doze off if he kept his bloodshot eyes closed for just a second too long.

She was certain he hadn’t even tried to rest. As the initial shock had worn off and fear took root, she had to admit there had been some solace in being roused every hour like clockwork. His routine of resetting anti-detection charms and inspecting the door's security for the umpteenth time was a constant reminder that she wasn't in this alone.

"Don't worry about it," she grumbled, a sharp pain grating her throat with every syllable. She forced herself to swing her weary legs out of bed and drag her protesting limbs to join Ominis at the table. The furniture was a replica of that in her dorm, right down to the chip on the left leg courtesy of Imelda being a sore loser.

"You’re not looking well, Ominis. You need sleep.”

"I'm fine," he dismissed with a wave as his focus shifted back to the chessboard. "Knight to E three."

Her scrutiny of the deep purple bruises underlining his eyes shattered like the white bishop. The ceramic shards exploded across the table, showering fragments into her lap.

"Who’s winning?"

He scoffed quietly, sweeping away the rogue shards that had landed on his arm. "Chess helps me think."

“But how do you keep track of the board state?"

“I have a good memory.”

She rolled her eyes, seizing his discarded wand to summon parchment and a quill from the bedside table. "I can never tell if you're being truthful or just winding me up."

"Assume it's around fifty-fifty," he suggested with a wry smile.

"Are you being truthful or just winding me up?" she half-joked, smiling to herself when she detected a faint exhale resembling a laugh. "I'll ask Garreth to rustle up some truth serum, get some straight answers out of you for once."

Ominis’ smile tightened into a taut line as he sat upright, “Is that who you’re writing to?”

"Mm-hmm." Her eyes burned as she closed them to think, the feather of the quill dancing against her jaw, "He wanted to how the potion tasted and how it felt," she said, glancing up at Ominis, whose leg had begun to jiggle cantankerously under the table. "So, how did it make you feel?"

He sidestepped her question, restoring the chessboard with a flick of his wand and gesturing for her to make a move. "Ask me anything, I'll play the part as if I've taken veritaserum."

"You can start by telling me how the potion made you feel so I can let Garreth—"

"Forget about Garreth.” His tone wasn’t unkind, but the forced sweetness was masking an undercurrent of something less gracious.

“Are you jealous?”

She witnessed the instant regret flash across his features as he wrestled with the decision of lying on the first question posed.

She waited for his response, but the lingering silence seemed to serve as his confession. Not entirely satisfied with his interpretation of 'truth' simply meaning 'not lying,' she chose not to dwell on it. Placing the parchment on the floor, she selected a pawn at random and commanded it to move forward.

"Fine, forget about the potion, but I still want to know what you're feeling." She had initially associated the red rings around his eyes with sleep deprivation, but perhaps he had been crying.

He paused for a moment to tap his fingers against the table, his attention more absorbed in the chessboard than her question. "Pawn to E five."

“I know your relationship with your brother wasn't the best, but he was still family...”

Ominis let out a long exhale, pushing the heel of his palm into his eyes, "I've been waiting for the grief to hit, but it's not happening. I don't think it will.”

The wave of guilt that hit her was crippling, "I'm sorry. If I hadn’t followed Sebastian..."

"He’d have got himself killed," he cut her off, his grip tightening on the edge of the table until red indentations marked his skin. "The only reason I wish Marvolo wasn't dead is so I wouldn't be obligated to go back home."

Nova's gaze dropped to her hands, nails idly picking at the chipped wood of the table as she directed her knight to advance across the board. "You don’t have to go home, we'll find another—"

"Did you deliberately expose your knight just to fluster my humble little pawn?"

"Was that a bad move? I'm not great at chess."

"Clearly" he chuckled, though there was a hint of disappointment at the lack of a challenge. "Knight to C six.” His black knight advanced, striking Nova's pawn and scattering debris across the table.

"Hypocrite, you just exposed your knight to take down my little pawn!"

"Since you assured me you're not a threat, I'm going on the offence," he spoke sardonically, retracting his feet to narrowly dodge a playful thump aimed at his shin. "Any other questions? Perhaps on the finer points of chess?"

"You mentioned it helps you think," Nova observed, flicking a piece of her shattered pawn in his direction. "What have you been thinking about?"

He propped his elbow up on the table, his chin finding support in his hand. "I’ve been thinking about your wand."

"My wand?" She repeated, encouraging him to elaborate before her stomach lurched with dread. "Where is my wand?" With sleep under her belt and a clearer state of mind, she realised the significance of not being by her side.

"That's how my father established you were at the scene so quickly—the authorities must have found your wand," Ominis’ calm tone grounded her slightly.

"But if they’d had run a diagnostic, they would have seen that all I cast in the catacombs was what... a lumos?"

"No one believes you're to blame for my brother's death, nor do they care. My father's deepest fear is having no living heirs and the subsequent death of our family name. He's exploiting you to lure me out."

Nova gnawed at the frayed sleeve of her nightdress. If the Gaunt’s were in a frenzied panic trying to locate him, it might grant Sebastian and Anne a bit of peace to focus on their recovery. "Not to say 'I told you so' or anything, but you came dangerously close to falling into his trap when you nearly went home last night."

"Regardless of any trap, my point remains—I can use my cooperation as leverage to get you and Sebastian out of this mess."

"Me, perhaps, but Sebastian? I can't imagine your father letting this slide without holding someone accountable."

“He won’t, but it doesn’t have to be Sebastian.” He shifted in his seat, an ugly emotion trying to gouge its way out from behind his detached stare, "He's devoted to preserving the family image, but my brother has always been too erratic to uphold it. A crafted testimony from Sebastian could salvage the Gaunt’s public perception, it’ll sway my father to keep him alive. I'll negotiate a narrative that favours Sebastian too, it’s either that or I'll tell the truth..."

"But there's still no one being held responsible for your brother's murder."

"When Sebastian was rendered unconscious, he stayed that way. He’s oblivious to what happened in the catacombs. He woke up in hospital and was told Marvolo was murdered by the killing curse...” He forced out his words, his stoic expression crumbling as shame broke free, "At the hands of a disgraced auror who was expelled from the ministry for using unforgivable curses."

Nova’s stunned eyes hunted for any sign that he grasped the irony. He was perceptive enough to follow her thought process, desperately trying to convince her of his moral decency.

"I’m not like my father. I would never falsely accuse an innocent person. I thought perhaps Soloman would have approved, using his name to ensure Sebastian doesn’t go to Azkaban."

It was entirely plausible that had he survived, Solomon would have committed Sebastian to Azkaban himself. Ominis’ eyes flickered behind timid lids, they were begging for assurance he wasn't walking the same path as his family. Nova couldn't summon the dishonesty required to tell him this plan was morally justified. It reeked of Gaunt.

She reached out, gliding her fingertips over his clammy palm. “I need you to give it more thought. There are flaws." Their fingers seamlessly wove together as he allowed a captive breath to escape his chest.

"What flaws?"

"The most glaring one—how do you plan to convince Sebastian to spin the story in Marvolo's favour?"

Thoughtful silence slotted between them as his shoulders went limp in response to the apparent setback.

"...and how will you persuade the self-proclaimed Hogwarts star dueller to admit he was promptly knocked out…"

"I see your point."

She pondered how long it would take him to address the evident plot holes in his fabricated narrative, feeling an increasingly urgent need for a toilet. As the thought flickered through her mind, the stone walls responded with a faint quake, and bricks began withdrawing, carving out a rectangular archway. The other side of the wall was pushed away, unveiling a petite space adorned with a toilet and shower. A door ascended from the ground, seamlessly aligning itself with the wall and establishing hinges.

"We've got a bathroom," she declared flatly to Ominis, who appeared somewhat terrified by the sudden noise. "I'm calling off this match and making a beeline for that shower.”

"No need. You marched straight into checkmate," he responded, Nova's king meeting an immediate demise. "Once you're done, I'll give you a lesson in strategy. You need one."

"You're going to sling that accusation at me after your disaster of a plan?" Nova moved with a slight stumble on her sore legs toward the bathroom, but she paused at the door. "Ominis, has the 'veritaserum' worn off yet?"

"It depends on the question."

"Can you promise not to leave without letting me know? Every time I glance away, it feels like you'll disappear when I look back."

He turned around, his face stained with an unreadable emotion. "Do you believe I would do something like that to you?"

"No, it's just that… Well after you nearly left last night..." she squirmed, despising the vulnerability. "I just need to hear you say it."

"You have my word, I won't vanish while you're in the shower."

She emerged in a bathrobe clinging to her damp body, intending to borrow Ominis' wand for drying her hair. Whether it was the sudden shift in temperature from the steamy bathroom or some other factor, a wave of dizziness crashed over her. She reached out to grasp the bedpost before everything went black.

23rd August 1892

Ominis' legal associate presented a striking contrast to the two Gaunt’s in attendance— Portly, with a thick black moustache peppered with flecks of grey. Despite his solemn expression, a fleeting glimmer of compassion illuminated behind his tiny, round spectacles as he paused by Nova's side and conjured an ice-cold glass of water.

Nova swallowed her breathless apology, downing the entire glass in one determined gulp. Her eyes shifted from her stout saviour back to the man intent on diverting the course of the inquiry. "Could you please repeat the question?"

"Confirm your whereabouts following the incident," the elderly wizard's voice snapped with an undercurrent of impatience.

"If I may..." the gentleman lingering on the edge of the stand chimed in with a diplomatic clearing of his throat. He nodded respectfully to the Minister and locked eyes with numerous influential members of the court. "While I understand your concern for Miss Fenwick's safety in the aftermath of her harrowing ordeal, let's not lose sight of the fact that she is not the one on trial today."

"I beg your pardon?" Minister Spavin sneered, his tone far from respectful. "If I'm not mistaken, you're the litigator employed specifically by and for—"

"Correct Minister, I am a private litigator," he confirmed with a nod of resolve, "Alfric Battersea."

“The Wizengamot question stands. This is relevant to the topic at hand. If the witness fled from the scene—"

"A young, frightened witness seeking shelter isn't a crime, but if we're determined to discuss unlawful behaviour, Minister..." Alfric began with a pleasant tone, theatrically unfurling a crumpled sheet of parchment "In the immediate aftermath of the incident, this was circulating within Miss Fenwick's place of residence."

Nova’s composite sketch pulled taut between Afric's hands. She had believed all traces of those criminal apprehension notices had been destroyed, but it appeared Ominis had preserved the one they uncovered in Feldcroft.

"Minister, can you decipher the text from that rather extravagant highchair of yours?"

Spavin’s seat squeaked against the polished floor as he readjusted himself, a red flush creeping up his neck. "It states that Miss Fenwick is summoned for questioning."

"That's flat-out denial," Alfric persisted with a sharper edge. "It explicitly states that Nova is a wanted criminal, and the bounty offered would be astonishingly generous for an eyewitness, wouldn't it, Minister? Can you identify who issued this?"

Ominis' mother hissed something venomous into her son's ear, but he brushed it off with a wave of his hand, leaving her visibly seething. The courtroom echoed with a sharp crack as she apparated.

"I...I don't know who issued this warrant," Spavin stammered, descending into panic under the distrustful eyes of his associates. "Clearly, there was a regrettable oversight in the printing department."

"As the highest-ranking official of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, it falls upon you to identify and summon the responsible party. This poster stands as damning evidence of forgery and a malicious smear campaign against Miss Fenwick.”

"I don't know who you delude yourself into thinking you are—"

“Furthermore,” Alfric interjected, pre-emptively stifling any effort by the minister to speak, “the obstruction of justice you're trying to pin on Miss Fenwick should be placed on the individual responsible for fabricating this false arrest warrant. If you can't identify them, the repercussions for this act will rest solely on your shoulders, Minister.”

The Minister's attempt to argue sputtered into a strangled wheeze. Nova pressed her lips together, her shoulders shaking with the effort to stifle a laugh at Sebastian's ill-concealed snort.

"The matter at hand today scarcely concerns—," his words disintegrated into a series of disconcerted coughs, beads of sweat now glistening on his increasingly agitated forehead.

“Indeed, Minister. Our focus today revolves around determining whether Mr Sallow is accountable for the deeds of two vastly more senior wizards while unconscious.” Alfric crisply folded the parchment, securing it within the recesses of his cloak pocket. “Should the court view Mr Sallow’s defence unfavourably, rest assured this topic will be revisited for full oversight of all misdemeanours.”

Spavin frantically banged his gavel on the desk, attempting to quell the increasingly uproarious crowd. "Master Gaunt, in the absence of your father, I require a word."

That singular, frenzied demand for an explanation connected the dots. It was well-known, at least among those implicated, that Ominis' father intended to spearhead this trial. In his absence, Ominis was seizing the opportunity to sow chaos, forcing the minister into a panicked frenzy so he’d cut questions and push for the trial's immediate dismissal. It was a stroke of genius, but the remarkable convenience of it all raised Nova’s suspicions.

"Certainly, sir," Ominis responded, gesturing with his cane to summon a third chair beside Nova. Spavin's face transformed from crimson to ghastly white at an alarming pace upon realising Ominis had 'misunderstood' his intentions and was striding towards the witness stand.

He sent goosebumps rippling across Nova's skin as he took his seat. She attempted to divert her attention by counting the tiers of seats, the pretentious velvet cloaks in the crowd —anything to keep the painful memories of the last time she saw him at bay.

8th February 1891

Nova's bleary eyes fluttered open to find herself entangled in a mess of blankets at the foot of the unmade bed. Stubborn strands of wet hair were plastered across her eyes and mouth, sheets clinging to her dewy skin.

“When was the last time you ate?” Ominis' voice sliced through the fog. She hauled herself upright, the room swirling as she strained to maintain her balance.

"I don't know," she muttered. A mental veil had shrouded any memory prior to her arriving back at Hogwarts, any attempts to rupture it were deflected by mounting panic. "I doubt I had dinner yesterday."

“Then it’s been nearly twenty-four hours,” he grumbled with what sounded like irritation but was probably more rooted in concern.

He rummaged around in his satchel, managing to unearth a squashed bar of fudge. The gooey brown substance was almost pulp, but Nova devoured half of it appreciatively, licking the sticky residue off her fingers.

"Here," she lightly tapped the other half against his arm as he busied himself cramming the disordered notes of his partial scheme into his bag.

“I don’t need it. I’m leaving.”

The chocolate sludge turned rock-hard in her throat as dread constricted it, reflected in the grip she clamped on his wrist. "Have you thought this through? You don't know what you're walking into.”

“I know what I’m walking into.” His reply was flat as he used his fingers to pry himself from her grip. “If I delay any longer, you'll starve in here.”

She scoffed a humourless laugh. "You're being dramatic. I've gone longer without—"

"Step outside this door, you'll be seized by an auror, shipped off to a cell, and it becomes ten times harder to get you out." He clasped her shoulders firmly, his features stern. "After I leave, you need to wait at least a day. Any longer and you’ll be too weak to be left alone. I need to go now.”

Nova clenched her fists into her hair, frustration manifesting in tugs at the damp curls. He was right. He usually was.

“And if you're wrong? What… What if they think you're responsible?"

Ominis' gut-wrenching scream, torn from his throat by Marvolo's crimson flash of lightning, assaulted her ears like a flashbang. She had to clamp her hand over her mouth to suppress her strangled breathing.

“What if they use the curse on you again?”

He gnawed at a loose flap of skin on his lip as he extracted something from his satchel. His silence spoke volumes, punishment was inevitable, regardless of whatever strategy or leverage he lay at his father's feet.

“We’ll go to the ministry. To the department of magical whatever the fuck it is—"

He sneered, his words weary and hushed, "You couldn't imagine the extent of the favours Minister Spavin owes my father."

He twisted at a small leather pouch, fingers working the material until it began to rip. With a decisive unclasping, he spilt the contents onto the table, a glinting gold coin spun before hitting the surface with a resonant clatter. A portkey.

“I’ll be finishing my studies at home, he’ll want me kept safe within the manor...” Ominis’ facade of indifference shattered as he stumbled over his next words. “Until I’m ready to fulfil his expectations for more heirs."

The breath was expelled from her lungs and all efforts to suppress tears were in vain. She blinked, allowing the streams to cascade down her face and drop from her chin.

“So…” that’s it then.

Words jammed in her throat before she managed to get them all out.

Ominis' voice was strained, a fleeting pause followed a cracked syllable. He took a moment to collect himself before speaking with clarity, "I understand why you're against me leaving. You might believe it's what you want, but it's not."

"Whatever I feel for you is irrelevant!" She resisted the urge to raise her voice, well aware that volume wouldn't lend sincerity to her words.

"This was unavoidable,” he stated with a hint of anger underlying his words, though she detected it wasn’t aimed at her. “It was only a matter of time before you found yourself in the same place as Anne, and I Sebastian—tearing myself apart, forced to witness my family wringing the life out of someone I love."

Her vocal cords knotted, and her up-and-coming rant died on her tongue.

“You love me?” The words clawed under her skin, comforting and chaotic.

He looked petrified, but something that resembled acceptance graced his features as her heartbeats raced by.

"Your words have been ringing in my mind, repeating constantly since the moment you said you loved me yesterday."

"I didn't..." She couldn't muster a denial. Trying to pull any clear details from the previous night felt like grasping at air, and truth be told, she didn't want to deny it.

"You said my wand knows when it’s wielded by someone who loves me... Nova, my wand has backfired every spell cast by anyone who’s tried to use it." He delicately traced the tips of his fingers over the contours of her knuckles. "I've never heard those words before, and you said them so effortlessly. You meant it."

“I did… I do.”

“I was born to be a spare part. I used to think if this day ever came, it would be the worst thing imaginable. But it's not, because in doing so, I get to keep you safe.” He lifted his hands to cradle her face, dropping his forehead against hers with a gentle clash. "There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep you safe.”

“Your safety matters as much as mine, you deserve to be safe. You're not safe there, Ominis,” she kissed him fiercely. Her chest constricted with a hurricane of crushing emotions—profound misery, undeniable joy, panic, disbelief… “Don’t go.”

Tears blended as they spilled down their faces. Ominis tenderly wiped them from her cheeks with his thumbs as he deepened the kiss as if it were the last thing he'd ever get to do. Nova’s trembling hands grasped at his shirt to pull him closer, their bodies weaving together as they toppled onto the bed.

23rd August 1892

Sebastian, Nova, and Ominis convened in a line before the Minister of Magic who was scratching out questions he no longer felt confident enough to pose. Ominis benefited from preferential treatment, spared from harsh scrutiny, and instead faced gentle, open-ended inquiries.

“Regrettably my visual impairment hinders my ability to provide details," Ominis responded to the question similarly to the previous eight.

Spavin's frustration heightened with each repeated response until his knuckles turned white, and his tight grip snapped his quill in half. "The court is adjourned. Wizengamot members will deliberate, and you'll be notified of the verdict. Thank you." He gathered a handful of papers before apparating from the courtroom, delivering an abrupt end to the proceedings.

The cheerful sunrays from the enchanted ceiling dappled sunspots across the faces of the bewildered officials in the stands. Confused murmurs burst through the silence, before evolving into an eruption of chatter. The occasional gasp intermingled with the tactile sound of papers rustled as they were gathered and Wizengamot rose from their seats.

It took a moment for Nova to register that it was over, done. She wanted to wrap Sebastian in a hug, but he whirled around as an Auror clapped him on the back, offering congratulations for successfully making it through.

Ominis stood unwaveringly by her side, but she couldn't muster the strength to look at him. Tossing a mumbled thank you in his direction, she strode purposefully towards the exit, transitioning into a brisk half-run as she approached the door. She could send Sebastian an owl later.

Sparse light filtered through high-slitted windows, casting glints on the polished walls. Catching distorted reflections in the tiles and sensing footsteps trailing her down the barren hallway, she gripped her wand tightly.

“Nova?”

She was too drained to be startled. She envisioned Poppy's rose garden and prepared to apparate but hesitated. Considering she was this distressed, the likelihood of losing an arm to splinching made her question if it was worth the risk. She intensified the force of her footfalls, making it evident to her unwelcome intruder that she had no intention of stopping for him.

Ominis effortlessly matched her pace until they were silently walking in unsettling unison. Any attempt she made to speed up or slow down, he reflected with ease. With the silence between them beginning to breach the barriers of discomfort, Ominis cut to the chase.

"I would appreciate the chance to discuss the specifics of Sebastian's trial with you.”

"We can communicate whatever needs to be discussed through the post," she said, internally applauding herself for articulating a coherent sentence.

"I've heard in the event of a favourable deliberation, Sebastian will be living with you?" he asked, brushing aside her words with a blatant disregard.

Are you deaf now too? "Sorry I'm pressed for time, can you just tell me what you want?"

"Let's avoid discussing it here. There's a nearby restaurant where my family holds confidential meetings. Would you be willing to join me there?"

Her rigid shoes pressed into her heels as she came to a sharp halt, Ominis flawlessly harmonising with her sudden stop.

Deep-rooted warnings burrowed through her mind. Timeworn words of consequences and punishments if they were to be seen together. To think, he expected her to have a meal across from him in the knowledge of his impending marriage to Alice.

Yes, his father was in St Mungo's, there was no word of his condition being fatal. Was he just revelling in his fleeting autonomy, ready to cast her aside once Daddy reappeared on the scene? She found herself not trusting his motives, adding more fractures to the heart he’d already shattered.

“I’d rather not.” She replied flatly.

“It will be a brief matter."

Fury prickled under her skin as he once again dismissed her words. A parchment and quill materialised, the nib scratching out the date and time of his proposed meeting. Nova's fingers snatched the parchment from the air, the wet ink staining her hands as she irritably strode past him.

She knew she shouldn’t be so harsh. He had saved her and Sebastian and she was grateful - but confronting the memories of that morning was excruciating. A tangle of emotions twisted in her gut like a sickness and threatened to crack her composure. A memory buried so deeply she’d convinced herself it was a thing of the past.

9th February 1891

Nova groaned, burrowing her face into the tangled web of pillows and blankets. The distant chime of a clock chased away the traces of her dreamless sleep. Her giddy grin pressed into the fabric as her aching muscles clenched.

Ominis had whispered declarations of love, over and over, sealing the words with kisses against her throat as he guided her into the pillows.

A stretch of time, somewhere between minutes and hours slipped away. Touch-starved hands tangled in tufts of hair, thighs pressed against thighs, her head tilted forward until their temples touched. Her hair cascading around them like a veil, shielding them from the rest of the world.

She had fought hard to stay awake, determined to savour every precious moment. Ominis seemed entirely free from the weight of his responsibilities. His fingers trailed gentle circles in her hair and in the quiet of the night, sleepily professed his wish never to be without her.

"You don't have to be, we’ll find another way. Please, don't go."

"Okay."

His answer was hesitant, but it provided enough solace that she allowed herself to drift to sleep in his arms.

As consciousness began to spread through her body, the absence of his warmth pierced through her like a dagger to the heart. She squeezed her eyes shut, aching for the sound of chess pieces clashing and scattering across the board. She lay in the oppressive silence for an eternity, tears streaming through tightly clenched eyelids.

She rolled over, the dwindling ember of hope was snuffed out as her fingers scraped against a hastily scrawled note.

She was alone.

#hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy ominis #hogwarts oc #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #ominis gaunt #ominis x reader #ominis x mc #hogwarts houses #sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow x mc #ominis #ominis gaunt headcanon #ominis gaunt x you #ominis gaunt x mc #ominis gaunt fanfiction

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hsoppositezodiac · 2 months

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More info about the trolls (part 6)

Kurloz Makara | Mutantblood - Prospit - Seer of Rage

A street mime who does mimicking for a living, due to the fact that he's a mutant, there aren't many jobs available for him, and also because he's scared of Beforus’ culling policies. As such, he dresses only in shades of gray, black and occasionally white. He has sewn his mouth shut due to his former talkativeness and his terrible ability to keep secrets. He wears gray contact lens, the place he bought being unknown.

Like in canon, things such as his land, screen name, etc. are unknown. Though, his quirk stays the same, and his Fetch Modus is the same as Gamzee’s.

Ex-Matesprit: Meulin Leijon

Godtier? No

Cronus Ampora | Oliveblood - Derse - Mage of Hope

A weed smoker. What did you expect? Anyways, he is very into fantasy novels and is very faithful that magic is real, because he knows it, and doesn't let anybody tell him otherwise.

Like in canon, things such as his land, fetch modus, screen name, etc. are unknown. Though, his quirk stays the same.

Flush-Crush: Kankri Vantas | Pale-Crush: Damara Megido | Ashen-Crush: Meenah Peixes & Meulin Leijon

Godtier? No

Meenah Peixes | Jadeblood - Derse - Maid of Life

A quite rebellious Jadeblood who often tried to escape the Brooding Caverns and explore the outside world. Often being reprimanded by the other jades, she was always locked up in her room for a few days, her only entertainment being her husk top, where she met her friends. She wanted to live her life without the pressures of society on her shoulders.

Like in canon, things such as her land, fetch modus, screen name, etc. are unknown. Though, her quirk stays the same, except that instead of fish puns she now says bat & vampire puns. You'll probably get tired of them

Kismesis: Meulin Leijon

Godtier? Yes | Rainbow Drinker? Yes; she died twice, the first being pre-game where she got attacked by a rampaging lusus threatening the Mother Grub, and she came back as a rainbow drinker, surprising everyone. The second time was during game, on her quest bed.

#homestuck #bloodswap #kurloz makara #cronus ampora #meenah peixes #mutant makaras #olive amporas #jade peixes

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chocogi · 1 year

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Alchemist’s Assistant pt2 here

In which I got bored and forced Albedo to find a Skychild in Dragonspine

Albedo sighs, the wind whipping through his ashy blond locks. He tugs his coat closer by habit; he does not feel the cold.

He ducks into Starglow Cavern to avoid the snowstorm, before looking around absentmindedly for mint samples. There was something he needed to confirm, and he wanted to brew mint tea, or maybe make mint jelly as well, to indulge in.

He hums quietly, pulling out the mint stalks from the snow-covered ground and whisking them away to a small pocket dimension where he kept his weapon.

It’s.. peaceful here today, Albedo thought. Too peaceful. Has something happened? The alchemist sighs, his breath puffing into mist in the cold air.

Starglow Cavern was quiet today. Too quiet.

Shivering by the strange ice shard at the bottom of the cavern, The skychild stayed curled up by one of the red seelie’s court, cursing at its luck. One last time, it built up its energy to amplify its voice, and it let out a fully charged call.

Honk!

The call reverbrates through the cavern, but soon fades. It whimpers, scooting closer to the seelie court. Out of the fourteen wing charges its cloak can store, it only had six left.

The skychild doubts it can stretch those wing charges to get itself all the way to the entrance of the cavern. Especially not with it wearing the Chibi Mask that the Hide and Seek spirit gifted them.

The fur collar sown on its inner shirt can only do so much as to keep it warm.

The call echoes through the spacious cavern, and Albedo suppresses a flinch. What was that?

Summoning a sword with a gold handguard and blue highlights on both the hilt and the blade itself, Albedo starts to trek downwards, to where the call has originated.

The sword— Cinnabar Spindle— glinted under the light reflected by the snow.

The snow crunches underneath Albedo’s feet.

He wonders what’s down there. Was the call the reason why there’s no monsters here today?

The snowstorm rages behind him.

The small skychild shiver by the seelie court, flinching harshly when it hears something akin to a surprised hum. It scrambles away from the seelie court— immediately mourning the loss of the bit of warmth— with a shriek, mindlessly using the last six wing charges in a quick burst to propel itself to the top of the strange ice shard.

It whines, pained, from the sudden cold.

The source of the sound— a young man with ashen blond hair, a star on his throat and wearing a white, customized lab coat— looked surprised for a second, before he settled back to a calm face.

He steps closer. The snow crunches under his boots. The child scoots back ever-so-slightly.

He goes closer, till he’s by the base of the ice shard and it can’t back away unless it wants to wfall.

“Hello there..” He cooes gently. “I am Albedo. May I know your name?”

It does not answer, in a mixture of fear and confusion.

“Come on, let’s get you down from there…” Albedo mutters, purposefully using slow movements as he tries to reach up to it. “Come on, little thing, slide down to me. Why are you here?” He tries, but it whimpers and curls into a ball, afraid. Albedo does not look like its kin.

Albedo sighs, his breath clouding over in the cold. He backs away before using his elemental skill, placing a Solar Isotoma at the base of the ice shard. He steps on the Isotoma and it pulses, before it rises, carrying Albedo along. The skychild shrieks and instinctually move away, but Albedo refuses to be discouraged.

He extends his hand to it.

“Don’t be afraid, little thing. I won’t hurt you.”

Albedo cooes at the fearful child gently, patiently holding out his palm, waiting for it to take his hand.

“Come here.” It hesitates.

Albedo smiles, and summons a white, thin twig from Khemia, earning himself a gasp from the cloaked youth, as it scoots closer to touch it.

Its pale fingertips brush the fragile leaf by the tip of the twig, and its eyes widen as the twig starts to fade into chalk.

It scrambles to his hand, trying to cup its hands around the dissolving twig but when it peeks back in, the twig is nothing but chalk coating its hands. The child visibly wilts.

He chuckles, patting its head and summoning another twig. The skychilds perks up, letting out little squeaks and calls as it tries to keep it from disintegrating.

Albedo smiles at the enigma before him, before extending his hand closer to it again. And immediately, its filled with the hesitation it had from before.

But it takes his hand.

And Albedo waits by the entrance of Starglow Cavern, by a fire, waiting for the snowstorm to end with a buzzing, warm skychild on his lap.

#thoughtless meja #genshin impact #genshin #albedo genshin #genshin albedo #genshin impact drabbles #sky cotl #sky cotl drabble #genshin x reader #im bored. im supposed to be memorizing a speech

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kyouzen · 23 days

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If you want to draw code vein characters and color them using Eyedropper, I suggest taking a screenshot in the Ruined City Underground (Outer Crossroad) the lighting in that place is more neutral than other places

Warm Cool

Home base

Ruined City Center

Howling Pit (too dark to eyedrop)

Dried-up Trenches

Cathedral of the Sacred Blood(Characters look more orange)

Memories of Player(a bit greenish)

Ridge of Frozen Souls

Ashen Cavern (The characters look a lil green)

City of Falling Flame(too red)

Crown of Sand

Crypt Spire(too red purplish)

Provisional Government Outskirts(greenish)

Provisional Government Center

Gaol of the Stagnant Blood

#pretty random #but i know how random the lighting in cv is #and some artist still don't have a color palette so they use eyedropper

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alphabitchnkari · 8 months

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@skxrbrand

N’kari’s demonettes have been wandering through out Infernius, trying to select a suitable living area.

The ashen fortress is quite unpleasant compared to the desert, the very air stinking of sulfur. They finally settle in the eighth tower, right under the frozen god skull. It is officially the reaper’s tower, but Skarbrand rarely frequents it.

The demonettes are making the best of it, wearing luxurious furs in the coolness of the tower. A few has been cultivating plants in the meltwater, little spots of green thriving in the mineral rich surroundings.

The Arch-tempter himself cares little for the tower. He’s here for Skarbrand, and the reaper prefers his old lair.

N’kari eyes the surroundings with distaste. Piles of piles of skulls are spilling out of every cavern. It was dark, dingy, enclosed, a far cry from the bright and airy Wyrm skull of their past abode.

“Surely you needn’t keep every skull. Some of these are from mortals!” He complains to his beloved.

#skxrbrand #n’kari: you live like this?

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trollwizard · 2 months

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open quastion are yall in gay with each other

AD: well dog you speak like a human so let me break it down real nice and humanspeak for you

AD: all three of us are the mostest closest besties which is moirails in troll talk AD: weve been the most besties since we hatched outta the caverns so like AD: all our lives AD: anyways as we grew up there was some minor teen drama AD: as tends to happen AD: sigs got some black feelings for bit which means he wanted to make out with me but he was mad about it AD: anyways bea beeing beesties with both of us mediated which made things kind of ashen AD: its like having a therapist that holds hands with you and might kiss you on the top of the head when you do a good job AD: now were all smoothed back over and back to pale aka the aforementioned besties status AD: as for the gay thing gnuh well AD: i guess were all gay in our way but we dont like AD: we dont do anything too flirty dirty with each other if thats what you mean AD: i think if you asked sigurd or bea about each other that way they might yartz and or kill you with swords AD: AD: AD: bea is a good kisser though AD: didnt hear that from me though gneeheehee

#fafs chats #fafnir drakon #sigurd mensch #beabea pteran #fantroll #quadrants #fan troll

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jaggededges123 · 3 months

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Scar kiss

There are rare mornings, when things are quiet. A tutor falls ill and cannot teach Silas new theorems during his allotted lecture time, there's a little too much rainfall coming from the weather simulators for Colum to train in the outdoor arena, and suddenly, there is nothing to do except remain in their home while listening to the deluge outside beating on the plex windows and rushing down to form rivers in the streets.

Silas dives into extra prayer when this happens, first kneeling with Colum in the morning to say by rote together the invocations which have sustained their House for a myriad. He then improvises litany for the two of them, calling out to their Kindly Prince to bless them, and having Colum supplement his words when appropriate. Silas cries out in his deep, cavernous voice to the Lord for protection, for provision, for the proliferation of their House. Colum follows his necromancer here as in all things, breathing out harsh rasps in chorus. It borders on excessive, but then who better to be excessive in love and fervor for their God and House than the Master Templar?

By this point, kneeling on the hard faux wood floor of their abode has taken its toll on Colum's worn body, and the aches he gets when it rains make his hands tremble even as they are pressed together with Silas's in their intimate sacrament.

Silas notices, of course. The ever-watchful eye of the Master Templar misses not a single flaw in anything, least of all his own cavalier.

"I pray for my cavalier, for him to be a fount of strength for me, and for you to take his weakness upon yourself, in your infinite strength, Lord," he says, and Colum does not know if he means it genuine or as reprimand. "Let the cavalier primary of the Eighth House always enjoy every blessing that is yours to bestow, Lord. Let him love you as I love you, and give him faith for when he lacks understanding, and obedience for when he lacks faith."

"So may it be," Colum drones, and to his own ears it sounds maladroit. A direct reference to his own self has made it that much harder to paint over the pain with ceremony and reverence. He does love God, and Silas more than God, but his flesh is weak and crumbles more each year in his rightful position.

"So may it be," Silas repeats, signaling the end of this prayer if not the entire chain of them.

Colum opens his eyes, a little hopeful that this one might be the last, and he might be allowed to stretch or bathe himself in warmth. His young uncle's face is pinched in concentration, but Silas's face is not solely pale white with ashen hair pulled back--his eyes are open, and he is looking back at Colum.

His hands shift before Colum can remove his back to his own lap, where he can disguise the trembling in his hands. Silas wraps each of his spindly hands around the meat of Colum's, and though Silas could not hold up Colum's heavy arms himself, once Silas has shown his intentions Colum is duty-and-love-bound to fall into lockstep with him. Colum holds his arms up for Silas.

They are no longer in the proper position for necro-cav communal praying, and so Colum knows this will be something different. Silas would never disregard tradition so.

Silas pulls one of Colum’s hands forward, after a moment, releasing the other to fall into Colum’s lap. It falls heavily, and his fingers curl in automatically, as if they are holding a phantom rapier's grip. The one that remains is the left one, with its stump, which Silas brings toward his own face.

Colum is left wondering what Silas will do with him until the moment his thin lips purse halfway just before impact. His eyes widen as Silas’s flutter closed, as those pretty blond eyelashes fan gracefully against his gaunt cheeks.

Silas kisses the seam of Colum’s missing finger, where the barest lump of flesh betrays that once, there had been something there. The sensation is novel, if only because Colum generally avoids touching the area. Silas's lips are warm, and they feel refreshing for that. As if he is sapping some of the aching chill from his significantly older bones.

Silas looks as the Saint of Joy looks, in the portraiture they have of her, not an exact replica for the hair and the curves that Silas lacks, but in the sense of devout piety and veneration that drips from the painting, and now from Silas. Silas is always beautiful, but in seeing him kneeling in front of Colum, Colum finds himself apotheosizing his young uncle into something more exalted and still more painfully human than ever before.

Colum feels he has a religious experience, staring at the young head of his House. It is the same thing that he felt upon seeing the child's infant face on the day of his gloried, long-awaited birth. It is the same thing that he felt upon hearing the Octavian choir for the very first time so long ago when he himself was a child, a massive thrumming emotion in his chest that is so big that it could only have come from God himself.

All of this, in less than a second, as Silas Octakiseron's tender lips find their place on the leftovers from the finger that Colum lost when they were apart. If Colum were the type of man to weep, he would have wept bitterly when Silas pulled away and released Colum's hand. This one, Colum held up nearby to his necromancer's face, as if he could be fully healed by remaining in proximity to God's most elevated servant, his youngest and his best, whose only sin is ever injury given in ignorance.

Silas stands, and Colum remains on his knees. They ache, but he ignores them. He can suffer it a little while longer, if it means remaining within the well of Silas's gravity.

“Brother Asht, you will not be needed today. I have something I must ask Brother Ochtide about, when the rain eases. I wish to speak with him alone.”

Colum does not ask what he has done to earn such a blessing. He hopes that Silas has not seen the frailty that lies beneath his strength, the results of the medical tests given to him that he asked his physician not to show. He will not break anytime soon, and he does not wish to burden his young uncle with the reality of inhabiting a body only most of the time. In turn, he is also afraid, ever-fearful, that if he draws attention to the good things in his life, that they will be taken away when he is found undeserving by some impossible standard. Colum Asht walks a line finer than anything, but he is grateful in secret to Silas, who gives Colum what he needs even in his ignorance.

“Yes, Master. I will remain here, so if you require me I may be sent for.”

Perhaps Silas wishes to speak of matters of his health or continued development that he would not wish his cavalier to hear. The thought stings, a little—when Silas was a child, Colum was the first one told about new dietary changes or a short course of medication—but at the moment, Colum is merely grateful for the short reprieve. Tomorrow, there will be plenty to do.

But, unknowingly, his necromancer has given him the perfect amount of rest to regather his strength and stand firm with him again. He will not squander it, for he does not wish the Master Templar to be privy to the depth of the weakness of his flesh.

#thanks for prompting me hon <3 #eighthcest #silas octakiseron #colum asht

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steampoweredstrawberry · 1 year

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In Fodlan, Sothis is recognized as the goddess with her children as Saints for the religion that grew around her. Her realm, though all encompassing, primarily is that of fertility, and she is largely considered a benevolent deity whose watch over Fodlan is largely a silent one. She does not smile upon her subjects, does not offer her hand or shine her light upon them when they pray to her, bent in reverence at her altars.

There is a darker aspect of her, however, a fragment born from pieces ripped from her bled and broken corpse when her practitioners no longer considered themselves faithful. Byleth, they call her, though she is also known by Ashen Demon, Fell Star, the Holy Demon. She serves as Sothis' shadow, her will corrupted into something perverse and obscene. In the primary Seirosi sects, she is regarded as a demon, a foil to the divine goddess who breathed life into Fodlan. And yet there are others, who worship in the shadows just as she rules in the shadows, who call her goddess.

The cult of the Holy Demon.

Largely forgotten due to passage of time and the Church of Seiros interfering in their worship, it no longer had a foothold in Fodlan, but it was not completely erased. Places of worship still remain, if buried under centuries of rubble and dust. Some even contained images of Byleth, looking both beautiful and frightening in all of her dark power. Finding any of these sites, however, would be nigh impossible, however. The Holy Demon is one of the Church's tightly kept secrets, sending their historians to find such sites so they could secure the land and destroy any altars or images that would suggest worship.

And that was what Dimitri was supposed to do.

He had served the Church dutifully, proved his allegiance enough that he was entrusted with such a secretive task. And yet, behind closed doors, he harbored doubt for the goddess within his heart. A goddess who sat on her throne in the heavens, merely content to watch and observe her subjects without shining her divine light onto them was not the goddess Dimitri had naively pledged himself to.

Still, he found himself there, among the rubble of what was once a temple. It looked nothing like Sothis' temples of old, all pure and white with sun-bleached stone. Those of the Holy Demon were built in the dark, hidden in caverns and other places where no one who wasn't seeking her would tread.

He hadn't known what to expect. A pile of stones that were once an altar, perhaps, with carvings that would indicate worship. Or, perhaps crude paintings upon the wall, rendered in blood and taking on a rust coloring with time.

An intact statue of the Holy Demon was not what he expected.

Seirosi scripture taught that she was the darker aspect or Sothis, and thus Dimitri expected her to be horrifying in the wake of Sothis' beauty. She was not a sorry sight, though. No, she was beautiful beyond description, so beautiful that Dimitri nearly fell to his knees and wept when he took in the sight of the stark marble, carved with such a careful hand that she looked like she might step off her pedestal. Never had he seen a woman as mesmerizing, as enchanting. Despite his better judgment, he reached out to her, felt the smooth marble of her thigh under his fingertips and shivered at how warm and pliant it was.

Like flesh.

And like she was made of flesh, she turned her gaze to him and smiled. It was like light poured from her, bathing Dimitri in her grace. His suffering was forgotten, her holy light cleansing him where Sothis could not. Sothis did not heed his prayers, did not care of his suffering. And yet, here stood before him a demon whose expression told him that she heard all, that her heart bled for him and she would grant him his heart's every desire if only he pledged himself to her.

He did kneel then, eyes turned up to her strange and terrible beauty as she sat before her in subjugation. When she regarded him, it was not with the cold indifference he expected from Sothis' dark aspect, but that of a love so pure that Dimitri felt as though his heart may burst.

Then, she extended her hand to him.

#dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #dimileth #byleth eisner #fanfic #drabble #fire emblem three houses #fe3h #Have some evil goddess Byleth silliness

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xxx-r4tg0bl1n-xxx · 3 months

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Stray Gears

Chapter 1: Fallen Moon and Star

Ash Ghoul guards lead a woman in rags into the Heart Chamber of Dagoth Ur. Her hands are bound behind her back, and she looks downwards, placing her steps carefully until her captors bring her to a stop. They’ve brought her to an ashen skinned Mer with a gilded mask. The figure eyes her up and down, then huffs.

“So, this is the Nerevarine Azura sends me,” his tone is dark and condescending, “I had almost hoped for someone worthy enough to challenge me in combat. For many years I wondered if she would send one of her so-called children for me, I suppose your cowardice answers why you’re the first of your kind to face me.”

She looks away from him, shaking. His emotionless mask tells nothing as he glides closer to her, inches away now.

“Look at me, Moon and Star.”

She faces him at last, yellow cat-like eyes wide in terror. Tears stream down her cheeks, overlapping the black stripes marking her features. The small woman doesn’t fight, but pulls away from him as much as her captors allow, which isn’t much. The Ash guards grip her tightly as she struggles.

“There is no need for fear my friend,” He says in a much calmer tone, “Release the Nerevarine, she is our guest in the Sixth house.”

The Ash Ghouls unlock her shackles, and the Nerevarine slumps on the floor, shaking. The masked figure waves his servants out. Silence envelopes the cavern, the two alone in the Heart Chamber.

“I came here to surrender,” the woman chokes out in defeat, hunched over the ground in front of him, “I don’t have the Tools, I barely survived the journey here. Azura made a mistake choosing me as Nerevarine, I don’t have the strength or resolve to accomplish her prophecy.”

He blinks behind his mask. This was not at all how he expected. She’s just a scrawny Ohmes-raht Khajiit, trembling, eyes darting around nervously. She almost looks like a Bosmer, until he notices her tail, blending into the skin of her inner thighs.

“What is your name, Moon and Star?” He sits cross legged at her level, at a comfortable distance.

“My name?” she quivers, “Ji’Lani.”

“Ji’Lani,” He pauses, “You and I were friends once, do you remember?”

She shakes her head, of course she doesn’t remember. He shifts his mask slightly, as if about to remove it. Ji’Lani stares at him curiously, leaning towards him. He removes his hand, gold mask still firmly affixed to his face. Silently, he stares back.

“I think we might be able to see eye to eye,” he finally says, breaking the silence, “Do you agree, Moon and Star?”

She looks unsure, but still says nothing, looking downwards now. Ji’Lani opens her mouth, but quickly closes it.

“You don’t have to answer me now, you have as much time as you need to think on it,” he continues, “You are welcome here, my old friend. Though if you have any tricks up your sleeve, or daggers you intend to plant into my back,” He stands up, looking down on her, “I will not hesitate to show you a God’s wrath.”

She gulps, her mouth quivering. Ur telepathically calls for his servants once more to bring her to a room. His red eyes study her as she’s led out. He stares until the door shuts behind her.

Ji’Lani is led to a modest room, the cultists stay in the hallway as she enters. A plate of food is waiting for her on a table. She picks up the foreign food, sniffing it. After a few bites the flavor is familiar, and extremely delicious. She scarfs it down hungrily, as if she hasn’t eaten properly in days. Her form is boney, filled in slightly by the short layer of dark golden fur covering her entire body. She looks around now that her hunger is quelled.

Its a far better room than she’s ever stayed in before, theres a large stone slab bed with modest cushions and pillows along the wall, intricately designed shelves with plates, cups, and cutlery laid neatly inside. there are no windows looking out, but the bronze walls have intricate trimming. She must be deep within Red Mountain now, in the old Dwemer city somewhere.

As she sleeps, Dagoth Ur stands watch outside her door. He gazes in with his third eye, cautious of the outlander. He can’t shake the feeling this is somehow a trap, yet this Khajiit seems to be incapable of being a spy.

Ji’Lani tosses and turns, unable of sleeping restfully. Suddenly the woman cries out for help. She’s still asleep, trapped in a nightmare. Out of worry, and curiosity, he slips into her dream, continuing to watch her.

She’s on a ship at sea, weathering a terrible storm. The boat rocks back and forth violently and the woman is being held down by Dunmer guards, she’s cuffed to the mast but the two slavers grasp her even tighter, one around her neck, the other around her legs. They violently assault her, hitting her as waves cascade across the deck, yet the ship stays afloat, water careening off the other side. She screams as the men continue their battery, crying out in the dream and reality.

Dagoth watches in somber silence, placing a hand against the wall separating them. He feels a heat in his chest that he hasn’t felt in centuries, not since he watched the Tribunal strike Nerevar down those ages ago. After all this time he cannot bring himself to hate the Nerevarine. He silently vows prove himself and the Sixth House to her in time.

She wakes a short while after, unable to sleep a full night’s rest. The dark circles under her eyes remain, and she doesn’t feel as if she’s rested at all. Her throat is hoarse from yelling and her cheeks are damp with tears. pillows scatter the floor around her, the cushion is falling off the bed. Ji’Lani rubs her eyes, wiping the remaining tears away. She sits with her knees pressed to her chest, staring silently at the wall. There is a knock at the door, Ji’Lani looks up from the trance.

“Nerevar are you awake?” A voice asks from the other side, “You seem troubled, is everything alright?”

“I’m okay, sorry for the disturbance,” She says weakly.

“Would you like company?” He asks, “Something to drink, perhaps?”

She thinks for a moment, then gets up from the slab. Slouching, she opens the door to his gilded visage, shyly. He stands confidently here, bottles in arm, looking down at her.

“Come in,” she says quietly, holding the door open.

“Would you like some Sujamma?” he asks, “Or ale from the Empire?” He holds both bottles out to her, one in a clay jar and the other a glass bottle.

“I don’t like to drink alcohol,” she shakes her head, sitting back down on the slab, next to the lopsided cushion.

He steps inside, setting the bottles on the table. He takes a seat there, looking at her, “Why not?”

“Makes it easier to be taken advantage of,” she stares directly into his eyes.

“I understand, you’ve had a hard life,” he sighs, “It is a shame the Empire cares not for all its citizens, they only care for human supremacy.”

“Ironic for you to say that,” she states sharply, “You only care about Dunmer.”

He blinks back at her. Ji’Lani squirms, apologizing. She curls up in a fetal position, tail curled tight against her leg.

“I care for my people, my ancestors,” He replies, “Don’t you? I dispise what the Empire is doing to them, Morrowind and the Tribunal are weak. They are unfit to rule this land and all others.”

“I don’t have a people, or a family,” she tells him, “Not anymore. The Empire doesn’t care about me, they just want to use me to complete their conquest of Vvardenfell. I happen to be the Nerevarine, therefore I must follow their agenda.”

“So? What is it that you want?” Dagoth Ur asks, “What do you think you’ll accomplish by surrendering to me?”

“I don’t know, I just want this to be over,” she looks down at the stone tiled floor, “I’m out of ideas, I just want it all to end. I’m no good with a sword, I can’t afford armor, my spells are useless. I wasn’t supposed to be a hero, I can’t even save myself.”

“If you are useless then how did you make it here?”

“Luck, I guess,” she forces a smile, “Maybe Azura really is looking out for me, but i doubt it. She made a mistake in choosing me, I’m nothing like Nerevar.”

He knows it isn’t true, it’s in the way she moves. It’s in the way she happily eats his favorite foods, the way the light hits her eyes in just the right way, it’s beyond a doubt to him that she is the Nerevarine.

“Oh Nerevar,” he chuckles, “You are such a strange incarnation. So unsure of yourself, how peculiar!”

“Am I supposed to be confident?” she asks sharply, “I’m a nobody, just some runaway slave who couldn’t fend for herself if her life depended on it. There must be some mistake.”

“Surely you must have some way of defending yourself,” he states, “you have spells?”

“A couple, sure,” she replies, “nothing terribly effective except for fooling idiots and cowering from fights. I’m no skilled illusionist so it doesn’t work on anyone.”

He tilts his head, “How did a slave learn Illusion magic?” he wonders aloud.

“I wasn’t always a slave,” she answers, “Most of us weren’t. I hail from Elsweyr, a remote marsh near the border of Cyrodiil. My father was a powerful mage, he sold me off when he determined I was no use to him. I was only a child.”

“My apologies, I didn’t know,” He says, leaning forward.

“It’s ok,” she sighs “I’ve tried to make my peace with it.”

“It’s not something you asked for, it isn’t fair,” he heats up a little, “No child should be cast out for not being useful. It is the teacher’s fault, not the student’s.”

“It’s not his fault,” she replies meekly, “he was right. I’m not good for anything.”

He stares into her teary eyes, this is not at all how his other encounters with the Nerevarine have gone. Azura is out of her mind this incarnation, he thinks, just pitiful. He pauses for a long moment, at a loss of words. His better judgement begs him to put an end to this misery, to strike her down at her most vulnerable. As much as the thought tugs at him, he can’t bring himself to do it.

“This isn’t like you, Nerevar,” he states, “I know I’ve changed much since that fateful day years ago, but this is something else. I don’t quite understand what to do with you.”

She tenses up, eyes wide in fear, “You’re not gonna kill me, are you?”She looks away from him, trembling again.

“No,” he states, “I have no reason to. Yet.”

Ji’Lani stops trembling, but still sits curled up, tense. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” he asks, leaning back, “It has been a while since I’ve chatted with you, Moon and Star. I have missed this for centuries.”

She relaxes a little more, gazing over at him. His red eyes don’t seem as piercing anymore. They almost seems to smile behind the mask.

“Are you feeling better?” he asks, “I could hear your screams from the Heart Chamber.”

“It was just a dream,” she replies sadly, “Nothing real, nothing that could hurt me.” She says it like a mantra.

“Are you certain?” he pulls in closer, “You are a friend of mine, I can help with anything you may need.”

“I’m okay,” she insists, “Just old wounds bothering me.”

He leans back again, then stands up. “If everything is alright, I’ll make my leave,” Dagoth Ur moves to the door, “You are my guest here, I should leave you your privacy.” The door clicks closed behind him, echoing metallically through the room.

Alone with her thoughts once more, she looks at the seat he was sitting in. She smiles softly for a moment. Ji-Lani stretches, trying to rid the ever-looming cloud of tiredness that hung around her, and as always it remains. She makes her way to the Heart Chamber, after making up her decision.

Find out what happens next! Updates weekly.

#fanfiction #fanfic #morrowind #the elder scrolls #khajiit #nerevarine #oc #tes #dagoth ur #tes 3 morrowind #tesblr #house dagoth #ao3 fanfic #ao3 link #writing #ao3fic #ao3 #stray gears

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