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another-heroine · 11 months

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Wip: The Windmill

After the angst in the last chapter, here comes a bit of fluff and childhood sweethearts for Luis and my OC.

Oh good gods, they will suffer so much in the future...

Read the available chapters on ao3 and make a writer happy!

Her knees were hurting as hell, but she couldn’t stop going on. Laura swallowed the tears, holding her precious friend against her chest, and defying the storm.

We are getting close, she repeated to herself, feeling the cold drops slashing against her skin, reaching her under the thick coat. She didn’t mind being raptured by the storm, since her precious Gatito stayed safe and sound and warm.

She knocked on the door, chattering her teeth. Her voice echoed pitched, “ABUELO!”

It felt like an eternity while she was waiting outside, until she heard someone unlocking the door, and the old man’s face appeared through a slit. Abuelo Serra gasped, “Laura! What are you doing here? Dios mío, you are soaking wet. Luis!”

The boy went downstairs immediately, almost jumping the steps. When he saw Laura trembling and dripping at the door, he didn’t ask anything; Luis put more wood into the hearthfire.

“Come in, girl. Jesus, what is going on?”

Laura was breathless. Her lungs were full of invisible needles. She took off the blanket over her arms and begged, “Please, save Gatito!”

The old Serra took a close look and saw the lethargic animal. The white cat was grimy and his breathing was laborious.

“I don't believe that he will survive until papa comes back!” Her eyes were watering, blurring her vision.

The hunter scratched his head. He was tired of explaining to the locals that he wasn’t a miraculous saint or a heathen, his job was hunting and scouting the vicinity of Valdelobos. But how could he deny help in moments like that?

“Alright, niña, but you need to calm down,” he said. “Sit next to the hearth, I will take care of him.”

Laura almost couldn’t let Gatito go. Abuelo managed to convince her to let the animal on the kitchen table. She caressed the cat’s ears and muttered “But I… I want to help”.

“You are already doing it.” Serra touched her shoulder. “Pull yourself together first.”

Laura hesitated, but Luis pulled her gently. “You heard the old man. Come, sit down.”

She swallowed hard and nodded. The grandson led her to the chair in front of the fire. She took off her boots and put her feet into the warm water bowl. That was a relief she didn’t realize she needed before.

Luis touched her shoulders and suggested, “Now let me hang your coat. If you catch a cold, your mother will be furious!”

“I know.” Laura sniffed, slippering from the heavy sleeves. “The storm ambushed me. There was no turning back.”

“I see. But don't worry, everything will be fine. Abuelo always knows what to do,” he stated.

“Thank you.” Her hands gripped nervously the fabric of her skirt. She was not used to crying before anyone, but her heart was so small inside the chest that she wished to cry out loud.

Gatito was puking blood for a few days, and nobody knew what to do. Although many children and teenagers were afraid of Abuelo Serra, telling stories that he was a wizard in disguise, Laura knew better that the old man was wise and well-versed in many things. A scholar, like her father.

He must know what to do.

Luis crouched and took one of her hands between his. “You are very brave, you know?”

She couldn’t look at him. The girl was feeling embarrassed and she was certain that her appearance was a mess because of the weather. Laura closed her eyes and grunted, “There is a difference between bravery and folly.”

“I'm not sure about it.” He arched his brow. “Many people were judged insane by others, when actually they just had a different point of view.”

Those words were familiar. Laura glanced at him. “Luis... Is it from Don Quixote again?”

He gave a lopsided grin, looking at the fire. “Maybe.”

Laura tried to frown, but giggled nervously.

“See? I made you laugh! Isn't it insane?”

She felt her face warming up, and couldn't tell if that was because of the hearthfire or him. He could be a dork, but at least he was charming.

They heard abuelo whispering something for Gatito, and the cat was replying with weak squeaks. Laura glanced over her shoulder for a while, then muttered to Luis, “That’s why kids here think that he is a wizard”.

“Too bad for them.” Luis got up and released her hand. “Those tontos would never know how he is a genius.”

Laura pondered for a moment. Luis noticed her expression and asked, “What is bothering you? I mean, besides Gatito being sick.”

“Do you think… Oh, nevermind.” She shook her head.

“What? I’m listening!” he insisted, curious.

Laura rubbed her cheeks, and her heart skipped a beat when Luis got too close, staring at her with those gray eyes. He didn’t even blink.

“I will stay here until you say what’s on your mind.”

She competed with him to see who could overcome that staring duel, but her eyes began feeling dry, and Laura gave up. She sighed, frustrated, and confessed, “Do you think he can teach me about the neighborhood animals? I mean, the wild ones.”

Luis tilted his head. He didn’t know how to react.

“Well, you can ask him. But… What about your father?”

The girl shrugged. “He is often too busy. And…” She smiled mischievously. “Don’t you want to lend me your grandpa?”

Luis flustered. “No, not at all! I mean, it would be great if you come by and study with me— us! Our library is very useful, there are many books… like a library should have.”

Laura lowered her head and chuckled. “It sounds great.”

Luis nodded, feeling dumb. And strangely happy.

(tagging: @navstuffs)

#luis serra #resident evil 4 #resident evil fanfic #luis x oc #luis x you

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talldarkandroguesome · 7 months

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15th of Hearthfire, Fredas

What a lovely little gathering we had at the Nest last night.

I was surprised to find that the little Scuttlers had prepared for my arrival. They had incense and candles going and the altar already decorated with flowers and wine.

These are not the casual participants that join to have a club for sexual exploration the way so very many Nests fall prey. These are clear devotees to our Prince and Her sphere. There was jovial conversation and merriment abound.

As I looked upon the offerings, I could see that many were beautifully rendered. Arrow and Goat, having much experience with repairing fishing nets, had used their skills to create a net in the pattern of a web, all out of silk rope. That is not something that can be accomplished in a short time. There is much planning and time dedicated to such a creation. I am proud for the energy they have put into their offering.

Everyone had contributed something. Food, drink, trinkets. They had worked so hard and the effect was incredible! You could feel the energy given off by the efforts of the Nest.

I spoke with all my dear Spiderlings before I asked for the privacy to speak with Zethith. I wanted to be able to report to them the full extent of our Nest's devotion.

Zethith did seem to be interested in how, even without my direction, the loyalty and desire to impress was so great. We agreed that leaning into the idea that dedication directly leads to rewards of power and ability seemed to motivate the spiderlings. Nowhere was this quite as obvious as the bold statement of Prince, who asked me directly if he might warm my bed this evening, in private. When I asked to what end he sought such things, he said he wished to push himself further than he had been able to do with the group. He has ambition. All of my potential Deathweavers do. I think that the others who are not ready for such things, with the exception, perhaps, of Ebony, will serve well to mentor newer members when I am ready to welcome any more little Spiderlings into the Nest.

Tanur, we decided, works best in the capacity of managing the facility and the needs of our Spiderlings. And if he continues to play host for our gatherings that include the mundane, then he will have his hands full with maintaining that facade. Between that and his shop, he will certainly be unable to do any regular training.

What I need is someone who I can put in charge of the regular training of the Nest. At this time I do not have anyone capable of doing so to my satisfaction. I do not wish to take from my current Spiderlings, for fear of creating animosity. It is still too early for that. What I am going to have to do is dedicate more time to training my Deathweavers. They need such precise care. I could tell from their demonstrations that they have grown complacent with the course as it is. They need more challenge. They need to be given new tasks. They need to feel the race of adrenaline when you have to slip passed so many searching eyes and reach your target, eliminate them, and then escape unseen. There is an ecstasy that comes with that process that cannot be replicated any other way.

I also spoke to Zethith about my desire to appeal to our Prince to recover part of Leythen, that I might be able to bind his ancestral spirit to me and later Widows of the Stonefalls Nest. I told Zethith that I want to start working on raising up my future descendant so that I will be able to eventually focus my effort on the Cathedral of Webs completely. Yet to do that, I need to have fully trained and reliable Spiderlings. Especially to succeed in a place like the Summerset Isle, I need to make sure I have reliable agents.

And as much as I hate to admit it, I am going to have to rely on some Altmer. At least one or two. It should not be impossible, Leythen was an Altmer. There could be others that are like him. Maybe. Finding them may be difficult. I need someone who is well versed in life on the Isles and can speak to the proper levels of politeness and political savvy. I need someone who is deeply involved, but willing to sow chaos and be loyal to our cause. I do not know if such an Altmer exists outside of Leythen.

Leythen. How I miss him. I need to speak to him, to be connected to him. I must! Whatever it takes to be able to us together, assuming he will agree to the pact, I wish to do.

Zethith says they will speak to our Prince on my behalf. They warn me that a mortal desiring to retrieve part of the body of another is not a usual priority for someone such as a Daedric Prince, but they will see what can be done.

I thanked them excitedly. They seemed to be unsure of my expression of gladness, but they said nothing.

We spoke of the options for competition for becoming the vessel for our Prince's Summoning Day. They suggested that we have a series of competitions, that way those of differing skills could earn a chance. Their suggestion was to have different points earned by winning each challenge. That each day should have a different challenge with a different type of skill and difficulty. Success would earn a currency. And currency could be exchanged for favors from others.

Once we had determined a set of challenges and arranged them upon the days leading up to the Summoning Day.

Zethith has asked that I check in with them a little more often over the next month. There is much to discuss and they wish for me to begin considering increasing the challenges for my Spiderlings. That they should be rewarded for the work they have done and see marks of that progress. I should consider adding new Spiderlings so that those who came before can begin to feel like a part of a hierarchy.

I do not know when I shall have time to properly train those I have with me, let alone a new set of Spiderlings. But if Zethith says so, then I must consider it.

#ESO #TES #RP #Dunmer #elder scrolls online #the elder scrolls

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thebard490 · 8 months

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Paladins Chapter 17: Hearthfire

I am The Bard, who has seen The Story echoed over and over anew. Chaos rises, and the goodly creatures of the world banish it for a time, each again and again until night falls, then dawn breaks anew. Thus it has been since the days of old, when creation was young but no longer very good, so it shall be until the last verse is graven.

As the exhausted and bloodied band of crusaders flopped down in the nearest beds they could find, occupied by a giant warming pad called Kazador or otherwise, they were swiftly claimed by the quiet net of sleep.

This night, they all dreamt, and all dreamt the same dream. Again, they stood outside, but this time atop the walls of the abbey, now blazing with fire like the light of the sun, but the fire did not burn them. From atop the walls they looked out into endless and dark night, dark without stars or moon to light it. In the forest past the edge of the fire’s light they all saw clearly the writhing, strangling infection. All now saw the dark vines, even Julian, pulsing with ebon ichor upon the land, upon the trees. Yndri saw a stag running in the night, agile even through no less tangled than the flora in the creeping curse. Then, they sensed a presence beside them.

Senket saw the Tiefling ghost, blazing in brilliance besides her, and he turned to the abbey and raised a bright finger at it. “Seek us. Seek that which has fallen. Seek the story unforgotten. Echo of what once was, take up our sword once more.” He commanded.

Kazador looked to the west and saw a stone dragon lying broken on the shore, barnacles upon its tail, smokeless fire in its breath, and a sword of mithril rippled liked the waves, in its claws. Fire burned so very dimly around the blade, and he heard many voices, male and female, speaking in the tongues of men, in the tongues of dragons, in the tongues of dwarves, and in the tongues of angels. “Lord of Order, restore what was lost.”

Yndri looked to the north and to the east, and saw trees hung in spiderwebs. Amidst the trees stood a statue of an elven woman, pale as marble. Her arm fell off as she reached for Yndri, and the statue called to her “Wandering Wind, let the gates be opened once more.” As she watched, shadow spread across the statue, marble regressing to insidious obsidian, save the hair. Two pairs of amethyst eyes stared into one another, as the statue spoke words in a language Yndri did not know. Yet still she understood the pleading, as for a mother for her estranged daughter to return. Before any more words could come, silver spiderwebs cracked across the statue and strangled it to dust.

Peregrin looked into the dark and saw many tiny lights, like fireflies in tar, scattered out across it. Across the north, across the east, and all about his feet. “Sword of Light and Shadow.” The voice of a halfling woman commanded him “Let the light of the small be lit once more. Let light shine forth and bring the wanderers home.”

Julian looked into the dark and heard no voices, saw no visions at first, until he felt himself drawn far from the walls into the north. There, where the old road and the mighty river met in the ruins of a once great city he heard a voice. “Godless and without inheritance. Son of heaven scorned for the mother’s sins.” A woman’s voice, great and terrible, rang about him. “What shall you fight for here? You have no gods to fight for and will find no gods here.” It warned, but the paladin did not quail.

“No, you have no time for the dalliances of divinity, do you?” she asked with a chuckle, knowing the answer. “Only that your will shall be done, and the world redeemed by the hands of a man. Such folly, to think that you, a man, shall do what no god can? Come then, seek beyond gods, to the fire that cannot go out, so that the worm must die. Seek that which is anathema, if thou dares to choose a destiny for oneself.” She challenged him, as the black vines burned with the sulfuric smell of brimstone.

The party awoke with minds burning, and in Kazador’s case, a blanket of halflings. He pushed off the several smallfolk who decided the warm dragonborn was a good place to sleep, rumbling and grumbling with enough ornery morning grumpiness to rival War Pig.

“Ah’m gonna have tae tell Peregrin tae ware his folk against using me as a pillow.” He grumbled as he pulled on his armor and belted on his axes.

“Kaz, you are the first man I have ever known to complain about having too many companions in bed.” Senket remarked dryly as she pulled on her tunic and donned her armor. The dragonborn turned slightly more red than usual.

“Speaking of the little fellow, where is Peregrin?” Julian asked as he walked out of the privy, still wearing his helmet out of habit.

Yndri walked in, fully dressed and ready to go. “Julian, do you really need the helmet?” She asked. “Strange habits aside, Peregrin sent me to come and get you. Breakfast is ready.”

Julian took off the helmet and put it by his bunk. Fully aware of the stares the halflings were giving him, he pulled out his spellbook. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.” He said slightly self-consciously.

“Fine, more scoff fer me.” Kazador rumbled as he heads out.

As Julian studied his spellbook. He was surprised to find a new page in the book, not simply leafed in, but completely new, as though it had been made with it. The paper was of high quality, and furthermore the spell was not written in his draconic engravings he preferred, nor in the diabolic script his mother used, but in a fine hand of sacred runes, as used by priests and angels. He frowned as he considered this, and quickly identified the spell as one to call forth a familiar. Even stranger, to find arcane magic written in a script most commonly used for divine rituals. He set the mystery aside for the moment.

Down in the kitchen, Peregrin had been up for a while alongside Yndri, putting the abbey’s food stores to good use. A wide collection of grains, flours, and premade loaves made life far easier, and furthermore the abbey possessed many looted spices and sugars. Best of all though was when he discovered a coop of irritable but bountiful hens, and therefore a small hoard of eggs. With this bounty, the paladins, halflings, and goblins were treated to their first hot breakfast in quite some time, hot steaming bowls of porridge, scrambled eggs, and toast. Simple, but exceedingly satisfying.

Kazador examined the workmanship on the bowls and spoons. They were all identical, indicating that they were either created using magic, or perhaps a gnomish invention such as an auto-forge. They were simple, but all of rather high quality, clearly not goblin make, and thus were either stolen or perhaps simply were used by the abbey’s original inhabitants. As they ate, Peregrin and Yndri joined the pair in the scoff. “You know, we still need to find this place’s name.” Yndri said between bites. “I say we wander about and see if we can’t find any old records of it.”

“Julian, Peregrin, you two are the most well read and well-traveled among us, have you ever heard of this place?” Senket probed the more intellectual pair.

“My studies were mostly large-scale history and the arcane. I’m afraid I’ve heard no mention of this place’s name in my books. The Northern Garden have been abandoned by all civilized races but the hobgoblins for three centuries or so, and it wasn’t exactly a densely populated area even at the best of times. So, its “history” seems all too much tied up in legends and myths rather than solid facts.” Julian said, sounding slightly disappointed.

“I’ve heard stories that supposedly came out of here.” Peregrin said. “And heard a few more from my kin here. However, it’s sort of garbled. Either there’s been a whole lot of times where this place has been invaded and a hero rises to deal with the problem, or it happened once, and everyone kept switching around who the hero was and what the problem was.” He said with a bit of a shrug. “It’s probably a bit of both if I’ve had to guess, my folk will tell a story a thousand times and never the same way twice depending on what we want to get across as a point. I get the feeling that we’re going to be part of one of those stories again.”

“We are nae allowing a bard to come an’ follow us around getting intae trouble. Nae way. Ah am nae keepin me eye on some frilly lute lover.” Kazador rumbled aggressively. Not to worry my friend, I was here the whole time, and you had never needed to keep an eye. Not that you could have seen me after all. The eyes of a king are wise indeed, but one doesn’t get to record these kinds of stories without a certain kind of cleverness,

“Don’t you dwarves have a long history of using songs to keep pace when you mine and march?” Yndri questioned.

“Aye, we chant the old histories and remember the old grudges. It’s nae bard-song though, we tell it like it happened, nae frilly turned o’ phrase or unnecessary elven maids tae rescue an’ bed. Our women can deal fer themselves.” He grumbled.

“I’m afraid we are probably going to wind up in a story one way or another, a whole bunch of paladins on a merry crusade to retake lost lands? It’s practically storybook.” Peregrin chuckled.

“Hm, sort of like that epic about the lizardfolk, out of Muab, Rising Dawn was it? With that… oh what was his name, Matlal?” Julian considered. “Strange habit bards have of slapping names on parties. And why are they always called parties to begin with?”

“Tradition, I suppose.” Senket muttered into her coffee. “I suppose they’ll slap one on us as well. Probably something silly like the Stardust Crusaders or something.”

“I think that’s already a thing, a bunch of monks in Mercat if I recall correctly.” Yndri pointed out. “I suppose if we want to avoid something silly, we might as well come up with something of our own.”

“Bah.” Kazador said as he wiped his mouth and picked up his dishes. “We’ll work it out when we’ve got time. Let’s get this bloody place cleaned out first then deal with this wee bit o’ nonsense.” With the name discussion left behind for the moment, the party split off and began to wander the abbey in search of any clues as to its history and identity.

Senket headed to the walls and the gatehouse, finding the place where she stood in the dream. Scouring the top of the wall, she did find something unusual. Covered by a layer of sandy dust, she brushed clear a section just where the Tiefling was standing to find a small brooch in the shape of a sun, carved from what looked like silver, set into the stone. With a small bit of effort, she managed to pry it free from its engraving to examine it more closely and realized that it was in fact a medallion. The medallion was far too sturdy to simply be made of silver, but it lacked any hum of magic about it. No words were carved on front or back to identify the owner, but it was very clearly placed in this stone and hidden by dust for a purpose.

Peregrin headed outside and wandered through the orchard, between the thick glades of apple trees, ripe with fruit. He saw a clear progression of ages, indicating that each tree was planted several years apart. He followed this to the youngest tree, which even still was a rather old fellow, though nothing before the ancient and massive sort at the other end.

He searched around the tree, trying to find out why they were planted at such seemingly random intervals, hoping to find some hint, until his bare foot stepped on something cold at the base of the youngest tree. He turned to investigate. Brushing aside the dust, he gasped as he found that what he stepped on was a plaque set into a small stone at the base of the tree. It read, in common and a language he didn't recognize; “Abbot Thibb, A good and generous man even in the harshest time. Claimed by the great plague, he provides even in death. Rest in peace.”

Peregrin rushed to the next tree, and found a similar plaque, the resting place of an abbess. He rushed to another, and then another. He swiftly realized that this orchard was not merely a supply of food inside the walls but was in fact the final resting place for the leaders of the abbey. Each abbot and abbess lying peacefully beneath a fruit tree, their body providing nourishment for a new life that shall in turn nourish others. From the general dates of life and death, he was able to find this abbey had stood a remarkably long time, nearly seven hundred years. It predated the hobgoblin empire, and had survived throughout it, and then for almost a hundred years after its fall.

Kazador headed down, following a staircase from the great hall into the comfortable underground. Inside, he found a long table covered in reports with thirteen chairs. The paper and quills still lying there seemed to be various reports, and it seemed this room was where the legate held conferences. The entire room was made of the same warm sandstone as the walls and main building but was generally comfortable and cozy.

On the far side of the room was another door, and next to it a grand tapestry that covers the entire wall. It was a massive cloth edifice showing Tamur’s conquest of the other goblin gods, and his many wars against the other gods.

Kazador was obviously displeased at the existence of such a tapestry and walked over to it. After confirming that there was nothing else flammable nearby, he sucked in a breath and bathed the remarkable piece of pagan artwork in fire. He smiled slightly smugly to himself, thinking that if they wanted to keep their art, they should have made it a bit more permanent. He turned to investigate the other door, when, out of the corner of his eye he saw the flaming tapestry was in fact hiding something. He turned and chuckled slightly, as it seemed the original designers of the abbey had the same ideas on art as him.

Hidden behind the tapestry, which was presumably hung to hide this, was a massive stone carving into the wall itself. This was clearly dwarven work, as only they could paint such a picture in solid sandstone. The carving depicted the building of the abbey, by dwarves and humans working together, under the watchful eyes of a stout looking dwarf lord and a human wearing a mighty sword. As the scene progressed, the human and the dwarf defend the abbey from a horde of various monstrous races. Goblins, Orcs, Gnolls, and creatures more obscure and profane that Kazador could recognize rush in a great swarm against the pair, only to be flanked by an elf from the woods and a dragonborn riding on the river. He stared very closely at the dragonborn in the picture, it appeared to be descended from one of the aquatic dragons, perhaps a gold or bronze one. Most curious of all though was their sword, which rippled like water and was wreathed in flame.

At the far end was the most recent work, looking to be perhaps two hundred years younger than the original piece, showing the human from before, standing with sword in hand in front of a multitude of different humanoids of all races, all standing behind with the same sword in their hands and the same determined stare in their eyes.

It is a truly beautiful piece, although it did contain an imperfection, one only a dwarf or one raised by them might notice. In the final panel, the first hero’s sword was missing the center of its crossguard. Rather than being carved outwards like the rest, it was carved inwards, digging into the wall rather than out of it. Examining the sword’s depiction with the other heroes, the crossguard would appear to have a small symbol of the seven for its center. Kazador smelled a hidden door, and to confirm his suspicions, he quickly departed, moving to go find the one other party member with the senses to detect it.

Yndri was exploring the main building, finding mostly dormitories and other such rooms, but she was pleasantly surprised to find a large suite of rooms that appeared to be a hospital. These rooms were immaculately clean, even by the hobgoblin’s own obsessive standards. The beds are laid with fresh linens, and the room was light and airy with several large windows.

Further examination discovered what looked to be an alchemy lab, with a small stock of potions, names labeled in goblin. Since she could not read them, she left them until she could find Peregrin or Jort. In the next room over was a single bed with straps to bind the occupant down. Many cruel looking sharp implements hung on the walls. It was uncertain whether this was a torture chamber or an operating room. However, considering it was run by hobgoblins, probably both. She turned from the room, which even when cleaned still stank of blood, when she heard Kazador calling for her and headed over to him. After the situation was explained, she headed down to the carven hall and examined it. After several long minutes of study, she confirmed his suspicions. There was indeed a cleverly hidden secret door here.

Julian followed Jort, while also looking like he was conducting his own search. Despite the young paladin’s aid in defeating Pompey, he was still somewhat suspicious of the treacherous blue-nose. Eventually the pair arrived at the Legate’s suite and began to search through it, finding mostly situation reports.

In searching his bedroom, they found the leader’s war chest, a large padlocked and sturdy oaken box. A solid strike from the nephilim opened it, revealing a substantial amount of gold, silver, and copper, as well as several precious stones and golden images. It was probably enough wealth to purchase half a small village, but Julian was somewhat unconcerned with it, what were they going to spend it on?

Despite this, they left it alone for now, and continued to search the room. Julian raised an eyebrow when he spotted a book poking out from under the pillows of the large bed. He snorted derisively when he discovered it was the rather popular “How to Pick Up Fair Maidens.” He considered just tossing it back down on the bed, but instead, after making sure Jort wasn't looking, slipped it inside his bag for later reading. Books are books after all, and he’d needed something new to read for some time.

He was then incredibly pleased when the next room they searched was filled to the absolute brim with books and scrolls. Jort was certain this was the happiest he’d ever seen the Nephilim as he carefully began to look through. Julian’s grin grew even wider when he realized what they’d just stumbled across. Volumes upon volumes of recordings, mostly in the form of clearly dated journals from the abbey recorders across history. The newer books were written in the common tongue, but as he also scanned several of the older ones, other languages appeared. It seemed angelic was popular at the beginning of the abbey, several were written entirely in dwarvish, and an entire tome, larger than all the rest, was written entirely in draconic. The writings on that seemed to have been written by what looked suspiciously more like a claw dipped in ink than a quill.

As he dug in with sheer glee, Julian at last discovered the true name of the abbey in the recordings of one Methuselah; “7.16.[illegible], Little has occurred of note this day, save that I have discovered the etymology behind our fair Hearthfire’s name. It seems that there is indeed magic [illegible] as I discovered in an ancient, almost crumbling letter from our founder [Illegible] to lord [dwarven runes, mostly illegible]. “This place shall have the warmth of the kindly sun in it, a [faded and illegible] goodly people I build it for, for this age and the ages yet to come.” So, that is why it is Hearthfire. I am very pleased to have discovered this, though I fear the paper shall soon become entirely destroyed by age.”

”Hearthfire then.” Julian mused as he looked at the old book, it itself now almost as ruined by the wastes of time as that letter this ancient Methuselah had found. “Fate smirks at least.” He muttered as he put it down. There was too much here for him to throw himself into for the moment, so he selected the youngest of the books and headed to find the others. As noontime rose, the group re-assembled in the hall for a meal and to discuss their findings. At Kazador and Yndri’s report, Senket’s eyebrows jumped.

“Would this perhaps be what was missing?” She said, producing the medallion. Kazador examined it, and his eyes went wide. “By the maker’s beard.” He invoked. “This is Mithril.” He said as he examined the small medallion carefully, seeming unable or unwilling to let it go.

The paladins looked at one another excitedly. They all knew the incredible value of that particular metal, and while they were not greedy, the existence of such a token indicated that this was once an incredibly prosperous place.

“More dwarf work tae boot. Ah keep findin signs o’ me kin but nae a place where they’d call home.” The dragonborn said, actually sounding worried for the first time.

“Still, that’s definitely the key.” Yndri agreed as she looked at the craftsmanship.

“But the key to what I wonder?” Peregrin said, his natural curiosity piqued. “Underground and hidden behind a secret door, whatever it was they really didn’t want it disturbed.”

“Considering I found it where the ghost was, maybe it’s his tomb.” Senket offered.

“I’m not sure, I found where they buried all their abbots, why would they go through so much trouble to hide anyone else? Unless there was some kind of super-abbot.” Peregrin said, trying to consider what a super-abbot would do with his time.

“Whatever it is, it should prove useful, though I think I may have found the most valuable point of all.” Julian said proudly as he produced his book (the history one, not the dating one). “There’s maybe a score or two more of these, the whole history of the abbey once I get time to go through it.”

Kazador rumbled something under his breath about the inferiority of paper to stone, but Julian ignored him and opened the book. “Now, let’s see what happened here.” He mused as he began to flick through the pages until he found where they stopped and the book went blank, and then turned back several pages and his eyes flicked across the paper. He read through the last days of the abbey quickly, flicking the pages over seemingly every minute, totally oblivious to the outside world. Even when Senket placed an empty mug on his head to test, he still didn't notice.

“I’ve seen men look at their gods and at their wives with less love than that.” Peregrin whistled, honestly impressed by the scholarly warrior’s focus.

As Julian read, his face grew sourer and darker as he came to the end and sighed, face grave. “It seems the inhabitants of this place were wiped out by a plague.” He said, though his eyes said that what he read there was far more than that. He shifted slightly, and the mug fell from his head, caught by Jort, who threw it back to Sen. “It struck the land without warning, wiping out almost all major settlements, spreading like wildfire through anything larger than a halfling village. The people here took in the sick, tried to help them. All they did was let the sickness in.”

The account had been harrowing, the recorder steadily growing more and more frantic as more and more died, and then as he had felt the symptoms take hold. It seemed he had tried to keep writing, but collapsed, as the last page had nothing but gibberish, ending with a letter that collapsed into a long scrawl across the page.

“It got worse.” he said, deciding to reveal this last horror. “The symptoms were this. Their bodies wasted away, like the life was drunk out of them. Their blood turned black, and their veins thickened, until they were, and I quote:

“Like vines digging through skin, wherever the light was weakest.”

A chill ran down the party’s spines as they remembered that creeping curse in the dark, and their vision of the strangled land beneath the coils of endless black vines, pulsing darkly like blood vessels.

“None of us are sick though, and neither were the goblins or the halflings.” Senket raised.

“We can’t get sick.” Peregrin reminded her. “And the halflings and goblins are probably the descendants of survivors who developed an immunity.”

“Wait, you can’t get sick?” Jort asked.

“We can’t.” Julian replied, including the younger hobgoblin in that we. “The magic we passively channel keeps us from succumbing to any illness. It’s the same reason why we’re faster, stronger, and heal more quickly.”

“The colonists won’t have that though. Weren’t they sick when we left?” Yndri realized, and the party began to understand why every colonization effort before had failed.

”Damn!” Kazador cursed, blowing smoke from his nostrils. “Julian, that book, did they ken even the beginin’s of a cure?” He demanded.

“Not even close, they sent out people searching but those never came back.” Julian said grimly. “We’re on our own.”

“No, we’re not.” Senket said. “The ghosts, the visions. We all saw our own, didn’t we?” The party nodded. “They must have found something, and now it’s up to us to follow through. This is our quest, to finish the job and save this land. We shall not fail.” She stated, her faith becoming ironclad as the pieces fell together. That same determination spread across the party as fervor and zealotry banished fear and replaced it with the invincible resolve of heroes.

“The ghost bade me to seek where he rests.” Senket said as she stared at the mithril medallion. “I think I might know just where that is.”

#bard #creative works #creative writing #i wrote it #paladins #order undivided #writing

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bosspigeon · 3 years

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you said u used to ship zevran/warden/alistair?? so how about a snippet of them and ur warden idk 👁️

Zevran hears the whispering outside the tent long before either of the Wardens even stir, but he says nothing. He does not move. Perhaps he chuckles to himself, as quietly as he can, but at the moment, he is quite content where he is, and no amount of silly gossip (however much he enjoys silly gossip, especially being the subject of it) will move him from this spot until one or both of his Wardens see fit to oust him.

Alistair, it seems, is just human enough to run quite a bit hotter than either of the elves in their hastily joined bedrolls, or perhaps it is less a matter of his heritage than his sheer muscular bulk. Regardless, he has become the center of their graceless sprawl for all his hearthfire heat as the nights grow ever colder. Andrael has put on a bit of bulk himself from all the fighting and hard travel, but he is still a spindly sapling of an elf—even if his arms have begun to strain his sleeves quite nicely when he swings that staff of his—and as such huddles close to Alistair's side and tucks under his arm to leach his warmth with all his long, freckled limbs tangled up around the warrior like an amorous octopus.

Zevran is similarly curled against the solid wall of muscle that is the former Templar, enjoying the warmth and comfort of him. He did not expect the reluctant princeling to be so soft, under all that hard armor, but his bountiful muscle is generously padded with a layer of fat and a sprinkling of hair that makes him exceptionally cuddly. The assassin hums happily to himself as he nuzzles against one soft pectoral, even as he hears the whispering begin to reach fever pitch just outside.

"It's none of our business!" Morrigan hisses furiously, and, oh, Zevran can hear the pretty twist of her snarling, painted mouth. "And I care not to make it so!"

"Someone's got to say something!" Leliana pleads.

"This has all gotten quite out of hand," Wynne murmurs disapprovingly. "Andrael hails from the Circle, and is not well-versed in these matters. He is going to get himself hurt, and that assassin getting involved is only making things worse!"

The three harpies immediately fall silent when Alistair grunts and begins to stir, and Zevran hears the swift patter of footsteps over grass as they hastily disperse.

"Good morning, my dear Wardens," Zevran whispers delightedly when Andrael yawns and mumbles muzzily, lifting his head enough to peer over the curve of Alistair's chest at Zevran. The mage smiles sleepily, his dozy eyes squinting.

The little gold hoop dangling from his tender red earlobe catches the weak morning sunlight filtering through the slit in the tent flap, and Zevran's chest feels like it is full of fluttering little birds.

"My, don't you look scrumptious in this light," the assassin purrs, just to watch the Warden's eyes go wide just before he hides his beet-red face in the safety of Alistair's bounteous bosom. "Ah! An excellent choice!" he teases.

Alistair is quite bemused by all the activity happening above him, not much of a morning person, but Zevran does his part as a dutiful member of their merry little band to wake him up by nibbling at the gently pointed shell of his ear—if only to resist the urge to fiddle with the matching golden hoop dangling from his still-healing earlobe. Alistair, too, turns quite a delightful shade of red and rolls over to hide, almost squashing the much slighter Warden under his bulk.

Zevran flicks his own little earring as he watches the two of them try to disentangle themselves in a flurry of hushes apologies and flustered greetings. It took a bit of doing to have the pair split and made into three smaller earrings, but Bodhan's boy worked wonders with what little supplies he was given, and Zevran could not have been happier with the results, though he is still unsure if the odd tingling is some sort of magic, or simply his overactive imagination.

Regardless, he rouses his Wardens and helps them get ready to face the day (or makes it a bit more difficult, pouting and pawing as they fumble into their gear) and grins to himself like a giddy child as he struts out into the fresh morning sunlight in just his leather kilt and boots with his breastplate tucked under his arm to face Leliana and Wynne's matching expressions of disapproval.

Expressions that cloud over further when Andrael stumbles out of the tent, fighting with his boot, and then morph into blank shock when Alistair comes tottering out as well with one of his greaves loosely buckled enough that it's twisted around the back of his calf.

"Good morning, my radiant beauties!" Zevran greets them cheerfully. "How are you both doing on this fine morning?"

Morrigan, as usual, is sequestered as far away from the camp proper as she can reasonably be, but Zevran can hear her scoff even at a distance.

He beams.

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terrainofheartfelt · 2 years

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☺️ and ☀️ for the ask game <33333

jo love how funny that you ask this JUST as I have "Let Me Hear Your Balalaikas Ringing Out" running on the TV :)))))

☺️ Share a happy line.

from the P & P au:

“And he had no idea that I’d been in LA last August.”

“No,” Dan says, sarcastic in his emphasis.

“That - fucker - Chuck Bass never gave him my message”

“Oh, bravo. That’s the meanest thing you’ve ever said about anyone.”

Serena snorts in laughter, tossing one of her beaded throw pillows at him. “I’m just so”—more giggles bubble out of her, like she can’t help it—“happy. I know we can’t really erase the past, but”—she grabs at another pillow, hugging it to her chest—“I think I might love him, Dan.”

☀️ Share a line with figurative language.

again, from the forthcoming Dan POV in the Milo-verse, because it's been in the forefront of my brain the past couple weeks...

He knows it’s fleeting, that this will end sooner rather than later, but he’s drawn to her, moth to flame, to the hearthfires banked deep within her, orbiting in her sunlight.

#hello I can't stop thinking since i made a reference to Philadelphia Story how much Mike is Dan and Blair is Tracy #if it were my i would have picked jimmy stewart #rip to kate hepburn but I'm different #asks #johermione #thank you for sending <333

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nattyontherun · 7 months

Text

thinking rather intensely about to collision,,,, but not quite to collision as it's written? see, if i really think seriously about the series, i played it really safe.

cue for ppl reading: maybe probably totally unhinged plotting and raving up ahead!

in a world where i thought about this at least two months earlier than right now, hearthfire would--rather than include an accidental time travel arc--be utterly set in the future. no timey whimey bullshit, no /shisui's just this same kid he used to be/. we'd have a shisui who has lived the last nearly two decades in hiding finally returning to konoha.

i wouldn't set this as far in the future if that happened. actually, i'd put it right after the divorce because i LOVE the drama and that's when everyone's relationships are shakiest--it's also a time when kakashi would have more security in his position to provide the most consequential changes to konoha including the ousting of the council--ehm. anyways. in that world, shisui walks right through the gates and secures himself that first meeting with kakashi and just--

and it would be poly kakashixsasukexshisui because i am me and the sheer concept of those three disparate individuals just pingponging into each other despite everything makes my widdle heart sing. just sasuke still not quite coming to grips with his trauma, dissociation and depression, kakashi trying his BEST with it but without that relationship security we have in hearthfire and shisui being SHISUI but older, way more jaded and guiltier too for fucking off out of sasukes life and the war despite being utterly blind to boot???? just rolling around on the floor, the sheer DRAMAAAAAAAA

i don't know if i'll ever put pen to paper, idea to mouth and work this out, but the story beats would be entirely different i think. the concept would just fly right off its hinges. i imagine it would be angstier--way more reckoning, more plot too because an older shisui would insist on involving himself in konoha politics in some way, whether thats taking sasuke out of the village or personally persecuting the council. sakura wouldn't play as much of a role, especially at the beginning because holy shit i would not touch those three with a ten foot pole in her shoes and i don't think she'd have wanted to be around kkss for at least a year after the separation anyways yk?

shisui would also stay blind longer. kakashi and, i think, sasuke wouldn't be as quick to trust him enough with eyeballs if he'd just been in hiding the entire time. i guess naruto and shisui would also get along better cos he'll have gained the time earned patience all uchiha slamdunk into after hitting the end of puberty. and just... yeah idk where i'm going with this i just wanted to scream into the void about the sheer concept of this fjwhsjshshhshsh something about an older shisui moving on from his traitorous dead childhood sweetheart itachi to his old captain and baby brother is so fucking hilarious and knowing me, angsty and i want it on a silver platter...

if only i didn't have to cook it my damn self😭😭😭

#fanfic #hearthfire verse #don't mind me just rambling #about plot #while screeching at myself through the void #gimme the patience and violent lack of shame needed #to WRITE this #i'd estimate a wc of like 70k+ with thisfic concept actually #and that's probably lowballing #no that's definitely lowballing #look i just want my blorbos to kiss each other #can't god grant me the ability to wish a fic into existence?#shisui uchiha #sasuke uchiha #kakashi hatake

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nothing-more-than-hot-leaf-juice · 4 years

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Me: hmm i should scroll through leaf’s blog a bit, see what I’ve missed. Also me: wait tho I’m not strong enough for more croc verse

friendship with the Crocverse has ended

Hearthfire AU is now my friend

in all honesty, they both live rent-free in my heart, but the crocverse content is over and it’s safe to come out now

#okay I made like one (1) crocverse post the other day #but that's it #and it was WHOLESOME okay?#hearthfire au > crocverse #I cannot lie #crocverse is like a night full of junk food and it's so so good #but hearthfire au is a whole ass meal #the babes are asking

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just-horrible-things · 3 years

Text

‘Verse: Kethrys Timeline: A month or two after Ariadne escapes from Edwyn

---

Arson

Hay for the horses, grain for the soldiers. Stacked sacks of flour -- perfect -- crates and jars and hanging herbs. The granary is a tinderbox. And Ariadne is a spark.

She strikes real sparks from flint in the darkness, admiring their perfect brightness. A handful settle in the hay, and take hold. Orange-yellow glow spreads along the first stalks, hypnotic. Tiny candle-flames spring to life, dancing, crawling, spreading.

Can it be this easy?

She should leave. But what if the flames die out instead of spreading? She should stay.

Brighter than a candle now. Her hands are yellow-limned and trembling. Ariadne takes a handful of the burning stalks and tucks them into the bottom of the stack. She can see the inferno in her mind’s eye already.

The flames grow larger. They start to lick and dance. Ariadne expects the pop and crackle of burning wood, but it is eerily silent. Heat caresses her hands as she grabs another handful. Her blood races, her skin prickles. She feels alive.

She should leave. She can’t be here when the people come running to the light and the smoke.

Instead she seeds flame in half a dozen places. In the crates, in the stacked hay, in the dust and the drying grains that coat the floor.

The first fire grows faster now. Brighter than a campfire, hotter than a hearthfire, fierce and wild and hungry. The granary is filled with light to the walls. Ariadne’s shadow is long and mad and leaping. The heat is too fierce to grab another handful, but she won’t need to.

She should leave. She should run before the inferno consumes her. Terror races across her skin -- she has burned before.

But the fire is hypnotic.

The flames leap higher than her head and she gazes upwards, fascinated, thrilled. A breeze stirs her hair, drawing in towards the blaze. Ariadne is drawn in towards the blaze. The smoke smells clean, not quite the same as woodsmoke. Her heart rises with the fire, leaping, climbing, burning. Brighter than sunlight, hotter than a forge-fire.

She must leave.

The heat stings her eyes, prickles across her skin. Ariadne is terrified, and she is delighted. Her feet are rooted to the ground. She does not want to burn, but she cannot tear her gaze from the fire. It makes a sound now, not a wood-popping crackle but a rush of breath, ever inwards. It is alive, it is hungry, there is no stopping it now. She could scream, she could laugh in exultation. She is mad and she is going to burn.

A portion of the hay collapses, sending a whirl of bright sparks higher, reaching for the dry herbs above. Like a kick in the chest, it starts Ariadne stumbling, and suddenly she is running, heart thundering, squinting through the glare and the growing haze.

Cold air hits her like water, like ice against her sweat-drenched skin as she breaks the threshold. The black is absolute, her sight still dances with the memory of flames.

There are voices in the night, raised in alarm and confusion. She should have left earlier, she should be long gone. But instead of fear she feels glee. Let them shout. Let them cry and rail and weep. They’re too late to stop the flames.

#my writing #my ocs #verse: kethrys #ariadne #kethrys!ariadne #arson tw #mental health tw

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sasorikigai · 21 days

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❛ i love taking care of you. and i always will. you know that? ❜ Wanda sighed softly as she leaned in to press her lips against Hanzo's cheek. (Any verse!)

&. 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬. || @hexsreality || accepting

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || Hanzo Hasashi cannot move; he can only see a sleep paralysis demon watching him. As worlds shift and memories become distorted, he becomes lost to the echoes of time. The hidden, undying grief manifesting and materializing, beating in time with his heart during every waking moment and clinging to the wispy ends of his dreams. His grief learns to be smart and cunning; learning to hide in the gaps between breaths, learning to whisper in his ears as the merciless gelid winter storm brews and blows. It does not linger long, but just enough to make him evermore still and silent. The demon's touch, so unbearably cold against his skin, ignites something deep within. On the warmth-absent tatami mat, he takes his place a spark. For the unlucky and unprepared, it may grab ahold of this moment of vulnerability and weakness and pull him under when he least expects it.

For Hanzo, though, it fades once again, and he continues forth with only faint memories surfacing in the recesses of his mind, lest the widening and exacerbating scars that grief leaves in his mind run deeper than any physical and psychological wound ever could. It also tries to convince him that he too, are forever lost, as his past life is lost. While in his life, he had healed just enough to briefly let go of his grief, letting it flow past him in the tumbling river of his thoughts without fighting it. This deep-settled melancholia may never fade, but it doesn't have to. Grandmaster Hasashi learned to live with it and he is still learning. But in this instance, grief festers and grows; taking over every bloody thought, every breath, every second of his waking moment. It pulls him under like an undercurrent, drowns him in fear and pain. He cannot resurface alone, and without someone to pull him up or a rock to grab ahold of, he may be lost forever. It has happened before, and will surely happen again, albeit seldom.

He finds his embrace longing beyond his comprehension and his countless trials and tribulations in Netherrealm, as it finds a home in his heart and soul, finding an inseparable connection. Time stands still and the night drags on and on. And in his subconscious, time is a hallway, filled with doors and mirrors. He sees Harumi Hasashi leaning on the sixth frame, and he runs to her, but grief is hiding in the cracks in the form of Satoshi's ruptured, frozen corpse. It grips his foot, and starts dragging him against the cold hard ground. But he is still resilient and persistent, for he climbs his way back to shore - and is the one to answer the cries and wails of his heart and soul, as the flaring surge of embers become the guiding light gleaming gently.

For hope becomes a whisper in the silence, the imperceptible smile on his exhausted face, as his fathomless umber eyes become the unwavering belief, the possibility of shining through cracks of despair. It is his courage to persevere, the resilience to rise, as Hanzo Hasashi yearns to become that last blazing leaf on the tree in autumn. "The guilt of not being able to save them still picks at my bones like a vulture, but I will not let it take me away from what matters most now," as the stronghold of his form rises to meet her warm lips like the lighthouse nestled in the impervious darkness, the hearthfire of his embers glow ablaze. How he wishes he could honor the unjustly slaughtered with every bloody bit that is left of him still.

How his impassioned eyes, scintillating like the brilliant stars hidden in the celestial skies as once-crumbled walls of reality become solid once again. And his arm rises, nestled against the nape of her neck as an upward caress cups her jaw in tender fashion. "As long as we have each other's hand in hand as we stand amidst even in the heartless storm, sharing burdens, united we withstand, the love's beacon will burn bright, guiding us through the unstable times of war." ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||

#✗ the ineffable testimony of spawned hellfire (scorpion)#✗ seeking reconciliation with his own humanity (iii)#hexsreality

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flow-it-show-it · 4 years

Text

In the Brothers’ High Hall

(Fili/Kili, HIMLING Verse, Rated G, Final Day of FiKiWeek: Anniversaries, for @linane-art and @msilverstar)

Within a hall built of salvaged stones, a fire crackles in the great-room hearth. Heavy tapestries block the sea-chill seeping in through the windows, but the lively hearthfire banishes any sense of gloom.

KÍLI is first to arrive, carrying a large kettle of water which he places over the fire. He is dressed in warm layers of wool topped by a hooded sheepskin caftan. His dark hair is drawn back in a Durin silver clip, then plaited into two sidelocks and a queue. He greets me shyly but sweetly, offering a clumsy hug and a query about my journey to the island.

FÍLI enters soon after, walking with a noticeable limp. Like his brother, he is clad in layers and a sheepskin caftan; he also wears thick woolen gaiters under his boots. His amber hair has been braided like Kíli’s but is wind-tousled. He, too, offers an embrace and a silent smile. Reticence, I’ve been told, is his usual manner.

The brothers sit together on one bench, shoulder against shoulder, and wait for the questions to begin.

ME: Tell me about your life here. How long have you lived on the island now?

FÍLI: Five years.

KÍLI: To the day!

ME: You mean that you landed on Himling’s shore five years ago exactly?

FÍLI: Exactly. You’ve come on a day dear to us.

ME: It’s a great honor. I admire your hall; it’s as comfortable within as it is handsome without. When did you complete it?

KÍLI: Last summer, with our friends’ help.

FÍLI: We’d have been done sooner, but we decided to expand the northeast wing to make more room for guests. That’s where you’ll be lodged tonight.

ME: Is it comfortable living on the island?

FÍLI: Well... as you’ve seen, it’s very windy and wet, so it’s a challenge to stay warm. There’s peat on the north coast, but we mainly cut it for cooking fires. All charcoal must be saved for the forge. (Gesturing to the hearth with friendly mischief) What wood we have comes by supply boat, to be used only on special occasions.

ME: That’s most kind. But when you haven’t any guests, how then do you stay warm?

(The brothers glance at each other furtively, then make a concerted effort to look solemn)

KÍLI: Did you see my sheep?

ME: Yes; they’re everywhere!

FÍLI: That’s how we clothe ourselves. Kíli shears and spins the wool; I stretch and tan the hides. (Grasps collar of caftan) We’ve learned to bundle up. The sheep are good for mutton as well—

KÍLI: Not lamb, though. Never lamb.

FÍLI: (pats his brother’s back) No.

ME: And what about hot water? I know how you Khazâd like your baths.

KÍLI: We have hot springs! You can bathe outside and you don’t have to build a fire or anything!

FÍLI (laughs and elbows his brother) Kíli really likes the springs, but I think we should lay a proper road between here and there. I want to have roads leading to every watchtower, too. It will make it easier for sentries to travel to work and back home again.

ME: Ah! On my way in, I did see a number of other buildings taking shape within the fort walls. Will these be ‘home’?

KÍLI: For townsfolk, yes. We mean to have workshops, smithies, a marketplace… All our friends want to move here!

ME: It must have been difficult to leave them behind so suddenly. How did you find being alone?

KÍLI: It was exciting! We spent the first night sleeping under our upside-down boat. Then we moved into the lighthouse, which is… oh, it’s wonderful. Mim and I lived there until our hall was ready. (Whispers) I like our hall because we built it ourselves, but the lighthouse…

(Almost imperceptibly, the brothers lean against each other)

FÍLI: (with a soft smile) We go to there every full moon. We can see home from the top.

ME: Have you been back to the mainland?

(This question causes sudden tension in both brothers, Kíli more than Fíli, who tries to remain genial.)

FÍLI: Not yet. But soon.

KÍLI: (tightly) We’re waiting.

ME: For what?

FÍLI: (quickly jumping in) You see, after I gave away the Crown, there were some hard feelings toward us. The folk of Thorinutumnu have always supported us, thank Mahal, but… there are some…

ME: Do you mean Dáin?

FÍLI: No, not at all. I know what you’ve heard— that he drove us away, or maybe even worse— but these are only stupid rumors. Our cousin has been a true friend. He sent men to help us rebuild—

KÍLI: (cheerful again) Iron Hills people know how to make things weather-tight, which is good, because it rains for part of every single day here!

FÍLI: —and he’s also taken good care of Mother.

(The mention draws an affectionate smile from both brothers; their feelings are very plain)

ME: You must miss her.

KÍLI: Yes, so much!

ME: Have you been back to see her?

FÍLI: (again, rushing to answer) She’s been to see us! But we’re hoping to visit home next Blessed Green—

KÍLI: (obstinate) If it’s safe.

ME: Safe?

KÍLI: From them.

ME: Who are ‘them’?

(Fíli gives me a cautioning look and touches his brother’s arm. After a few seconds Kíli relents. He closes his eyes and takes several deep breaths before speaking again)

KÍLI: It’s a long story. Mim’s better than me at telling it.

FÍLI: (carefully) We have some friends – very clever and very loyal – who overheard some talk against Zanid and me. No one realized how serious the talk was until other people stepped forward to warn us about it. It’s the reason why we came here… and it’s the reason why we stay…

The kettle has begun to whistle. Kíli hops up and takes it off. He pries up the lid, throws in some tea to brew, and leaves the room to fetch mugs. Fíli leans forward to speak to me in a low, urgent voice.

FÍLI: I’m sorry— I don’t mean to be rude, but the memory of what happened always upsets my naddith. We try to avoid it.

ME: I’m so sorry.

FÍLI: It’s all right; you couldn’t have known. (He glances at the doorway, but it’s empty, so he continues to speak) It’s still so vivid for him, even though it was five years ago. He was under terrible strain then; I don’t think he would have ever gotten well if we had not come here. He’s been so much better since! In five years, he’s only fallen a handful of times, and never too badly.

ME: I’m glad of that. He seems happy— the both of you do.

FÍLI: Yes. We’ve worked hard. There’s much to be glad about, and much to be grateful for.

Kíli reenters, balancing a pile of stacked mugs and a plate of honey-drizzled flatbread.

KÍLI: Did you tell her about Jera and Nori?

FÍLI: (grins) Ah! Our married friends. We’ve asked them to come. We’re hoping they might decide to move here.

KÍLI: Torli and Skili and Hahal are coming, they’ve already decided. They want to work in our forge. Jera can, too. She’s good with iron.

FÍLI: And she knows how to heal. (He tilts his head toward Kíli, who is busy pouring tea)

KÍLI: Our good friend Dori – that’s Nori’s brother – has come and gone several times. He’s cutting the stone we’re going to dedicate to Uncle. (Hands me my mug) You’ll come to the raising, won’t you? Tharkûn is going to be there.

ME: …’Tharkûn’?

FÍLI: ‘Gandalf’ is the name you know him by. We call him Tharkûn.

KÍLI: (with mouth full of honeyed bread): Gimli’s coming, too. And Ninur.

ME: Gimli I’ve met, but Ninur… Do you mean the elder?

FÍLI: No longer. He stepped aside for Navrin. It was time.

KÍLI: (swallowing hard) We don’t like Navrin. He won’t be invited. But we like Ninur, and he knew Uncle well.

FÍLI: I wish Fenja would come, but she refuses to get on a boat. She says that Khazâd are meant to delve earth, not cross water. (Wistfully) She’s not getting younger, and we really want to see her again.

KÍLI: It’s not until spring, Mim. There’s still time to convince her.

FÍLI: (very softly) I hope you’re right.

(Realizing what his brother means, Kíli ducks his head in shame. Fíli takes his hand and cradles it tenderly between his own. He looks to me for help)

FÍLI: Ask Kíli about his bees.

ME: (to Kíli, encouraging) Your skill as a keeper is famed far and wide. Is this Himling honey?

KÍLI: (pink-faced, but beginning to regain his pluck) Yes. Do, do you like it?

ME: It has a wonderful flavor, rich, almost spicy.

KÍLI: We have a lot of strange wildflowers here that my bees like. I was worried they wouldn’t prosper here, or that they would be blown away by the wind, but it’s funny. They do better here than they’ve done anywhere else.

ME: Like you and Fíli.

(Kíli turns to look at his brother, who kisses his hand)

KÍLI: Like me and Fíli.

#himling #FikiWeek2020

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kovecs · 4 years

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Skyrim: Of Letters and Love Triangles

Dear Reader, this is an excerpt of my Skyrim FanFic (which you can find here https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13086567/1/Boundless-Roads). My goal was to novelize a lot of my adventures in Skyrim, so here is the love triangle between Faendal, Sven and Camilla Valerius from the perspective of my High Elf Talos worshiper, Sol. Hope you enjoy.

Out of all of the potential adventures I expected to have in Skyrim, being a part of a love triangle was not one of them. Perhaps what made matters even more unusual was that I was not even one of the members of said love triangle, but rather a dumbstruck onlooker who should have just kept his nose out of things and focused on work at the mill.

I had been dwelling in Riverwood for nearly a month. The work for Hod and Gerdur had proved sturdy and honest, but there were also some days in which I helped out the local blacksmith, Alvor, with his forge. The folk were kindly enough and I had found myself growing rather fond of the town by the water.

My average days were spent chopping wood and hauling great logs to be cut by the mill. It was not all that bad. Hod and Gerdur were good employers and my co-worker was, in fact, Faendal the Wood Elf. Our kinship had only grown as we worked the days away in the chill air, and I counted him as a friend. Life had reached a sense of normalcy.

“Have you met Camilla Valerius?” Faendal asked one day, grinning from pointed ear to pointed ear as he hauled armfuls of logs onto a pile.

“The Imperial?” I inquired. “Lucan’s sister, correct? Yes, I got that golden claw for them back from Bleak Falls Barrow.” It had been quite the endeavor. I traversed up the mountain, trudging through snow and fighting off bandits. I fought them into the barrow itself and even battled Draugrs. The folk of Riverwood like embellishing it quite a bit. So much so that it is often told around the hearthfires of the village. I suppose many have already heard it, and much like the legends of the Dragons, it needs not be told here.

Camilla Valerius had caused quite a stir in Riverwood. The day she had come to the village from Cyrodiil to stay with her brother, all of the town’s young men, both of them, had stared in awe. She was friendly and pretty, admittedly. But I had no romantic interest in Camilla. I had too much on my mind still to prepare to settle down.

“Ah, yes. You did get that claw for them. I would say that she is the most beautiful maiden in all of Skyrim,” Faendal said with glee. I fought every urge not to roll my eyes and laugh at his dramatas, but he was sincere enough.

“Really,” I said with a bit of a huff, which betrayed my amusement. “In all of Skyrim? What about the Jarl Elisif the Fair?”

“I suppose she might be. But Camilla is definitely the prettiest maiden I’ve ever seen. Of course, there’s that Sven. But, did you see the way she smiled at me when I talked to her yesterday? By Mara Herself, that smile could melt an Ice Wraith’s heart.”

The rest of the work day predominantly consisted of Faendal’s romantic ramblings. He told me of plans to win her affections and how they would build a life together. The idealism was rather heartwarming. However, it was not inspiring enough for me to listen to it past work hours. I said my goodnight to Faendal and headed to the Sleeping Giant Inn.

I had been staying in a room there for a couple weeks. Hod and Gerdur had offered to keep me on for a while, but my pride did not allow me to take advantage of their hospitality any longer. Besides, they were paying me a good wage at the mill.

The inn was owned by a woman named Delphine, though I rarely saw her in those days. She was quiet and mysterious. Most of my dealings were with a Nord name Ordnar, who tended the bar. He was a simple fellow with a gruff, yet not unkind nature to him. Also, among the people of the Sleeping Giant, there was a Bard by the name of Sven.

Sven lived with his mother in one of the nicer homes in Riverwood. He had blonde hair, a beardless face and fancied himself higher born than those around him. Whether this was true or not, I did not care. He played his lute in the inn, knowing very few songs. As I sat, attempting to eat my dinner in silence, he sang a rather loud rendition of “Ragnar the Red.”

Oh, there once was a hero named Ragnar the Red,

Who came riding to Whiterun from old Rorikstead

And the braggart did swagger and brandish his blade,

As he told of bold battles and gold he had made.

But then he went quiet, did Ragnar the Red,

When he met the shield-maiden Matilda, who said;

"Oh, you talk and you lie and you drink all our mead,

Now I think it's high time that you lie down and bleed!"

And so then came clashing and slashing of steel,

As the brave lass Matilda charged in, full of zeal.

And the braggart named Ragnar was boastful no more-

When his ugly red head rolled around on the floor!

After the final verse, the bard finally took a break. I was relieved until he sat right beside me, taking a swig of ale. “You’re Sol, right?” he said. “That elf who returned the claw to the Valerius’ store?”

“Yes,” I replied simply, having found myself a bit sick of the ‘local legend’ mantle some of the townsfolk had given me for such a little favor.

“Ah, so you’ve seen her,” Sven said with particular emphasis on the ‘her.’ The Nord smiled broadly and sighed dramatically, staring off into some unknown distance. Great, I thought. Another lovestruck idiot.

“You’re talking about Camilla, I take it?”

“Oh yes. Camilla Valerius,” he said her name reverently as if it were from some sacred text of the gods. “It’s only a matter of time until she and I will be together. I just need to get rid of that Faendal.”

That statement caused my pointed ears to perk up, and I found myself more interested in the conversation. “What about Faendal?” I asked.

“Faendal,” he said with disdain, “thinks he can woo Camilla away from me. He’s already mine, I keep telling him. She knows I’m the best man in Riverwood. That elf is kidding himself if he thinks she would choose him over me. I’ve seen him sneaking over to the Riverwood Trader to speak to her when I’m not around. He’s wasting his time.”

“Yes. Two people spending time together never blossoms into courtship,” I said with as much sarcasm as I could muster. To say I wanted nothing to do with any of this was too much of an understatement.

“Is that sarcasm?” Sven said snobbily. “I’ve heard better wisecracks from Orgnar.” He grunted heavily in frustration before continuing: “Still, you have a point. Camilla letting Faendal visit her isn’t a good thing for me.”

I downed the rest of my drink, a honey mead brew all the way in Riften. I came to the realization that this was officially a love triangle and I wanted nothing to do with it. As I pondered, Sven reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of folded parchment.

“Here,” he said, handing it to me, “let me give you a particularly venomous letter. Say it’s from Faendal. That should get Camilla to stop inviting the elf over.”

I had no words to say when Sven handed me the letter, I just simply nodded and headed to my room. I had every intention of just burning the thing and letting sleeping dogs lie. However, my curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to read it.

Dear Camilla,

I know I have called upon you at your house many times, and while we have been growing close, I need you to put aside any desires you may have for me aside. I am a true-born son of Valenwood, and I could never befoul my bloodline by courting an Imperial. I hope we can remain true friends, provided you understand your people’s place in the Aldmeri Dominion, and respect me as such.

Sincerely, Faendal

I set the paper on the bedside table as I lay upon the straw bed, my head on the pillow. Sven’s words and deeds had frustrated me beyond measure. However, there was still one final straw to break the horse’s back. What was it that tipped me over the edge? It was not the annoying persona or rudeness, but rather the fact that, as I attempted to sleep, I was subjected to four more renditions of “Ragnar the Red” each more terrible than the last. Oh, Camilla will get that letter, alright, I thought blissfully before finally drowning out the noise and falling asleep.

The following morning, I wasted no time. I got up extra early and marched right over to the Riverwood Trader, where the Valerius’ lived and worked. As I entered, Camilla greeted me with a flirtatious smile. “Well hello. It’s a fine day with you around.”

“Good morning, Camilla,” I said, as stoic as I could muster. Having little time to waste, I handed the girl the letter. “Sven wanted me to trick you into believing that this was from Faendal.”

She took the paper and read it carefully, her eyes widening as she read further. Camilla’s features turned to shock. “Oh my. He… he wanted me to think Faendal wrote this?”

“Aye. He did.”

“Thank you for telling me the truth. Could you talk to Faendal, as well? I’m sure he’ll want to thank you for standing up to him.”

The sun was rising in the sky and the twin moons were disappearing into blue. I rushed over to the mill, where Faendal had already begun to work. He was carrying a bundle of firewood when I said: “I don’t think you’ll need to worry about any competition from Sven anymore.” I then proceeded to tell him about the rest of the story, much to his joy.

“Sol, brother, I cannot even begin to tell you how grateful I am. You know what? If you ever need a bowman the next time you go off on an adventure? I’ll be by your side. The mill will still be here when we return. You’re a true friend.” The sappy words made me smile and we shook hands. “Besides,” he added, “this will be a wonderful story for she and I to tell our grandchildren.” I brought my hand down into my palm and then we got to work.

The final stages of the love triangle were finally finished that night. The work day had been long, from my lack of sleep, and I trudged back to the Sleeping Giant. The night was normal as ever. I purchased some fried salmon and grilled leaks, along with some mead to wash it all down. Then pranced Sven, up to the center, lute in hand. He turned to me and gave a look that was akin to smelling rotten troll feet. “You’re nothing but trouble,” he scoffed. Then he unwittingly found his ultimate revenge: six more encores of “Ragnar the Red.”

#Elder Scrolls #the elder scrolls #skyrim #fanfiction #skyrim fanfiction #tes #fantasy fanfic #high elf #faendal #riverwood

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