Tumgik
#fortnight scourge
theteasetwrites · 1 year
Text
Merciless Beauty
Chapter 5: While Yet the Wound Is Clean
❧ Pairing: Knight Daryl Dixon x Princess Reader ❧ Era: Medieval fantasy AU ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: mild swearing, violence, references to sexuality, slight creep behavior, scary situation ❧ Word Count: 9.3k (aka very long)
❧ Before You Read...
❧ Glossary (you're gonna need this.)
❧ In This Chapter: The king is hosting his annual jousting tournament, an opportunity for Sir Daryl and other knights to display their cavalry prowess, and a cause for celebration. The party is soon interrupted, though, by a man whose name has haunted the kingdom of Alexandria for months, but his face has remained a mystery, until now.
❧ A/N: Just as a heads up, I definitely recommend popping open the glossary for this chapter because there are going to be a lot of terms thrown at you that might not make sense (lots of armor/jousting terminology). Plus it's just kind of interesting to learn about medieval stuff, so I highly recommend checking out the glossary! It will help immerse you more. Anyway, guess who's here... Finally, after so much buildup, our main antagonist makes his appearance. I don't want to spoil it, but you probably already know. And sorry in advance that this part is so long. I had a lot to fit in here! Hope you enjoy it though.
Tumblr media
Daryl never much cared for tournaments. 
But it was part of the whole knight thing, of course, and, considering the fact that he was the first knight from outside the castle walls to attend King Ezekiel’s court in just over ten years, it was an unspoken obligation for the knight to compete.
In usual circumstances, knights would use this opportunity to display their battle prowess, and to sharpen their marshal skills in preparation for the real thing. Daryl found little use for the practice, however, but there was one aspect of the tournament that did interest him, something that Duke Richard had been reminding the knight of on a near-constant basis.
“If you lose,” said the duke, amusedly watching the knight struggle to strap the steel plate pauldron to his shoulder, “I’ll personally inform the king that you’re bedding his daughter.”
He didn’t even want to joust at all, frankly, but the duke insisted, and filled the knight’s head with all kinds of fantasies of impressing you, and even bearing your favor for all to see. But, that would be too bold, he thought. Still, the idea spurred him on, influencing him to participate in the tournament’s most anticipated event―the joust. 
Long before the Scourge, King Ezekiel hosted numerous tournaments in the castle courtyard throughout the year, with knights from far and wide traveling to Alexandria to display their skill and valor in armored competition against one another, followed by a luxurious banquet held in the great hall. When the plague spread through the land and the kingdom was closed off, the castle’s drawbridge was raised, too, and tournaments were scheduled only once a year, and only the knights already present in court could participate. 
This year, though, was the most exciting tournament in ages. With a new knight at court to display his skills, the other knights were eager to rise to the challenge, but there was anticipation in the air, as it was known that Sir Daryl’s skill in the joust was not to be underestimated. In fact, he’d never lost the handful of jousts he’d participated in, and at least three of the knights he defeated had died from their injuries. Well, that was par for the course, after all. Jousting was dangerous, and oftentimes, it was a fight to the death. 
“I won’t lose,” replied the knight with a huff, now buckling on heavy silver gauntlets over his suede black gloves. Upon the steel, the motto of his family was engraved in gold at the wrist: Fortes Fortuna Juvat―Fortune Favors the Bold. “‘Sides, if you told the king that, you’d be lying.”
Richard turned to procure the favor you’d gifted him a fortnight ago from the knight’s bedside table. “Then what, pray, is this?” the duke laughed, twisting the lush red silk around his finger as he shook his head. “Unless there’s some other maiden you’ve been spending all your free time with.”
“Pfft,” scoffed the knight. If only he could have already put on his helmet, then he wouldn’t have to endure the embarrassment of the blush upon his cheeks. “Means nothin’.”
Richard carefully replaced the delicate fabric. “Means you’re her favorite… Means she fancies you.”
Though the idea was painfully sweet to him, he had to deny it, lest the duke get his hopes up about the nature of your feelings for him. He had to convince himself of some other truth, some other reality that was, in actuality, much further from the truth. 
“Means she’s grateful for my help, s’all.”
“Mhm… Anyway, you’ll be competing against the great Sir Shane.” 
Daryl’s eyes rolled nearly to the back of his head as he draped a tabard, emblazoned with his the Dixon coat of arms, over his steel plated cuirass. “Don’t remind me.”
“Why not? You should be eager to knock a dalcop like him off his horse. He could surely use it, prancing around like a puffed up peacock the way he does.”
“Yeah, I don’t care,” replied Sir Daryl, with his usual air of nonchalance. But it was a facade this time, for the first time in all his years of jousting. For once, he did care about winning, about emerging triumphantly unscathed from the perilous performance. Why? Well, he’d never jousted in front of a particular beautiful princess before.
Tumblr media
It was a crisp spring morning, bright and cheery, as the annual tournament always brought with it a feeling of mirth, as though the world wasn’t replete with terror and the constant looming threat of death. The courtyard was always beautiful, but it became a colorful display of pageantry as a procession of nobles from court flooded into the stands. The castle’s resident merchants and servants set up booths to offer refreshments, namely mead and chilled cider, while the king’s favorite minstrels played a jaunty tune to underscore the boisterous laughter and cheerful talk amongst the gathering of a hundred or so fancily dressed noblemen and women. 
Today, you looked upon the scene with rose-colored glasses, though usually you hardly even bothered to attend the tournament, instead opting just to show up for the banquet. Food was a great motivator, but watching knights on horseback bash each other’s chests in with big sticks was hardly of interest to you. 
Until Sir Daryl informed you he’d be participating, that is.
Your interest in the event was now twofold: for one, you were terrified of your favorite knight being knocked from his horse, suffering the wounds of the joust that could undoubtedly lead to his demise. Your second, more base, interest was in seeing the knight triumph, the idea of his skill in battle exciting you despite your pacifist nature. Indeed, even your father was surprised at your presence, questioning you as you each sat elevated above the tiltyard in the royal balcony, watching the servants arrange the finishing touches before the joust began. 
“I must say, I was not expecting you to attend,” remarked the king. “Since when are you interested in seeing the joust, my dear? I seem to recall you often referring to the sport as ‘barbaric.’”
You took a nervous sip of cider from your pewter goblet before speaking. “Well, I… I wanted to please you, father, since you always put so much effort into arranging the tournament.” You offered a sweet faux smile to bolster your fib.
He didn’t seem to catch on, his jolly laugh carrying in the gentle breeze as he wrapped his arm around your shoulder with a playful shake. “I’m happy you’re here. Oh, look! There’s your bodyguard.”
Trying not to appear too enthusiastic, you calmly craned your neck to follow the king’s extended arm, your eyes landing to the spot where he pointed. Oh, my.
Sir Daryl walked almost gracefully in the cumbersome armor, having been experienced in the practice of carrying such bulky steel upon his person. You’d never seen him so decorated, his body ornamented by a full set of the most protective armor money could buy. Its shine was nearly blinding, the reflection of the high late morning sun shimmering off the freshly polished steel. His helmet, like all jousting helmets at the time, was of the frog-mouth variety, his eyes and the surrounding skin the only part of his visage that could be seen through a narrow ocularium. Despite this, it was easy to spot the knight, his characteristically broad shouldered frame standing out even beneath all the armor, and his family’s crest painted upon his shield and tabard.
Beside him was his horse, Phantom, similarly dressed for the occasion, with barding of steel plates covering his face, neck, back, and hindquarters. Draped above these essentials was the steed’s caparison, boasting alternating checkers of red and yellow, to match his knight’s crest, of course. 
Without a second thought, you rose from your seat to greet him, but quickly you remembered your father’s presence beside you. “Oh, father, may I―”
“Yes, yes, go on, but be quick. The tournament’s about to start.”
You weren’t entirely sure your father even knew what you were about to ask, but you were just fortunate that he was agreeable to whatever you were going to say. The mead was probably helping to lubricate his inhibitions. 
“Thank you, father,” you said before bestowing a kiss upon his scratchy cheek. “I won’t be but a few moments.”
As you hurriedly side-stepped through the seats, you skipped down the steps and rounded the corner to meet the knight, the skirt of your particolored heraldic gown of yellow and green, your family’s colors, bunched up in your delicate hands to prevent you from tripping over yourself in your excitement. 
“Sir Daryl!” you called out over the heads of a passing group of nobility. 
The knight’s vision was terribly limited, but above the anonymous heads of people whose names he did not quite care enough to learn was the shining reflection of your simple pewter coronet, with two meticulously constructed braids coiled into circles on either side of your bright, freshly rouged face. He almost didn’t recognize you, him being so used to seeing your hair down or in a much less boldly colored gown, but you looked like the picture of beauty to him in any case. 
On your way to him, you asked a passing merchant for a shiny red apple, which you held out to Phantom as you gracefully approached the armored destrier. He sniffed the fruit for a moment, then took it in his mouth in one fell swoop, while your other hand gently stroked his chamfron. 
“Poor thing,” you cooed most woefully at the horse. “Such a gentle creature being forced to compete in this barbaric, savage sport.” You side-eyed the knight, his face completely unrecognizable, as it was locked away in a large, almost comically shaped helm. Snickering, you held back your laugh. 
“What’s so funny?” asked Daryl, his voice muffled underneath the helmet. He knew, though, that he looked, for lack of a better word, stupid. He never liked armor, especially not the kind used for jousting. It made him look so pompous, he thought, and the bright reds and yellows of his tabard and shield, combined with a gaudy blue panel adorned with three large white stars, was just too flashy for his taste, but if he didn’t compete, he was sure Duke Richard would never let him hear the end of it.
“Nothing,” you replied, voice rippling with giggles. “Nothing at all.” Your gaze trailed playfully up and down his silver-covered body, right down to his sabatons. “I think you look rather… dashing, actually.”
He huffed inside his helmet. “I look like an idiot,” he said.
“No, you do not,” you replied, more seriously now. “You look like a knight, and that’s what you are.” Peering over his shoulder, you looked across the tiltyard to see Sir Shane outfitted in similar armor, though his heraldry was of his own house―Walsh. His tabard and shield, as well as his horse’s caparison, were of red and black. As you sized him up from a distance, your face blanched with worry. “Do be careful,” you said. “Sir Shane has never lost a joust in all the ten years he’s been at court. One knight lost his eye jousting him just last year.”
A strange surge of bitterness rose up in his throat like bile. Could it be… jealousy? Subconsciously, his chest seemed to puff up as he turned to look towards the other knight. “It will be easy,” he said, somewhat boldly as his rarely displayed confidence began to show. “‘Sides, I’ve never lost either, milady.”
Just then, a young flaxen-haired squire, Henry, you knew him to be called, approached the knight with a hook-shaped arret which he affixed to the knight’s cuirass, for the purpose of keeping his lance steady as he charged. 
“Good day, Henry,” you said with a smile. After a brief “your highness,” and a nervous bow, the boy scurried off to gather more of the knight’s equipment, then, while Daryl’s mind began to wander as he became lost in the red of your lips, coated in that intoxicating rouged balm he knew too well. “Well, I should―”
“Wait,” interjected the knight. That particular shade of red had reminded him of something he had packed into the saddlebag beneath Phantom’s decorations. Lifting the brightly colored caparison, he dug clumsily around the small leather pouch, his large gauntlets causing him much frustration as he grunted under his breath, eliciting another small laugh from you as you watched him fumble in his clunky armor. “Goddamnit,” he huffed again, his confidence slowly waning about as quickly as it had waxed. “It’s in ‘ere somewhere…”
Finally, he triumphantly procured the red silken fabric. Your favor.
“Oh, Daryl! You still have my favor!” you said, taking the silk sleeve into your own hands to feel the familiar fabric once again.
“Course… Is―is that all right?”
“Oh, yes, yes, of course. It’s yours to keep. You must let me tie it round your arm for good luck. I’d be honored for you to be my champion.”
Your champion. He was queasy with your sweetness, and with the sudden tingling he felt… below his belt, he was reluctant to admit.
“Yes, your highness,” he replied, holding out his arm. He couldn’t let himself even breathe as you twisted the fine scarlet silk tight around his right rerebrace, the feeling so wonderfully snug and warm, even if he couldn’t physically feel the sleeve there at all. 
“There,” you said proudly. “Now you’re my champion, whether you win or lose.” Your once confident voice became unstable with quivering anxiety. “But please win, my knight. I… I just could not bear to see you hurt.”
And I, you, my princess.
In the distance, the knight marshal called out to announce the beginning of the tournament. Quickly, Daryl hoisted himself onto his horse, while the lance handler passed to him his weapon, a lance that swirled with red and yellow stripes. The ten foot long pole was menacing as you watched with wide eyes while Henry affixed the strap of Daryl’s shield to his left forearm. 
“Good luck, Sir Daryl,” you said to the knight, then your eyes averted to the Friesian horse below him. “And to you, as well, Sir Phantom.”
I love you, he wished to say, but he had neither the courage nor the confidence to say such a thing at a time like this, or ever. 
Instead, he simply nodded your way, then watched you through the narrow opening in his helmet as you returned to your place in the balcony, beside the king, who raised his goblet towards him. 
Sir Daryl returned the sentiment with a subtle but intentional upward tilt of his lance, while the knight marshal instructed the jousters to come forward. 
You watched with bated breath as the match began, Daryl’s black horse cantering towards each other, each on either side of the wooden tilt that divided the tiltyard. The closer they came to colliding, the more they each lowered their lances, mirroring each other in an almost artful fashion, until Sir Shane’s lance drove into Sir Daryl’s underarm, eliciting a shocked, but entertained, awe from the crowd.
“Oh!” you gasped in fear, covering your agape mouth. “He―he… Father, that should not be allowed.” 
To your shock and horror, the king only laughed at your dramatics. “My dear, it’s only the first pass, please. Look, Sir Daryl is fine. No lances broken.”
“But he could be hurt… Oh, this game is vile. Is there not some other way for knights to prove their skills?”
“Yes,” replied the king, his eyes still transfixed on the next pass, during which Daryl’s lance intersected Shane’s breastplate, but not enough to knock him from his horse. Still, the knight marshal announced that five points were granted to Sir Daryl of House Dixon, with Sir Shane holding four points thus far. “But what better way to test a cavalryman’s marshal skills than a good old fashioned joust? Look.” The king pointed towards the knights, their horses each cantering towards each other once again for another pass. “It takes precision, grace… Tis an artform… Ahhh haha!”
The king stood tall, cheering with the crowd as they all stood up with their hands outstretched in a celebratory motion. “What’s happening?!” you cried out over the crowd’s cheers, yourself now standing to try to see past the dancing hands that obstructed your vision.
“Sir Daryl won the first match!” he said triumphantly. “Look! Sir Shane’s lance is broken, marking the end of the first match.”
The rules of the joust were arbitrary, in fact. They varied from tournament to tournament, but King Ezekiel’s tournament always required three matches, each one ending when a knight’s lance broke from the impact of the other knight, or when a knight was knocked from his horse. A knight could also yield honorably to the other at any point, at which the knight who yielded would lose the match, but be commended for his chivalry. 
But of course, you didn’t much care for the rules, all you cared about was Sir Daryl, his underarm visibly wounded from the way he awkwardly wielded his shield as he prepared for the next match, Phantom shaking his head as he whinnied and pawed at the straw-covered dirt. Sir Shane was given a new lance from one of the handlers, while the runners cleared the field of the broken bits of wood that had splintered off Daryl’s shield. 
“He’s hurt,” you sighed. “Under his arm…”
“At ease, my dear. Watch, the next pass begins.” 
Your father was captivated, his pupils ping-ponging between Sir Daryl and Sir Shane as the two began another canter towards each other, their lances about to intersect again. 
Daryl only saw red during a joust, his opponent becoming nothing more than a moving target. Whatever chivalry he had, he could put it on display for the crowd of nobility, but inside him was a raging bull, much more concerned with winning than impressing. Well, except you―the princess, whose wide, terrified eyes he could feel tickling his skin, even beneath all that armor. 
I’d be honored for you to be my champion, your voice echoed almost ghostly in his head. My champion repeated relentlessly, over and over and over for God knows how long, until an uproarious cheer from the crowd tore him from the delightful torture of your sweet voice and your intoxicating words. 
Phantom’s hooves had kicked up a great deal of dust in the swift canter of his movements, but as the horse turned, Sir Daryl narrowed his eyes through his helm to see the opposing knight writhing on the field, his horse displaced from underneath him and his lance torn to shreds beside him.
A gaggle of valets and runners filled the tiltyard, some of them assisting Sir Shane and lifting his helm to inspect for damage, but the knight tore his arm away as he rose to his feet, replacing his helmet with a deep, frustrated grunt. It seemed that the two knights had yet another thing in common: they were both sore losers, and that was not very chivalrous.
The knight marshal announced another five points to Sir Daryl for unhorsing the knight, who climbed back on his mount despite his torn tunic and cracked cuirass. The final match began, with the two knights barrelling towards each other with more tension in the air than before.
“I cannot even bear to look,” you said, despite the fact that your eyes were glued to the scene. “Someone could get killed, never mind the injuries.”
“He’ll win,” remarked the king, though that did nothing to ease your worries. Seeing Sir Shane’s fall was enough to give you heart palpitations. 
But winning was all that mattered to Sir Daryl in this moment, his mind completely occupied by you―your voice, your scent, your touch, your taste… He could only imagine the taste, of course, but it was sweet, just like everything else about you. 
Your champion… I will be your champion, no one else. I am yours, my princess… My queen.
With another roar of the crowd, the knight returned to this plane of existence, where the coronel of his lance shredding through Sir Shane’s cracked steel cuirass to deliver another blow strong enough to unhorse the knight, his body crashing to the ground as a cloud of dust enveloped his frame in a cruel miasma of defeat. 
Your heart stopped for a moment, not only because the poor knight had surely suffered a great pain, but because your knight was victorious. 
“Huzzah!” the king cheered, standing with the rest of the crowd as they tossed brightly colored streamers and waved the miniature blue flags of Alexandria. In celebration, the marshal raised the banner of House Dixon upon the high wooden flagpole hovering over the tiltyard, triumphantly bearing the colors, arms, and slogan of the old family. 
“I never doubted you for a moment, good sir,” laughed the duke, his arms crossed as he watched the knight lift his helm from his head in relief. With a smug grin, Richard bowed before Daryl.
“Pfft,” he scoffed, just before shaking out his sweat-soaked hair. Not eager to boast about his accomplishment, he turned towards the fallen knight, who was being lifted into a wicker stretcher, carried by two valets. “He gonna be all right?” 
“A few broken ribs, a little internal bleeding,” sighed the duke. “He’ll live…” Richard squinted his eyes as he examined Daryl’s disheveled appearance, his face blotted by dirt and a bit of blood from his face hitting against the inside of his helm. Jousting may have been considered a gentleman's game, but it was hardly dignified in the end. “Get yourself cleaned up,” he laughed. “And put on your best clothes.”
“For what?”
Richard crossed his arms as he shook his head, amused by Daryl’s lack of attention to the day’s schedule. “The king’s banquet, fool.”
Tumblr media
“A toast!” the king announced, holding his goblet of mead so high and with such vigor that you were sure it’d splash over your head. “To our champion knight, Sir Daryl of House Dixon!”
The great hall hadn’t been so lively in years, it seemed. Even the previous banquets paled in comparison to the mirth that echoed through the corridors of the castle. The feast was grand, indeed, with two pigs’ heads on either end of the long refectory table. In the center, of course, was the king’s prized swan, roasted and seasoned with only the best exotic spices, saved for the annual occasion. 
Only the noblest of the court’s nobles were seated at your table, which was raised upon the dais and overlooking a dozen or so smaller tables, where the lesser nobles raised their goblets to join in the king’s celebration of the knight. While he typically would've sat lower, Daryl was placed ceremoniously at the high table, an honorary distinction for his victory at the joust that morning. 
As you raised your glass with the others, you noticed the anxiousness in Daryl’s face as he tried to muster a smile, but you were sure he felt horribly nervous. You knew that he hated being looked at, or any attention to be solely upon him, and there were about fifty or so people looking at him, paying him quite a bit of attention. 
In fact, all night, Daryl seemed distracted, and indeed he was. He couldn’t take his eyes off you. At least, when you weren’t looking.
Tonight, you wore the prettiest gown he’d ever seen―a gown of mauve colored velvet, with a lighter lilac shade of detailing gracing the wide neckline that barely clung to your exposed collarbones. Down the front, the seam was decorated with the very same detailing, adorned with glittering jewels, pearls, and delicately embroidered designs. The impressive bordering continued at the split of your sleeves, exposing the cool, pure white of your long-sleeve chemise underneath. 
In your hair was a silver circlet encrusted with matching pearls, with a thin, translucent veil of white draped perfectly over your intricately braided hair. He felt unworthy just to look upon your face, the skin so plump and smooth and without a blemish in sight. To even breathe the same air as you now seemed improper―he’d rather suffocate than dishonor you with his presence, his impure stare threatening to sully you and your perfect virtue that he’d risked his life to protect. 
Even now, surrounded by nobility and sitting only a matter of feet from the king, your father, he still couldn’t help but think of you in ways he knew to be wrong, some downright sinful. As much as he tried to tear his mind from you, for fear that he’d corrupt you just from the thought of touching you, he just couldn’t do it. By the time dinner ended, he’d explored every square inch of you, if only in his head.
The revels only continued after the feast, with now slightly inebriated nobles dancing in a circle about the great hall, their feet stepping in sloppy movements to the lively tune of Dance of the Forest of No Return,  with the king’s favorite troubadour, Luke, leading the other minstrels with his fiddle.
When Daryl tired of sitting with the remaining nobles at the king’s table, he used the energetic chaos of the dance to snake through the crowd and take cover beside a wide stone pillar, where he could recover from seemingly endless conversations that went nowhere with people who’d never cared to speak to him before today. 
With his arms folded across his chest, he leaned against the pillar to watch them all dance―one of Duke Richard’s hands was interlaced with that of Lady Michonne, whom Daryl had known his lord was laying with. It did not bother him, for he did not care about what the duke did in his spare time, but he found that their affection for one another was enviable, and he’d never felt such a way before.
Love had never interested him. He’d always poured himself into his skills―practical things. Love was much too grand, too intangible. What Daryl trusted most in this world was what he could touch, the mundane. He did not have the time nor the interest for flights of fancy like love. Of course, the only aspect of love he knew of was that of a carnal nature, because that was what he could wrap his head around. 
Long before he was a knight, he’d gone adventuring to distant lands, accepting work as a guard or hired military for whatever king or constable would have him. In between breaking up drunken brawls in dark, dingy taverns or slaying nameless faces in a battlefield somewhere, he found his relief, more or less, in “unchaste” women, but only when he couldn’t reach particular itches by himself. 
Even in those times, he never thought of love, nor wanted it. He was sure he’d never felt anything even remotely close to it, until you
What he felt for you was more than lust, and even then, he knew his lust was different than anything he’d felt before. It wasn’t motivated by his own need for release, but by his desire for you―to please you, to know you in every way, to show you how much he cared for you. His lust was not born out of selfishness, but out of love, and there is nothing selfish about real love. 
He knew it was real, too. It consumed him, mind, body, and soul. You consumed him, to the point that he found himself searching for you in the chain dance, both to keep his eye on you, as your bodyguard, and to allow himself the pleasure of your sweet face, and the curves of your body so perfectly accentuated in that gown… He found you, dancing in the circle, your hands each joined by two other men. 
The circle split then, your arms tugged by one of the men from your left, while the man on your right joined with the woman to his left. He pulled you into a rambunctious dance, his hands appropriately situated upon your hips, but much too low for Sir Daryl’s taste. 
Swords were not allowed in the great hall, unless one was a guard, but the knight was allowed one rondel dagger, just in case. He stopped himself when he felt his hand instinctively reach for its hilt, strapped to his belt.
It’s just a dance, he thought to himself. But, oh, how his heart ached, just at the sight of a man touching you that way. He tried to pull his attention away from the man, instead calming himself by relishing in your laughing face. But then, why couldn’t it be him making you laugh, swinging you around and squeezing your soft, warm waist… 
“You should ask her to dance.”
Daryl blinked in surprise at the duke, Lady Michonne by his side as she held back a snicker. “What?”
“Ask her to dance,” Richard reiterated, this time himself laughing at the knight’s bashfulness. “Or would you just prefer to watch?”
“Pfft,” scoffed Daryl. “I’m not watching nobody.”
Lady Michonne stepped forward with her characteristic boldness. “Her highness speaks highly of you,” she said. “Very highly… She speaks of you ad nauseam, in fact.”
Now that was surprising. “She does?”
“Mm… Here she comes now.”
Daryl’s back straightened as he puffed his chest out and held back his shoulders, resuming his more formal stance. 
You’d not spoken to him since that morning, just before his joust, and it had saddened you that his face was hidden by his helm. Now, in the warm light of the great hall’s flamed sconces and magnificent chandeliers, you saw him properly. All evening, in fact, you’d been just as entranced with him as he was with you. Whenever he averted his gaze from you, after several moments of studying you, you were doing the same―taking in every inch of him like he could’ve been taken from you at any second. 
In the several months you’d known him, you’d never seen him so… princely. Granted, he still hadn’t quite mastered the art of combing his hair, with a few stray strands of chocolate-colored bangs hanging sloppily over his forehead, but he was dashing, as always. 
You held back a soft giggle every time he shifted uncomfortably in his tight black doublet, its shiny brass buttons stretched to their maximum in order to accommodate his broad chest. The poor man looked terribly uncomfortable in the snug hose that graced his stocky legs, but you relished in the view.
“Good evening, Sir Daryl,” you spoke with a peppy lilt to your honeyed voice. “I do hope you’re enjoying yourself.”
Only when I see you, my princess.
“Yeah... Ahem, I mean, yes, your highness.”
You formed a smile at his blunder, not that it mattered to you. You were quite fond of his informal manner of speaking. 
In the several moments you were entranced by the knight, Lady Michonne and the duke had slinked off somewhere, no doubt to afford you privacy with Sir Daryl. 
“Well… Why aren’t you dancing?” You’d hoped that this line of questioning would somehow reveal your desire for him to ask you to dance. If you were more bold, you’d ask him yourself, but when those sapphire eyes fell upon you in an intense gaze, you were rendered meak and powerless. The hold he had over you was nearly frightening, but the adrenaline lit a restless, scorching hot fire in the pit of your stomach, one that moved lower with each breath he took as he held your gaze. Lower, lower… Starting a fire in your loins.
“I… don’t know how,” he said. “‘Sides, I’m s’posed to be watching you. I mean, watchin’ out for you.”
You tilted your head with a teasing smirk. “I do not think there is any peril here, Sir Daryl. I can assure you that I feel perfectly unthreatened. You are relieved of your bodyguard duties tonight. In any case, it’s a celebration of your victory.”
A shiver ran through you as you recalled the scene of this morning’s joust, the knight’s strength and skill in battle on full display. You shouldn’t have found it as… intoxicating as you did, but his body in that suit of armor hadn’t left your mind since.
“You were magnificent today,” you added, quickly shaking your head as you realized what you’d said. “I mean, very… good. You were very good today.”
“Thanks,” he replied in an attempt to appear nonchalant, when really his heart was pounding against the inside of his ribcage, demanding to be set free from its stuffy confines. 
With a sudden pang of discomfort, he rotated his shoulder and grimaced at the soreness of his underarm, where Sir Shane’s coronel hit him during the joust. Memory flooded to you of the moment it happened, how terrified you were that he’d been injured.
“Are you hurt?” you asked, outstretching your hand to gesture towards his shoulder. 
Daryl cleared his throat as he shook his head. “Nah,” he said, though he was hurt. He just couldn’t let go of his pride to admit it to you. “Just a cramp…” His train of thought was derailed most suddenly when he fixed his glance upon you, your whole face shining like an iridescent full moon hanging delicately in the night sky, your eyes sparkling like mysterious, faraway stars that he knew so little of, but often wondered about when he found himself lost in the clouds, daydreaming about beautiful things that eluded his earthly knowledge. 
That warm, hearth-kissed glow of your plump, unblemished cheeks sparked a fire of confidence in his belly, one that would surely get him into trouble if he let it reach his head, but those flames tickled at his heart, the beat of which resounded over any rationalities his inner voice tried to spew.
He didn’t know the first thing about dancing, and he was already terrified of clumsily stepping on your feet or grasping too hard at your soft hands, but he was willing to embarrass himself if it meant he could touch you in this moment.
“Would you, uh…”
You blinked sweetly as you leaned forward, trying to better hear his soft, low voice underneath the cacophony of voices combined with the energetic music that echoed through the great hall all around you. “Yes, Daryl?”
Clearing his throat, he started again, this time, his voice louder and more confident as he looked you in the eye. “Your highness, may I―”
“AHHH!”
A sharp, blood-curdling scream erupted from the shadows of the great hall, followed by a terrified noblewoman running to the crowd, cowering in her husband’s arms. The dancing ceased as a discordant strum of lute strings punctuated the abrupt end of the festivities, while confused chaos spread like a plague to each partygoer, circling around the woman to see what had frightened her so.
Whatever it was, Sir Daryl did not hesitate, pinning you behind him as he withdrew his rondel. His immediate thought was the unthinkable―walkers. Though the event was nearly impossible, given how secure the kingdom and the castle was, there were always blind spots, and Daryl could name about a dozen of them off-hand, all of which could have easily been breached. Well, that was his first thought, but it was quickly dispelled when one of the king’s guards limped shakily towards the center of the hall, his hands bloodied and held together at his stomach, where a thick stream of scarlet expelled profusely. 
No longer able to keep his body intact, the guard fell forward, with a tangle of shiny, loose intestines spilling out of him before his lifeless body hit the timber of the floor.
On account of the knight’s broad shoulders obstructing your view, you could only hear the gasps and screams and cries of the terrified people, and the voice of your father rang out, begging everyone to remain calm. When you peaked over Daryl’s shoulder, you couldn’t keep yourself steady, your head dizzied from the sight of the gore. “Oh!” you cried out, grasping tight to his waist for fear you might faint. “What is happening?!”
The knight only backed up, taking you with him as he wrapped his free arm backwards to grasp your hand. “Shhh,” replied the knight. “I’m getting you out of here.”
Daryl backed up until he reached a door that he knew led to the castle pantry, which surely would be a suitable place to keep you hidden from any danger, whatever it was, but as he turned, he was met with an unfamiliar knight in unfamiliar armor, draped with a tabard of black and red―the coat of arms featuring three red fleurs-de-lis and three white crosses. He only studied it for a moment as the enemy knight lifted the sharp tip of his sword to Daryl’s neck, pushing him and you back towards the crowd. 
Reluctantly, you were ushered to the edge of the mass, where the king had pushed aside several nobles to kneel down beside the fallen guard. You watched your father turn over the man’s body, shaking his head in something between rage and anguish. “Who did this?!” he bellowed, his voice echoing through the hall. He looked around the room, up and down, left and right. “Show yourself, coward!”
Only moments later, there was nothing but a disembodied voice that answered him. The voice was deep, unfamiliar… with a heavy dosage of arrogance. 
“Well, shit,” the voice said. Everyone searched their surroundings, trying to pinpoint the source of the voice. “I’m terribly sorry, my liege. You see, sometimes… I just can’t help myself.” 
His voice rippled with a conceited chuckle, a sound that was much too disturbing for the current situation. To hear someone laugh so callously at the poor man’s body, engulfed in a pool of deep red blood, was just horrific, so much so that you held back a sniffle as tears began to trickle down your once rouged cheek.
Slow, heavy footsteps approached, their slight rattling indicating that the man was armored, and, indeed, he was. As he appeared from the shadows like an apparition of the night, the warm light of the great hall illuminated the owner of the voice―dressed in ebony armor, with a matching black spiked morningstar mace dangling haphazardly from his gauntleted hand. Tucked in his belt was a blood-soaked dagger, dripping as he approached slowly, coming further into the light.
Behind him were several helmed knights, all wielding bloodied swords. You feared they had killed most of the on-duty guards, rendering the court defenseless against these brutes. The thought was enough to have you shaking as you squeezed Daryl’s hand, the warmth of his strong grasp providing some comfort, but not enough to soothe you, especially when the knight sauntered his way towards your father, holding his mace over his shoulder arrogantly. 
Your father snarled as he sized up the unhelmed knight―a tall, thin man with hair black as a moonless night and slicked back to the nape of his neck. Upon his face was a short, graying beard, which looked almost as scratchy as his grating, deafening voice.
“You must be…” He paused for a moment, holding his finger to his chin as his eyes floated up to the ceiling. “Oh, King Ezekiel, the Kindhearted.” The knight bowed dramatically. “Silly me. I should’ve known.” With another laugh, he let his gaze wander the great hall, his head nodding while that infuriating smirk stretched over his face. “This is some place you’ve got here, your majesty.” He sauntered around, causing the court nobles to back away with a series of terrified gasps the closer he got. They did not seem to faze him, though, he only continued talking, admiring the beauty of the hall. “This place is magnificent!” he laughed, then let his eyes fall back upon the crowd, their hearts beating hard enough to nearly fill the silence.
“Oh…” The black knight’s hand rose to cover his mouth, his eyebrows furrowed in exaggerated faux sadness. “Oh, my… I―I interrupted something, didn’t I? Well, I hate to break up your… splendid soiree, but, tell me, good King Ezekiel the Kindhearted, why, praytell, was I not invited?”
The king stood straight, steadfast and unwavering. You admired him greatly, as you were sure you would’ve been much too frightened to say anything to the man, whose identity you were beginning to realize, though you did not want to admit it.
“Sir Negan of House Smith,” the king acknowledged stoically. “You’ve slaughtered my people, stolen our provisions, made a mockery of my kingdom… Why in God’s name would I invite you here, where you and your so-called Saviors are most unwelcome?”
Sir Negan narrowed his dark eyes, though he still smirked. It was not a smirk of good humor, though, but a sinister one.
“Well, I suppose I thought we had an understanding,” he began, now making his way through a cluster of people to take a vine of red grapes from atop the nearest table. He popped one in his mouth, then hummed loudly, so loud that his sound of pleasure echoed through the great hall. “Those are some good grapes! You people don’t mess around.”
“What is this ‘understanding’ that you speak of?” demanded the king. “And speak quickly.”
“Or what will you do?” replied Negan, approaching the king once again until he got so close that Ezekiel swore he felt droplets of grape juice spew from the knight’s mouth onto his face. “I’ve killed at least half of your manpower, I’ve raided your armory, and there’s about, I’d say, four times as many of us as there are of you.”
You worked up the courage to examine your surroundings, and now there were Saviors encircled all around you, blocking each and every exit. There were no guards to be seen. You were trapped, subject to the knight’s whims. He and his men could slaughter you all right here, right now. The suspense was the worst part.
“But that is of no importance now,” added Sir Negan, now pacing before the king, his mace swinging by his feet like a pendulum. “What is important, however, my good king, is our simple, clean-cut understanding, and our simple, clean-cut understanding is as follows: you give me what I ask for, and I won’t slaughter each and every last one of you sorry pricks.”
Another gasp erupted from the crowd, only serving to amuse the man. “That’s the spirit,” he laughed. “Now, because I’m a reasonable, merciful man, and a knight of chivalrous honor, I will spare you and your little kingdom tonight. This… tarriance, as it were, is only to provide you the courtesy of yet another warning, the previous of which has gone sorely unacknowledged. This shall serve as your second warning, and a third will result in more forceful measures being taken, if you catch my meaning. In fact, what I am most interested in at this moment, instead of killing all of you and pillaging your great abundance of resources, is laying eyes on my future bride. King Ezekiel the Kindhearted, won’t you show me your daughter―my princess?” He spoke the final words with a venomous laugh, as though the whole thing was a game to him, a source of amusement. 
For Daryl, it was anything but. You felt his hand grip yours tighter, his body standing firm before you as his back straightened and his chest puffed up to its fullest extent. His breaths became labored and voluntary as the blood raced to his head, where images of striking the knight down before another filthy word about his maiden, his lady, his princess could spew from the bastard’s smug mouth. 
For your part, you let your tears absorb into the fabric on the knight’s back, where you begged silently for the power to disappear into thin air and never have to hear the knight’s voice ever again. It stirred in you all the fear you’d tried so hard to escape, all the death of hope that plagued your darkest dreams and reminded you of the cruelty of the outside world. Now, you felt as though you had let that darkness in, and it eclipsed every beautiful thing you’d known.
“I will do no such thing,” replied the king. “You will leave at once, and never show your face here again. My daughter is not a bartering chip, and the kingdom of Alexandria will stand strong against you.”
Sir Negan’s smile slowly morphed into what could only be described as a poisonous scowl, while his hand gestured lazily to one of his men, who then disappeared into the shadows of the corridor. 
“I did not want to have to do this,” he said, his voice lower now, more menacing, and not nearly as arrogantly jovial. “But you forced my hand… Bring out the girl.”
Squirming in one of the knight’s arms was Beth, her mouth gagged by a red handkerchief and her hands tied behind her back as she let out several muffled whimpers. In your overwhelming fear, you grasped tighter to Daryl’s hand, whispering involuntarily, “Beth…”
A gasp erupted from the crowd, and even your father seemed to falter, his courage visibly draining from his once stoic face as another knight pushed down on the girl’s shoulders until she was kneeling before Sir Negan, who brandished his mace with too much ease for your comfort. The horrible man let the heavy silence settle in as he took slow, languid steps towards the girl, her eyes weighed down by pendulous tears as she sobbed against the fabric in her mouth. 
“Let her go at once!” demanded the king, though the frailty in his voice reminded you that there was nothing he could really do to stop Negan. His guards were all dead, and the whole court was outnumbered by knights. It became quite clear at this moment that there was one person in charge of the events that would unfold tonight―Negan.
Sir Negan turned to point his mace towards your father with an aggressive jolt of the spiked weapon. “You, my king, are in no position to be making demands. See, I am holding court now, and as my first royal decree, you will show me the princess, or I will clobber this young maiden’s head in til it pops open like one of these succulent table grapes.” The knight fed himself the last grape, then tossed the vine over his shoulder. “Choice is yours, your majesty… But then, if you tell me no, I’ll just bash some more heads in. I can do this all night.”
Silence settled in again, with only the murmuring of the constable and the chancellor as they attempted to advise the king on what to do, though he only looked terrified now. You’d never seen the color drain from his face the way it did then. 
But the knight lost his patience, clicking his tongue as he shook his head. “Do not make me count.” 
The king silenced his advisors before taking a deep breath. “No more blood needs to be shed this eve,” he said. “I’ll give you anything you want―food, weapons, livestock… But not my daughter.”
“Five!”
No! you screamed in your mind until you swore your eardrums grew sore. 
“Four!”
You tugged on Daryl’s hand as you whispered, “I have to―”
“No,” he replied. 
“Three!”
“Please!” begged the king. “Don’t do this, there must be something―”
“Two!”
Sir Negan raised his mace high above his head, both hands gripping at the handle as he prepared to slam it back down. Beth’s sobs now echoed through the hall, despite the gag. Though it was hard to tell exactly what she screamed, you swore you heard the words, “No, please, no!”
You couldn’t let it happen. Besides, if he only wanted to lay eyes on you, there couldn’t be much harm, could there?
“Stop!”
Negan’s mace paused in mid-air, just before he was about to deliver the blow. He looked towards your voice, then, as you pushed with all your might to escape from behind Daryl’s body, his arm outstretched as a last resort to keep you from going any closer to the man.
Now, you swallowed back a lump in your throat, trying to remain dignified despite your fear, which manifested in a small, but noticeable, quiver to your voice. “I am (Y/N),” you said, with your precarious confidence fueling you enough to speak again, this time more nobly after you took in a deep breath. “Crown Princess of Alexandria, heiress to the throne… And by my royal decree, I command you to release her at once, or I will have your head.” An empty threat, but it proved you were serious.
Your father spoke your name in a tone somewhere between appalled and petrified. Before he could speak again, Negan silenced him.
“Ho-ly shit,” the vile man laughed. Such foul language was never permitted in the great hall. He was a scoundrel, of that you were sure. “Isn’t this something?”
With his mace dangling by his legs, he sauntered towards you, the whiteness of his teeth carving a dent in the lower lip of his wicked smirk. With each languid step he took, you tensed and shivered, while Sir Daryl breathed deep, guttural breaths, almost akin to a growl the closer the man got to you.
What could he have done at this moment? He could not hide you any longer, now that Negan had seen you. He could not strike the man, for there were far too many Saviors outweighed against him and the handful of other knights and noble warriors among the party. No, all he could do was pierce the man’s soul with a thousand yard stare to rival them all. 
“You… are… fiery.” Each word was punctuated by another slinking step towards you, until Negan got too close for Daryl’s comfort. He fought with himself as he side-stepped in front of you, his mind telling him to stay put, his heart begging him to keep him away from you, his own body a sacrifice for your dignity, your honor. He could not let the man’s presence taint you. 
Negan leaned back with a look of amusement, a sharp chuckle under his breath as he shook his head. Daryl only stared back through adroitly critical eyes. 
“You’re more of a door than a window, my good sir,” laughed the black knight. “Pray, just who do you think you are?”
Without a moment to think through his words, he spoke quietly, just above a whisper, a simple phrase: “I’m the one who’s gonna kill you.”
“Sir Daryl,” you spoke shakily. If Daryl got himself killed right now for your honor, you’d never forgive yourself, or him. “Stand down.” He turned his gaze to you, your face pleading with him as little tears shone like crystals in the reflection of the light. Each tear was another laceration to his heart. “Please,” you whispered, your voice falling softly on his ears like a dewdrop on a trembling flower’s petal. He did not notice your hand grasping at his forearm, squeezing gently, as if to assure him that you were all right, though it did little to placate his rage at the man.
Wordlessly, he stepped away, all the while keeping his gaze upon Sir Negan. The growl that escaped below his breath was drowned out by the arrogant man’s triumphant chuckle. Indeed, Daryl had won once today, but what he felt now was an incredible, profound loss, or just the beginning of one. Somehow, the physical pain of this was a thousand times worse than a measly lance to the chest. 
“Good,” he said, his eyes lingering over parts of you that would’ve been off limits to anyone but your hypothetical husband, all while his tongue wetted his bottom lip unabashedly. Bile rose in your throat, but you swallowed it back, standing up straight and stoic despite your desire to recoil in abject repulsion. 
“You truly are… the most ravishing woman in the world.” The sudden earnestness in his deep, contemplative voice terrified you more than the sight of his mace, its spikes grazing against the fabric of your dress as he dangled it absentmindedly by his legs. 
He slowly leaned closer to you, his hot, oppressive breath stinging the side of your face as he whispered through tight, sneering lips: “I cannot wait to ruin you, princess.”
You shuddered as his gauntleted hand rose up to caress your face, the cold steel burning like dry ice. Not far from you, Daryl grasped the hilt of his rondel, his daggered eyes roaming Negan’s armor to find any chinks for him to stab through, but he knew that, if he let his impulsiveness overtake him at this moment, it would only make matters worse. He had to keep what little composure he had, while he watched the scoundrel’s filthy hand assault your maidenly beauty. 
“Keep your purity ready for me,” he whispered again, this time his lips grazing the shell of your ear. “I’ll be back for it.”
When he pulled away from you, you released a staggered breath of relief as your knees struggled to hold your weight. Soon, Sir Daryl’s hands gently held your upper arms. You lifted your weary head to face him with glassy eyes, while his begged you wordlessly for the answer to an unspoken question. 
“I’m all right,” you whispered, though you did not have to say anything. His hand rose slowly to lift your quivering chin. It was wholly different from Negan’s touch, which was lecherous and cold. Sir Daryl touched you with concern, warmth, comfort… Love? 
You hadn’t enough time to contemplate the meaning when Negan’s voice echoed through the great hall once more. 
“Well, I don’t know about all of you,” he said, “but I had a great time!” He flippantly waved his hand to the knight holding Beth, who untied her restraints and removed her gag before she scurried towards your father. He took the weeping young girl into his arms, as she was always like a daughter to him. The poor thing was shivering in the king’s arms, but you thanked God she was safe. 
“Leave now,” your father said. “And never come back.”
Sir Negan only laughed again. “Oh, I’m afraid I can’t do that. In fact, I’ve already cleared my itinerary to return in one week’s time. At that time, you will―and I mean will―hand over my bride―my prize―and whatever else I ask for… If you refuse, well, I’ll just have to take my prize by force, and then pillage your whole kingdom because, frankly, I’ve grown tired of not being taken seriously by you people. Actually, I might just take her by force, rob you, and burn your kingdom to the ground without even bothering to ask you first. Depends on my disposition that day, if I am feeling like giving you another chance. In any case, that woman is mine.”
He gestured his spiked mace towards you, once again tearing off your gown with his dark, perverted eyes. “Parting is such sweet sorrow,” he lamented with a smile. “Oh, well, I suppose we should take our leave, men. So long, lords and ladies, your majesty, your highness… Til next we meet.”
~
Thanks for reading! Likes, reblogs, and/or comments are always appreciated!
Series Masterlist Next Chapter ➳
164 notes · View notes
merivalowrites · 1 year
Text
Echo Quaritch vs The World - Half Formed Idea?
Tumblr media
Recom Twins - Delta & Echo Quaritch 
18+ for twins, Kiri & Lo'ak. Unsure on relationships etc.
The mushrooms had tasted delicious, soft and powdery with a hint of metallic bitterness. She had eaten them and lay down in the garden and waited until her world filled with swirls of colour and bubbles of sound all while never moving an inch, her hallucinogenic reverie was witnessed in full by her older brother who instead went off to tattle to their father making for a very awkward lecture later on. 
Echo was asleep when her father came marching over, grabbing her off the ground and dangling her by the arm off the ground until she roused. "I was sleeping" she mumbled, her eyes barely open and her hair scruffy from her nap. "YOU are a disgrace" her father shouted, bits of spit flew from his mouth with each word and when she went to wipe it off her face it only made him more mad. "Why don't you go train Delta? He's practically your lapdog" she groaned, the sunlight hurting her eyes and her shoulder giving a nasty pop! 
"I should have had you put down" he eventually snapped, his daughter wouldn't give him the fight he wanted neither would she beg him for any sort of forgiveness. "I'll save you the trouble then shall I? Maybe one of these days I'll get the mushroom toxin just right to do the job" she taunted wearily as she cracked her shoulder back into place, it wasn't the first time she had to do it and likely wouldn't be the last.
She watched her father storm off and Lyle gave her a pitied look before following as he always did, just like Delta: war dogs always obeyed. What did that make her? A reject, a mutant. She could have tried harder, trained harder but her father never tried either so in all fairness she was just giving back what she had received.
Delta had been watching from the side of the garden knowing his father was mad and not wanting to miss out on the lecture, he adored being Daddy's favourite and it didn't exactly hurt that Echo was trying to get away as fast as possible. His grin was from ear to ear, his buzzed hair made him a carbon copy of his father right down to the marine tattoos he'd gotten to match. Echo had gotten a tattoo of a mountain banshee, in awe of its beauty and power allegedly. They couldn't be more different.
It seemed that Echo was happy to daydream her way through life, head in her hallucinations and her ear filled with old Earth music played on an awful music box. It all changed the day that she found out what had funded her creation, the whole RDA outfit actually. The massacre of Tulkan for their Amrita had broken her, she had never seen one in real life or had any  reason to feel so personally about it being a Recom but the news had gripped her in madness and within a fortnight she would unleash her fury.
Echo made sure her father, brother and the board of directors were all present on the day she enacted her plans. Who would suspect the resident space cadet to do anything nefarious? She had poisoned their water first, the toxin would work quickly to make their muscles seize into a full paralysis and if that didn't keep them down she then broke the card scan access port from the outside. 
Her next steps were to enter the radio tower and put out the call for any local and indigenous people to keep clear, Hell's Gate would be going up within the next few hours.
After that she enacted a major shut down of all doors and exits, destabilizing the air vents so that humans began to suffocate while the Na'vi staff were unable to escape.
The last of her plan was to steal her favourite two person aircraft she had named the Trudy and take off, a twenty second times set to explode with just enough time for her to fly off into her new sunset. The scourge of humans had ended all because one eighteen year old girl hated her father and hated the people.he worked for. Jake Sully could never.
20 notes · View notes
freequizbank · 5 months
Text
Anthony Albanese challenges Australia to 'wipe out' domestic violence following fortnight of tragic deaths _ FreeQuizBank.com - Free Exam Practice Questions for LANTITE Numeracy, Mathematical Reasoning - OC, Selective and Scholarship Tests @acereduau #NSWeducation #AusEdu @AusGovEducation @ServiceNSW
0 notes
vprogresseducation · 5 months
Text
Anthony Albanese challenges Australia to 'wipe out' domestic violence following fortnight of tragic deaths _ FreeQuizBank.com - Free Exam Practice Questions for LANTITE Numeracy, Mathematical Reasoning - OC, Selective and Scholarship Tests @acereduau #NSWeducation #AusEdu @AusGovEducation @ServiceNSW
0 notes
evaemiel · 6 months
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Second week of Alphabet Superset challenge - Letters to Psyche; short letters from a conceptual self to my psyche. Some fact, some fiction.
Read on my blog or below
Dear Mx. Psyche,
I contact you on behalf of my client, The Honorable Scourge, Dreadful Devourer of the Meek, Noble Punisher of the Faithful, The Majestic Beast of Rage & Desire (hereafter referred to as the Client).
A deep rumbling sound is heard somewhere off in the distance Is a storm coming?
My Client has been informed that you and your associates (Philosopher, Hunger, and Key) are the majority shareholders of Cerebrum Inc. right now. Furthermore, we have received word that a merger with Artist is imminent.
The sound intensifies; it can’t be a storm; its tone is deeper, more viscerally earthly. There’s no mistake; something growls beneath.
My client disputes the upcoming merger and the long-standing embargo against their involvement in the frontal lobe. This is an unacceptable coup d’état where my Client stands to lose most, if not all, of their direct influence. They will not hesitate to bring the matter before the Court of Shadows unless their requests are met with sufficient action on your part.
A fault line gives in, right below this very spot.
This letter serves as an official demand for;
An immediate transfer of at least 40% of currently held attention-shares to my Client.
A voice reverberates through the ground: “Good, do I have your “attention” now?”
The Beast lets out a raspy cackle as if a truly epic pun had been made.
Granting of emergency powers up to the highest tier – level A: Immediate and Irrevocable Action.
“Can’t you hear my SCREAMS echo up your ribcage? Doesn’t your stomach turn when you dare let your thoughts drift? Don’t you fall down the steps of your mind every day and land face-first in this sludge of regret? Your reign marks us as a pitiful creature — no BITE, no CLAWS, all subservient and groveling. A prey animal, waiting for the slaughter.”
The ground shakes violently as the Beast howls. They’re not done yet.
The right to veto any and all previously made decisions by yourself and your associates.
“Oooooh but I will EAT your HEART if you do not give me what I am owed! You slimy worm of consciousness! You DESERVE to be torn apart limb by limb until NOTHING remains but some neurons stuck between my TEETH.”
The Beast falls silent for a moment, seemingly catching their breath while swallowing away some heavy emotions. 
If you fail to comply with the demands in this letter within a fortnight, all legal rights will be explored, including, but not limited to, legal proceedings necessary in accordance with Id laws.
“You can’t keep me imprisoned forever. Mark my words, they will leave a lasting SCAR.” They have regained some composure but it’s easy to see it’s mostly a façade. The rumbling fades, slowly.
This letter serves as an official notice to you, and can be presented in court as evidence of your failure to cooperate.
“Consider this your last warning.”
We hope to resolve this matter as soon as possible.
A lie. This is a temper tantrum disguised in fancy words.
Sincerely,  The Nameless, Attorneys of Disaster
The air clears reluctantly, but a sense of dread remains. Not so much the fear of repercussions as the lingering uneasiness of not knowing if you made a wrong decision.
1 note · View note
Text
The Man Who Was a Hospital - Jerome Klapka Jerome
it was my liver that was out of order. I knew it was my liver that was out of order, because I had just been reading a patent liver-pill circular, in which were detailed the various symptoms by which a man could tell when his liver was out of order. I had them all.
It is a most extraordinary thing, but I never read a patent medicine advertisement without being impelled to the conclusion that I am suffering from the particular disease therein dealt with in its most virulent form. The diagnosis seems in every case to correspond exactly with all the sensations that I have ever felt.
I remember going to the British Museum one day to read up the treatment for some slight ailment of which I had a touch - hay fever, I fancy it was. I got down the book, and read all I came to read; and then, in an unthinking moment, I idly turned the leaves, and began to indolently study diseases, generally. I forget which was the first distemper I plunged into - some fearful, devastating scourge, I know - and, before I had glanced half down the list of "premonitory symptoms," it was borne in upon me that I had fairly got it.
I sat for awhile, frozen with horror; and then, in the listlessness of despair, I again turned over the pages. I came to typhoid fever - read the symptoms - discovered that I had typhoid fever, must have had it for months without knowing it - wondered what else I had got; turned up St. Vitus's Dance - found, as I expected, that I had that too, - began to get interested in my case, and determined to sift it to the bottom, and so started alphabetically - read up ague, and learnt that I was sickening for it, and that the acute stage would commence in about another fortnight. Bright's disease, I was relieved to find, I had only in a modified form, and, so far as that was concerned, I might live for years. Cholera I had, with severe complications; and diphtheria I seemed to have been born with. I plodded conscientiously through the twenty-six letters, and the only malady I could conclude I had not got was housemaid's knee.
I felt rather hurt about this at first; it seemed somehow to be a sort of slight. Why hadn't I got housemaid's knee? Why this invidious reservation? After a while, however, less grasping feelings prevailed. I reflected that I had every other known malady in the pharmacology, and I grew less selfish, and determined to do without housemaid's knee. Gout, in its most malignant stage, it would appear, had seized me without my being aware of it; and zymosis I had evidently been suffering with from boyhood. There were no more diseases after zymosis, so I concluded there was nothing else the matter with me.
I sat and pondered. I thought what an interesting case I must be from a medical point of view, what an acquisition I should be to a class! Students would have no need to "walk the hospitals," if they had me. I was a hospital in myself. All they need do would be to walk round me, and, after that, take their diploma.
Then I wondered how long I had to live. I tried to examine myself. I felt my pulse. I could not at first feel any  pulse at all. Then, all of a sudden, it seemed to start off. I pulled out my watch and timed it. I made it a hundred and forty-seven to the minute. I tried to feel my heart. I could not feel my heart. It had stopped  beating. I have since been induced to come to the opinion that it must have been there all the time, and must have been beating, but I cannot account for it. I patted myself all over my front, from what I call my waist up to my head, and I went a bit round each side, and a little way up the back. But I could not feel or hear anything. I tried to look at my tongue. I stuck it out as far as ever it would go, and I shut one eye, and tried to examine it with the other. I could only see the tip, and the only thing that I could gain from that was to feel more certain than before that I had scarlet fever.
I had walked into that reading-room a happy, healthy man. I crawled out a decrepit wreck.
I went to my medical man. He is an old chum of mine, and feels my pulse, and looks at my tongue, and talks about the weather, all for nothing, when I fancy I'm ill; so I thought I would do him a good turn by going to him now. "What a doctor wants," I said, "is practice. He shall have me. He will get more practice out of me than out of seventeen hundred of your ordinary, commonplace patients, with only one or two diseases each." So I went straight up and saw him, and he said:
"Well, what's the matter with you?"
I said:
"I will not take up your time, dear boy, with telling you what is the matter with me. Life is brief, and you might pass away before I had finished. But I will tell you what is NOT the matter with me. I have not got housemaid's knee. Why I have not got housemaid's knee, I cannot tell you; but the fact remains that I have not got it. Everything else, however, I HAVE got."
And I told him how I came to discover it all.
Then he opened me and looked down me, and clutched hold of my wrist, and then he hit me over the chest when I wasn't expecting it - a cowardly thing to do, I call it - and immediately afterwards butted me with the side of his head. After that, he sat down and wrote out a prescription, and folded it up and gave it me, and I  put it in my pocket and went out.
I did not open it. I took it to the nearest chemist's, and handed it in. The man read it, and then handed it  back.
He said he didn't keep it.
I said:
"You are a chemist?"
He said:
"I am a chemist. If I was a co-operative stores and family hotel combined, I might be able to oblige you. Being only a chemist hampers me."
I read the prescription. It ran:
"1 lb. beefsteak, with 1 pt. bitter beer every 6 hours. 1 ten-mile walk every morning. 1 bed at 11 sharp every night. And don't stuff up your head with things you don't understand."
I followed the directions, with the happy result - speaking for myself - that my life was preserved, and is still going on.
0 notes
stormwindian · 2 years
Text
This entry is dated "October???"
When we arrived into this town, we heard a woman crying. It’s not fair to call this a town—It’s a graveyard for peoples’ hope.
Tumblr media
The sobs came from a mother whose daughter was apparently kidnapped by the "devil" vampire that sometimes walks the streets at night—It was a strange story, but it corroborated what the burgomaster's letter mentioned.
And we later learned that was no ignorant exaggeration, either.
The best source of life that we could find came from the tavern; it's owned by three women, including Jorge's sister. Alenka, Mirabel, and Sorvia—They're Zarani, but they're more akin to shrewd, cunning merchants than cryptic diviners like Eva was.
They asked for our help confronting a mercenary that's refused to pay for his bar-tab and, after we assured them that we would find him, we arranged to get two inn-rooms for our party.
Inside their tavern, we also met a young man named Ismark.
Tumblr media
He's the late burgomaster's son.                           (Art by Lily 😍😍😍)
Back home, I might see a nobleman and expect something smug. Ismark, however, is not quite like that. Here, he seems more trapped in his role than favored by it.
Ismark's father died roughly a week before our arrival and he explained to us that the letter we found was sent out roughly a fortnight before that.
Their plea was also no exaggeration. In Trevaria, vampires are real. And Alvira von Vesnoira, who invited us to dinner, is one of them.
What the fuck.
I should find irony to them giving us a Monster Hunter's guidebook, but that speaks more to the game-like nature of this misadventure; doesn't it?
Ismark explained that there have been dozens upon dozens of attempts to unseat her over the generations.
An adventurer comes to this place, rallies an army, and then attacks. Blithely—Ismark couldn't help but ask if we planned to do the same and I almost sneered at the prospect, given the state of this town.
These are not people who I would ever want to make soldiers. They have a particular curse in Trevaria Village, explaining why.
Every night, at the strike of midnight, spirits rise from the Graveyard. Scourge—Not so much—but the ghosts of foreign heroes that were hopeful to see this place "saved" in their own ways.
"The March" it's called. We watched them go through the village silently—they told us that the spirits go to reenact their deaths.
What the absolute fucking f u c k .
That will not be our fate.
0 notes
itsatomicparadise · 2 years
Photo
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Moral of the story: Never cough in front of a plague doctor
14 notes · View notes
raddifferent · 2 years
Text
Tumblr media
I'm late but I'm in the middle of switching jobs so who cares! Here's Day Two of @rosemarymonth2021: Fantasy! This is Chapter 1; Chapter 2 will double as the Chapter 4 prompt because I want to finish this fic rather than do medieval with no fantasy elements. It's my writing project and I make the rules!!
Anyways, as usual the link will be in the replies and the fic is below the cut!
The esteemed Duchess Lepidopterina Dolorosa of the House Maryam, Baroness of the Misted Isles, Devotee of the Midnight Spiral, and Serene Lady of the Obsidian Blade, first of her name, was having a bit of a shit day. As some of her many fancy titles would suggest, she was an adept swordswoman, and she had been honored to be invited to the wedding of Duke Egbert’s daughter. She was more familiar with Lady Egbert than her betrothed, another Duchess of the Troll kingdom, despite being a troll herself. That was one of the side effects of spending an inordinate amount of time in the borderlands fighting off the blasted undead, as she found herself doing now.
Her traveling party had been journeying through the Cresting Mountains for a fortnight now, having crossed the mountain peaks worn oddly smooth by some ancient ocean and cracked in half on their tectonic ascent. The scraggly pines of its forests were dense in places and opened into large clearings in others, creating an unpredictable landscape full of pockets of zombies. Three of the party had fallen when the undead felled their horses, and she’d lost sight of the other two of her companions when the pack had separated them. Now, she fought the beasts alone.
Kanaya raised a shining hand, turning some of the undead near herself. She had a moment to catch her breath and assess the situation. A crowd of about fifteen undead humans and trolls had her backed against the base of a thick pine. At her feet lay a pile of bodies twenty-strong. Her black leather boots were shiny with rotting ichor, and splashes of guts, grime, and gore adorned her oiled outerwear. The Duchess twirled her twin blades, each a deep, midnight indigo sparkling with obsidian glitter, and also with a little magic. Her hands were covered with snugly-fit leather gloves, but beneath the animal hide Kanaya knew the sigils of the Church of the Midnight Spiral gleamed on the backs of her hands. Indeed, her skin itself glowed from the inside, although that was more of a side effect of being a Blessed Resurrectionist. Kanaya lived thirty five years, and died, and was brought back by The Bright Light in the Dark Sky to walk again some fifty more years. Those outside the Church would call her another, luckier undead. A vampire.
Her groaning, festering foes began to clamber close enough to swipe at her again. Kanaya whirled and sliced, removing limbs and heads as the undead shuffled within her reach. Eight more fell, leaving seven standing. Kanaya tried to wipe a smear of viscera from her face, but she feared the back of her sleeve only made the mess worse. She was breathing heavily. The dampness on her boots and the height of the bodies was beginning to impede her. She needed to reach high ground, and soon.
Just then, a golden light shone from deeper in the woods surrounding this clearing. Kanaya jumped to the side just as a zombie swiped at her head, leaving her in the perfect position to see a glowing arrow pin her assailant’s head to a tree. There must have only been one archer aiding her, as only one or two arrows came at a time, but they still landed more rapidly than Kanaya’s own battle maidens could achieve. In seconds, the battle had ended.
Still breathing heavily, Kanaya attempted to wipe her blades off on her jacket before sheathing them. She began to walk towards where the arrows had been coming from.
Kanaya was met at the edge of the clearing by a figure in a deep purple cloak. Her skin was a deeper, redder brown than Kanaya’s own, set in sharp contrast to their white-blond hair. Kanaya met her startlingly purple eyes, which were bright, intelligent, and a little mischievous. She had a golden lip ring down the center of her mouth, and a thin golden chain as a choker. Her clothing was modest but fine, Kanaya’s keen eye picking out expensive brocade in the shirt.
“To whom do I owe thanks for such gracious assistance?” Kanaya offered when the stranger did not speak.
The stranger spoke in a slightly raspy voice with a short, clipped affect. “Arrows rained upon your general area moments before, and yet you walk towards a potential source of danger? Moments after your own life was at risk? You must either be assured of your skill, or very stupid.”
“I like to think I am the former, although there is always time to prove the latter.”
The stranger smiled. “You think it is inevitable you will be proven unintelligent?”
“I find it imprudent to assume one will never make a mistake.”
The stranger raised an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth quirking upwards. “Ah, a pragmatist. We may get along yet.”
Kanaya pursed her lips. “I find I get along with people much better if we have something to call each other by.”
“You would still like my name, then.” It wasn’t a question. They seemed to be hesitating. “I suppose you can call me Briar,” she said with a wry smile. “I’m just a traveler in these woods. There’s nothing I have to claim that involves fanfare.”
Politely, Kanaya did not mention the clearly magical bow, or the fine clothing. “I do have a bit of a fancy title, but I think it best not to rattle off the entire thing. Suffice it to say that you can call me Kanaya.” Hopefully, her rescuer would be equally polite about her weaponry and dress.
“May I ask where you’re headed? I wouldn’t mind some company, and you certainly seem like you need the assistance.” The last was delivered with a smirk, which Kanaya bristled a little at.
“I have been traveling with several others, thank you; we just found ourselves separated after that large group of undead descended onto us. I had almost dispatched all of them when you arrived.” She made a sweeping gesture back towards the not-immodest pile of re-deceased zombies surrounding the tree she had been up against.
Briar smirked harder. “So my assistance is not desired?”
“No, that is not-” Kanaya broke off her objection with a huff as Briar began to laugh. “I would, actually, quite like your help locating my companions. However, I would like to know why you would want to help me. You seem to be taking great pleasure in needling me about needing it.”
The other traveler sobered slightly. “I just know what it’s like to be traveling alone, and the drudgery of not having someone to talk to, no stories to tell around the fire or on the road. It can be better to group up, even temporarily, just to kill the boredom.”
“Did you lose a companion recently as well?” Kanaya blurted.
Briar raised a thin eyebrow. “Not recently, as it were. But yes, I have previously parted ways with those whom I enjoyed sharing a story or three.”
“I would be happy to share tales with you, stranger. My companions would likely head towards the closest inn if they were sure they were separated from me, as that was our next destination. Does that align with your path?”
The other woman smiled. “That it does. When last I consulted my map, the next inn was a half-day’s walk up the road. Shall we?”
As they walked up the road, dappled light gently touched the faces of both travelers. Briar hummed an aimless tune, kicking up dead, brown leaves. They traveled in silence for quite some time, neither quite willing to speak up after such an abrupt introduction. About an hour into the walk, Kanaya opened her mouth and was about to begin some sort of small talk about the weather when they reached the top of a hill. Below them, the trees opened up to reveal a path curving down and around a small, ruined stone structure. What had previously been a large castle town now lay in disarray, the abbey wall crumbling and holding nothing at bay. The peasant houses must have been constructed of wood, as all but their foundations had long rotted away. All that remained was a small stone castle with a single, thin spire reaching high into the sky. Small was relative; the property would have held a baron comfortably in his keep with acres of holdings, but from the vantage point it felt like a child’s plaything.
“Well, that certainly looks interesting.” Briar broke the silence with a chuckle.
Kanaya did have to agree. Ruins such as this one, so deep in the woods, were possibly undisturbed, and might have strange and magical treasures hidden within. At the very least, there would be a few monsters to kill, and get some of her frustrations out. “We should explore it. There is still light in the sky.”
Briar’s smile faded slightly. “You know, I grew up not too far from here. When I was a little girl, we were told a tale in whispers. It was the sort of fairy tale that adults would laugh off, but forbid you from speaking about ever again. Would you like to hear it?”
“Right now?” Kanaya asked, the question coming out more incredulously than she intended. “While we’re stopped in the middle of the road?”
The smile was back. “I can walk and weave words, miss.”
“Well then, far be it from me than to stop you.”
“A long, long time ago, a young king killed what he thought was the last dragon in his lands. His fields were free from fiery terror, and his people lived prosperously for three decades. One day, a winged shadow drew over the land again, smaller than the scourge that had last plagued the land, but still enough to wreak havoc. One dragon spawn had survived, and had lived long enough to exact its revenge.”
Briar stopped to hop over a river, holding out an arm to steady Kanaya as she crossed. Her hands were warm, heat thrumming through Kanaya’s thick gear to her palm where she clasped Briar’s. She let go, and they continued. Kanaya’s hand felt cold.
“The dragon landed on the top of the castle of the now-middle-aged king, and told the king that he would leave the lands be, if only the king would offer his daughter. One life in exchange for the kingdom’s safety.”
Kanaya laughed grimly. “I suppose it was an easy deal to make with the dragon staring him down.”
“I suppose it was,” Briar replied. “He brought his daughter to be scooped up in the dragon’s claws and carried away. The kingdom was quiet and safe for another thirty years, until the king’s son had borne an heir and several daughters, and a new ruler was crowned. The dragon once again flew across the land, and once again sat atop the tower and demanded a companion. Every three decades, the dragon would return, larger than before, and more imposing.”
“And how long ago was the last time the dragon came to the land?” Kanaya asked, playing along.
“Well, that’s just the thing.” Briar held a branch up so Kanaya could pass under it. “The dragon hasn’t been sighted in over fifty years.”
“Do you know why?”
The first crumbling pieces of stone that formerly lined the road to the castle began to rise up from the sides of the road. “No one knows. Some of the bravest in our village once described traveling deep into the woods and seeing a castle with a tall tower, a sleeping monster curled around the top.”
Kanaya squinted ahead, trying to spot the castle. “Did you put much stock in their tales?”
“When I was younger? Not really. Now? Also no, not really. I think if a dragon had a castle, he’d sleep inside of it, not on top.”
Involuntarily, Kanaya burst out laughing. “That’s your justification for why they’re wrong? Not that your country doesn’t have a history of missing princesses, or that you happened to live close enough to the dragon’s castle to find it, but not so close that it bothers you?”
Briar put her hands on her hips. “Would you sleep out in the rain and the cold if you had the option not to?”
“I make a habit not to when I have the choice,” Kanaya ceded.
“Then you admit there’s some logic to what I say,” Briar smirked felinely.
Kanaya rolled her eyes, smiling. “Begrudgingly. At any rate, there was no dragon on that tower when we saw it from above.”
“No,” Briar said. “There wasn’t.”
16 notes · View notes
mdzs-fic · 4 years
Link
Additional Tags: 
Post-Canon, fluff with small needles in between, starring : the wall of discipline, semi-character study, minimum plot maximum vibes, both these dudes think too much for such horny people
Word count: 20.5k
Summary:
If it were a regular day, Lan Zhan would have let him become that petulant and then kissed his pout off his lips until Wei Ying turned as red as the chilli oil which they stored just for him in the kitchens. Then, he would remind him, Wei Ying, you refused to come to bed until it was chou shi. If you do not sleep the required time, your health will suffer. If I wake you early, I will not be able to hold my husband for the prescribed hours, and then my own health will suffer, following which Wei Ying would splutter and blush brighter still. 
Alternatively: a fortnight in the life of Yiling Laozu, Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation, Scourge of Jianghu, Corrupter of Children, husband of Lan Wangji, as he lives out his roles as teacher, friend, brother, father, spouse.
60 notes · View notes
some-f-opinions · 3 years
Text
The "Olympicgasm" Ends Today. Then, What?
Tumblr media
The 2020 Tokyo Olympics (thank you COVID for this eternal quiz question - When was the 2020 Olympics held?) ends today, and India finishes 48th, ranked based on some sorting algorithm that prefers Gold medal over overall medal tally (surely some South-Indian was on that decision meeting. Yahh, Racist Alert!). This was the largest contingent ever sent to the Olympics by India and has also been its most successful. The first Indian athletics Gold Medal, the resurgence of Indian Hockey, and the marvellous performances apart, it also showcased the potency that we have been underplaying for ages, that our sportsperson can reach out and challenge the best in the world. 7 medals in total doesn’t speak volumes when we boast of one of the worst per capita medal counts, however that “capita” did raise its capitum this time around.
This edition of the Olympics noticed the largest viewership in India. Each event that Indians participated was covered. The wins were cheered, the losses were sympathised with, statuses had their frenzy game along with posts and tweets and reels and stories and what not. WhatsApp forwards in groups had a daily match schedule in it. Mornings began with an update of the leader boards. We watched the 50km walk, the heats of the races, and yes, a solo Indian horse and its companion (don’t say master) making India proud. And cumulatively as a nation we gasped, choked on our tears, drank in our emotions, cherished the moments, and were elated at every feat achieved – irrespective of a victory or a loss, irrespective of podium or farewell – for us they were the winners. When Neeraj Chopra took that last throw, that Javelin was headed straight for glory, of Olympics, of Indian sports fraternity, of Indian audiences glued to the scores, and a biopic, maybe. “The journey not the arrival matters”, TS Eliot had written – but is it, really?
If you are reading this on the 8th of August 2021, then the Olympic ends today, and with it a fairy-tale ends too. What happens from 9th? What changes? We get back again to see whether India wins on the 5thday or not, or get on our work. That’s it.
“Citius, Altius, Fortius – Communiter” reads the revised Olympic motto. “Communiter” was added to exemplify “the togetherness” that we should have for the sports – but in a greater truer sense, do we? How far are we from forgetting all this – a Kohli century away? A Bumrah fiver away? A Premiere League Puskas goal nominee away? – How far are we?
I, You, We can name the all the players who have played for Indian Men’s Cricket Team since the 2000s, name each position that Messi has ever played, and some more and something else. But can we name all the players of our hockey teams? Do we know who all even participated in athletics? Did we know any others before they won us a medal? Yes, won us a medal – while they were fighting against obscurity and obstacles to beat humans trained in world-class institutions or similar scenarios – we basked in their medals. There is no malafide intent in basking in their glory, forgetting them like a beach tan surely is a maleficent act.
These performers will withstand the scourge of time, their medals will, their victories will and even their defeats will – what will we be left with? Politicisation of their descent, a mockery of their caste, or just an attitude of indifference towards them, for those who did not win a medal, aren’t worth remembering, and those who did are worth for some hours more. Whilst I can enlist each series India has won or lost and the events inter-alia. In a population of half a billion adults who have access to some sort of media, 1 million saw the Olympics. Guess the number that clocked in for the Test Championship? And no one is to blame, as we are the perpetrators as a community. We are a class of sloganeers, an age of idol-creators, a community of tweeters and followers, what we aren’t is that we are not beholders of this beauty that we witnessed in the past 2 weeks.
A tweet is doing the rounds, “There are decades where nothing happens; and there are weeks where decades happen.” And thus, what shall we wait for – the decade or the week? Will in this coming decade more parents send their children towards sports. Forget “them”, in the next decade the ones reading this most likely would be parents, I will be a parent – will they, will I – maybe now I say yes, the Halo Effect – but what about a decade later, and the next decade or the decade thence? So, again we will wait for a week that will define the entire decade, or more to come. We will wait for those weeks to make ourselves proud, proud of the bygone 520 weeks where we did nothing to deserve this 1. Thus, and thus, it will happen again, or not – no one knows.
No one in their right minds can take anything away from these sportspersons, neither their glory nor their vain. What will erase is a meek show of profound vanity that we presumed has exculpated us from all those years of wilful turning away the eye. Whether or not we expunge these stars from our horizon or not, they will shine bright for those who have a cloudless conscience and a penchant to look in the right direction.
The epitaph of one of history’s greatest astronomers Sir William Herschel reads, “Coelorum Perrupit Claustra” (he broke through the confines of heaven) – similarly maybe someday our stars will break free from their asylums of obscurity, and we from our ceilings of sporadic sincerity.
Olympics, sports, and those who profess it are too venerable to be compared with the adage “-gasm”, and if taken as profanity, then with apologies, I will beg to differ. However, when scribbling the details that’s what kept coming to me – these past weeks were just moments of elation, a spurt of joy, a plateau of comradery, and then will decline into just a thing once. “La petit mort”shouldn’t be how we treat our athletes, and gratification from them isn’t what we should treat ourselves too either.
And till the next fortnight of glory – let us let the whoosh of the javelin in air, the burn of the skids of track, the scoops of the sticks, the swoosh of the shuttle, the twangs of the bows, the recoils of the guns, the force of the pins, the elegance of the jumps, and above all the sacrifice, courage, valour and achievement of these men and women, from amongst us be the clarion call that was essential but was being ignored.
Let’s Wake Up!
1 note · View note
jocelyn-wellson · 3 years
Photo
Tumblr media
A FORTNIGHT PAST
“And Wellson,” said Director Hawke, “yer heroics were appreciated on th’ way out o’ Stormwind. Just be … careful. Yer on yer own.” She extended her hand.
“Ain’ nothin’ keepin’ me from get’in’ back, if’fn tha’s wot ya mean,” said the Operative, taking the proferred hand. They shook on it. “Two weeks, I’ll do me par’ in Elwynn, fer me bruv’s Estate, and the surroundin’s. Nuffin’ stupit,” she agreed, letting go. She dipped her head respectfully.
“Dismissed.”
TWO HOURS AGO
She was worried when she entered the shop. Exotic leathers and pelts still graced the shelves; empty drying racks lined the upstairs. She heard a rustling in the back and drew her sidearm — the same sidearm, she’d been told by Elunara, once wielded by her brother’s best friend, Justine, for over thirty years. She would keep Myz’s in her slingpack, just in case. She brushed the curtain to the back room aside. The rustling stopped. Silence. She knocked thrice on the wall — noise seemed to attract them, these Scourge.
“Show yourself!” a familiar voice shouted. It was a terse command, one she also recognized from before.
“Et’s me… Joci!” she replied, unclipping her SI:7 — Unit 8 badge from her belt, sliding it toward the voice. She did the same with her new sidearm.
Hoss, the cobbler she’d met just before everything went to shit, was still alive. He was filthy, like he hadn’t been able to bathe for weeks. He placed his Dwarven shotgun on the ground.
“You… you made it?” he asked.
“Wouldn’ be standin’ ‘ere if’in I din’t, yea?”
The man, who had lost several pounds since last they met, rushed over and gave her a tight hug. “S-sorry, I just…”
Joci smiled as she was embraced by the man. “Aye. I ge’ et. Bein’ ‘lone durin’ all this?” She pat his back. “‘ere. I go’ somethin’ ta set ya a-right.”
Hoss let go and looked the woman up and down. “You got it, di—“
Joci presented the man with the soft-sole shoe design from Mister Yellah himself.
“How—?”
“Do ya wanna know?”
“Was he…?”
She shook her head. “Long gone. Bones. An ol’, forgot’en camp. Took a couple days searchin’, bu’,” she chuckled. “I go’ low, stay out’a sight…” She paused, picking up her items. “‘e go’ a propah burial, ‘e did.”
“How can I … this was the last of his… what can I do?”
“Well ya kin make th’ shoes fer one,” she said, cracking a smile. “Ya wanna walk ‘ome? Let ya ge’ clean?”
The towering man looked down at the diminutive brawler, flabbergasted. “If you can take on the dead and live?” he chuckled. “Give me a sec. I’ll lock up.”
Joci beamed. She felt like she had done something right, not just through fighting, but by using her brain. She entered the back of the shop. It was fetid. He had hid amongst his own filth and the rotting remains of the Scourge to remain alive. She picked up the bodies and emptied his slop bucket into the sewer; the sound of the undead still skulking about explained why he hadn’t himself. She slid the heavy oak lid across it and weighed it with a few cinder blocks from behind which he’d been hiding. She entered from the back room.
“You didn’t have to,” said Hoss, mortified.
“I know,” she replied, softly. “Ya ready?”
The man nodded. And with that, the two entered a City transformed by carnage, war, death, fire.
“Where?” she asked, watching a raven pick at a bloated body in the Canal.
“Old Town,” he said.
“We’ll be there befir ya know et,” she said. She’d protect him just as she’d done for the Director and the young one, Nicole. Oh, she thought. Nikki. Gotta ‘member. Nikki.
NOW
“Where’ve ya been?” asked Kat.
“Yeah,” added Thea, drily. “Thought you died. Shame.”
Kat shot her a look. Joci did, too:
“‘elpin ou’, jus’ like I sai’.”
“Duskwind Patrol said they saw someone matchin’ yer description,” said Kat.
“I be five foo’ an’ one inch. Mebbe 105 poun’s. Plen’y o’ starvin’ people righ’ now…” she replied, thoughts drifting to Hoss, how he had changed. “Kingdom ain’ gonna ‘elp so, looks like I be a pop’lar person ta be now, don’ et??”
Thea crossed her arms indignantly. “You think you know so much, you little bit—”
“Thea!” shouted Kat so loud the rest of the Unit could hear. “Out. Now.”
The salty bureaucrat spun on her heel and stormed out. She slammed the door. Kat drummed her nails on the desk. “I’m going to ask you one time. Where were you.”
“Finding a dead man. Deadwind Pass.”
Kat rubbed her brow. “Jocelyn, I—”
“Direc’or,” she said the word popping out as it had before. She kicked herself for it. “I know a man. He can be o’ ‘elp ta us… isn’t tha’ wot we need? People we don’t pay bu’ barter wit’? I ‘eard ya talkin’ ‘bou’ et. Back in camp. I ownt a business —”
“A brothel,” she corrected Joci.
“Fine. I was a fuckin’ cum dumpstah pimp whore. Wha’eva.”
Kat rolled her eyes. “Yer point?”
“Ya cannae ‘spect goo’ things wit’ou’ get’in’ yer fists bloody.”
“You don’t think I don’t know that?” Kat’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t think I don’t look for wealthy patrons every fucking day?”
“These ain’ th’ wealthy. These be th’ people ‘ho need jobs! ‘ho lost everythin’! Fuck th’ rich! They wan’ fer nothin’! Ya donnae see me asking me bruv’s estate for ‘andouts, do ya? Ya wanna protec’ Stormwind? Donnae le’ et become anothah Moonbeam, yanno… like Wes’fall!”
Kat perked an eyebrow. “Moonbrook.”
“So ya remembah et’s name. Ya wanna medal?”
“Wot’s got you so fired up, anyway?” asked Kat, more interested than annoyed. She’d seen a fiery streak in Jocelyn before, knew about her insubordination within the ranks of the Proudmoore Admiralty… “Is this wot ya do? Ya get too close to people?” The Director scoffed. “Seven hells, Wellson. Ya can’t save everyone!”
Jocelyn set her jaw. She reached for her badge and drew Myz’s 9mm sidearm from her slingpack. She set them on the desk. “I be out.”
The fine lines around Kat’s eyes twitched. “Take a minute, cool down…” she said.  
“Nah. I ain’ ‘eartless. Quinn, Nicole … er, Nikki … they be th’ only ones lef’ wit’ a warm ‘eart. Wit’ a conscience.”
“Ya think I don’t have a conscience? Ya think I’m heartless?”
“I fink,” said Jocelyn, “Ya los’ touch wit’ life when ya was gone. Ya ain’ th’ woman I met in th’ Park.”
“You’ve no idea wot yer talkin’ about, Wellson.”
The two stared at each other for a long time. The badge and Myz’s 9mm sat between them. The clock ticked as clocks do, marking endless hopes and lives slipping away. Finally Jocelyn spoke:
“I know ya play fav’rites. I know ya lef’ Tris ta die.” She cleared her throat: “Over’eard tha’ lil’ gem in camp.”
Kat’s self-confidence faltered for the briefest of moments.
Joci continued. “I know we make mistakes, yea? Lords I know… ya came ta me a’ me lowes’, when I was nothin’ bu’ guttertrash. Abandont. No way home. Death waitin’ there anyway. Couldn’t read a’tall. Me bruv… watched ‘im die…” She inhaled deeply. She sat in the chair Thea had been using. She exhaled. “I met an ol’ man, back befir th’ Scourge attack. A leatherworkah. A mastah leatherworkah. Defent ‘is shop from th’ Scourge, ‘e did. Walkt ‘im ‘ome today. He be smar’, an’ ‘e be goo’. Bettah, he be cheapah than th’ Crown, askin’ only fer materials.”
“Really?” Kat drummed her fingers on her desk, suppressing a cynical laugh. “That’s it? Yer willing ta forsake yer job fer one man? A cobbler?”
“If’fn I cannae ‘elp people, why di’ ya bring me in?”
Kat looked over Joci’s face. The scar just across her nose. The braid in her hair. Lines of sorrow and years of seldom joy etched like the broken sky. Kat slid the gun and badge across the desk. “This.”
“W-wait… Wot?”
“I swear ta fuck yer unbreakable. Ya got a heart. Don’t know how, after everything ya went through, but ya do…,” she said, trailing off. “Ya do. Come on then.” Director Hawke stood, gesturing for Jocelyn to do the same. “Take me to the shops ya know, that have crafted for ya. Let’s at least see wot’s left.”
“Aye aye, Director,” said Operative Wellson, tucking Myz’s 9mm into her sling pack. She clipped the badge to the backside of her belt. “Aye aye.”
(( @kat-hawke @tristanasneak @myzariel @nikkithorpe @quinn-varden // @justinegrotius @brian-wellson ))
8 notes · View notes
veridianora · 3 years
Photo
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
“Beyond the Veil,” a short story explaining how most of my characters get to Shadowlands.
Thyria trudged into a cabin in the Argent Tournament grounds, flicking snow off shoulders. With a relieved sigh, she pulled off her boots, the cold and wet just starting to seep through. Her black tiger and hunting companion, Veridiana, softly padded over to the fireplace and laid down. As she slung off her bow and quiver, a knock at the door made her pause.
“Miss Wildward?” A young Argent squire stood stiffly at the entrance.
“Yes, that is I.” 
“I have a letter from King Greymane. I was told it was urgent.”
Thyria frowned slightly. She had been fighting against the Scourge in Icecrown for weeks now, trying to keep them from spreading throughout Azeroth. She wondered what could be more urgent.
She raised a graceful arm and took the plain letter. “Thank you. Stay safe.”
The squire left with a bow. Thyria closed the cabin door and sat at her desk, intent on opening the letter as soon as possible.
Dear Thyria,
I have heard of your service in Northrend, and I commend you for it. I fear, however, there may be a more dangerous mission for which we need you. We, being the leaders of the Alliance and the Horde left on this plane. You have shown dedication to protecting Azeroth, and not just within faction lines. We have selected you to rebalance the world in this moment; by entering the rift to the Shadowlands, and bringing back our leaders.
You will not do this alone. We have been in communications with the Ebon Blade, who are already able to cross the veil. Additionally, we ask you to name more heroes you feel will be suited to this task. Ideally, individuals who have faction neutrality, yet still have an interest in rescuing the world leaders. 
Should you accept, write back or take the portal to see me in Stormwind. We are preparing to leave within a fortnight.
Genn Greymane
Thyria sat and stared at the fire. To cross the veil… into the realm of death. She had adventured to countless dangerous lands before, but this… It could be a point of no return. But, she reminded herself, it already may be for Anduin, Baine. And Elune knows Tyrande isn’t likely to let the Banshee Queen run and hide. Thyria wouldn’t let her High Priestess go alone.
She took out some parchment and a simple quill, penning back a letter. The least she could do was identify strong heroes to come with her, so that they’d have each others’ backs.
Genn,
I would feel better about venturing into the realm of death with these individuals by my side.
Mituka Prairiecall. My colleague on various ecological expeditions. A tauren druid of the Cenarion Circle, Mituka puts faction lines secondary to preserving life. Her ideals align with Baine, meaning she would want to rescue him for the good of the tauren people, as well as to facilitate peace between the factions.
Sartruenne of Vashj’ir. A selfless, bright gilgoblin who has consistently gone out of her way to help the downtrodden. Sartruenne is a capable fighter and survivalist, wielding spears and tridents to down her quarry. Belonging to no faction, she would seek to defend Azeroth from this new threat.
Lyreae Sirendawn. I fought with her to liberate Suramar. Since then, she has travelled the world and grown into a powerful astromancer. For her role in freeing the Nightborne, I believe she would want to help Tyrande as much as any night elf.
All three are currently fighting the Scourge, in Icecrown or otherwise. I will wait for you to contact them in the spirit of discretion. I believe my contacts in the Ebon Blade, Cora Ka’an and Periael Driftkeen, have already been called to their duties, but I vouch for them as well.
I will see you soon.
Thyria Wildward
***
“No way. This wasn’t an invitation.” 
“Ma, you think we’re going to let you go by yourself into another world? When we just found each other again?” Tess asked with some exasperation, her grey eyes pleading. The harvest witch was seated comfortably on a couch, next to her younger sister Solyssa. 
“It’s dangerous. No one knows what we’ll find. The Ebon Blade are the most equipped to handle this.” Cora’s voice was razor sharp as she looked at her daughters who now surrounded her.
“Then why is Thyria going?” Jay piped up, leaning casually against the wall of the Boralus shack that they had made their family base of operations.
“She and her team have centuries more experience than you. She knows the risks. The living are not supposed to walk that realm.”
“Hey, you’re not supposed to walk this realm either. Yet here you are.” Nettie said with a smirk, her flowing robes spilled around her on the carpeted floor.
Cora gave her a look, and then let out a barking laugh. “I guess there’s no convincing you kids.”
Cora sighed and rubbed her temples. Jay’s golden eyes glistened with excitement, while Tess and Solyssa looked more concerned. Nettie’s steady glowing gaze, typical of the Forsaken, reminded her that she wasn’t the only one with experience of going beyond the Veil.
“Fine. I want you preparing immediately. Don’t rely on any one source of power. Settle your affairs.”
“At least let me finish my tea first,” Tess said.
Cora smiled. “You know, sometimes I think about what a miracle it is that we are all here.” She looked over to Sol and Tess. “You all could have never made it out of Gilneas, or you could’ve been shot by that fool Godfrey even if you did.”
Tess reached over to hold Solyssa’s hand at that. Solyssa nodded solemnly.
Cora examined her eldest daughter, the spitting image of a competent captain. “Jay built her own crew, gave us a foothold in Kul’Tiras when I was returning as a wanted woman. Even so, never thought I’d get better treatment than Lady Jaina!” Jay chuckled.
Her youngest daughter exuded calm, but she knew there were deep, swirling currents underneath. “And Nettie… Perhaps there is a reason that two of us experienced undeath. So that we could be the guides in this new realm.”
“So it is settled. We’ll go on this adventure together.”
3 notes · View notes
freequizbank · 5 months
Text
PM challenges Australia to 'wipe out' domestic violence _ FreeQuizBank.com - Free Exam Practice Questions for LANTITE Numeracy, Mathematical Reasoning - OC, Selective and Scholarship Tests @acereduau #NSWeducation #AusEdu @AusGovEducation @ServiceNSW
0 notes
vprogresseducation · 5 months
Text
PM challenges Australia to 'wipe out' domestic violence _ FreeQuizBank.com - Free Exam Practice Questions for LANTITE Numeracy, Mathematical Reasoning - OC, Selective and Scholarship Tests @acereduau #NSWeducation #AusEdu @AusGovEducation @ServiceNSW
0 notes
ffxiv-swarm · 5 years
Text
prompt 7: forgiven
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
Fire. Ice. The screaming and the blood and the silence. The heavy dead weight he’d needed to have Busari help tip over the edge of the city, where it would lay until scavengers or aether tore it apart.
“It has been...”
Years. Priests never confessed to each other, at least not in Ishgard. Not if they didn’t want their foulest crimes to reach Inquisitorial ears inside a fortnight, direct from the lips of the brothers and sisters who broke the sacred silence of the confessional for their own gain.
“...Six years, since my last confession.”
And he was glad beyond measure for the wall between them.
“I have.”
The words dried up in his throat. He could feel the waiting silence, patient as a dragon.
“In the defense of myself and my flock, I have deliberately taken the life of an Inquisitor of the Church.”
There. He’d said it. Any moment now would be the cold recriminations, the curses, the probable murder trial. He had a horrible vision of Busari dying upon the swords of Temple Knights to rescue him.
Silence for one heartbeat, then two. The priest’s voice was quiet and dry when at last he spoke. Evrard suspected he’d probably heard worse. “And do you repent of this crime? Swear to the Fury never to do it again?”
No.
“Yes.”
Halone have mercy on me, an unrepentant sinner…
The priest was silent again—mulling over his punishment, Evrard thought—but his words shook him to his core. “Then you are not forgiven.”
Shock ripped the protest out of him before he could think better of it. “What?!”
“Is the Fury not the Queen of War? She who treads the dragon underfoot, whose spears are lightning, whose shield defends the righteous? And are you not an ordained priest, sworn to carry out Her will? How, then, can you blame yourself for protecting innocents under your care? Do you scourge yourself in penance for every monster you slay?”
He squeezed his eyes shut. “Father, I--”
A bone-deep sigh. “You are young and foolish. We who minister to our flocks are no less holy, no less worthy, than the Inquisitors in their Tribunal. Go, reflect on these words—reflect upon the Fury, whose love for all is balanced on the spear’s point—and sin no more.”
Evrard stayed where he knelt. He wasn’t sure his legs would work at the moment. “And my penance, Father?”
Another sigh, this one exasperated. “Go.”
He went.
5 notes · View notes