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tarisilmarwen · 2 years

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Hey stiltsrosko here, I'm a huge fan of your work on archiveofourown, been following it for a while and I'm always amazed !!Are you still accepting prompts for the Bad Things Can Happen Bingo? Cause if so, I'd totally be down to see the "thwarted escape" prompt with Ezra Bridger, maybe with inquisitors, maul, or thrawn thrown in. Consider this a humble suggestion from a huge fan!!! I'd be honored if you considered it!!

@badthingshappenbingo

Title: “Stolen Chance”

Prompt: Thwarted Escape

Fandom: Star Wars Rebels

Character(s): Ezra Bridger, the Grand Inquisitor, Seventh Sister

Warnings: Dismemberment, implied child abuse

AO3, FFNet, Request a prompt/character

AU where Ezra got snatched up by the Inquisitors. He's about twelve or thirteen here.

---

The lights had been turned down in the hallways for about an hour before the boy moved.

Ezra Bridger, known to the others in the Fortress by the unflattering moniker "Thirteenth Brother" ("Unlucky Number Thirteen!" Fourth Sister had always laughed), raised his head from the thin mattress, his senses keening out in all directions.

Aside from the slow, ambling patrol of a lone Purge Trooper, there was no one near the tiny cell-like room he called his own.

Ezra let out a slow exhale.

Moving slowly, he uncurled from the bed, raising his torso. He pushed himself upright, checking the door with an anxious glance before he stood up on the bed and reached for the loose grate near the ceiling.

The loosened screws slid easily from their grooves, and Ezra put the grate down on the bed before inhaling slowly to steel himself and looking up at the yawning air vent opening.

It loomed like a black maw above him, shadows thick inside.

Swallowing, Ezra reached up and braced his hands against the sides of the vent in a motion practiced a thousand times, pulling himself up into the narrow metal corridor itself, fully encasing himself inside the ventilation system of the fortress.

He moved slowly, as noiselessly as he could, every tiny shuffle sounding too loud behind the pounding of his heart. It thudded in his chest, frantic and painful.

He slowly made his way through the claustrophobic narrow turns. Purge Troopers, if they heard him shuffling above them, paid no heed. The first time he'd been in the vents had been frantic and instinctual and desperate—and it hadn't worked anyway, the Grand Inquisitor had found him and pulled him forcefully down within minutes—but since then, since formulating the plan he was now anxiously putting into action, Ezra had deliberately cultivated the habit.

Now, whenever the others heard him shuffling and sliding through the metal tubes they just huffed and dismissed it. There goes Thirteenth again, avoiding one of his deserved punishments, hiding like a scared tooka, they said. He endured the humiliation of their taunting, their barbed comments about how weak he was, and unbeknownst to them had been slowly mapping out the entire infrastructure of the ventilation system.

He knew which turns to make, which fans to avoid, which vents exited where.

Including all the ones that led to the hanger levels.

He couldn't get into the hanger itself—the vents that opened into it were too high up for him to jump down safely, even with the Force. He'd tried. Broke his arm and spent the next few weeks in painful rehab, after his master had all but killed him for the stunt. He still didn't know how he'd managed to conceal his true intentions from the Grand Inquisitor, who'd practically shredded his mind trying to find out if he was lying about the reason he'd wound up in the hanger.

Ezra shivered slightly, pausing a moment in the vent. He could still feel the cold sharp fingers digging through him, rifling through his head for signs of treachery. Could still feel the broken edges scraping against his skull.

He took a deep breath. Calmed himself. Reached out to the Force, not like the Inquisitor had taught him, but with the quiet, pleading voice of a child in trouble, who just wanted to stop hurting.

When he felt a modicum more confident he continued moving.

Slowly, inch by inch, he made his way, down from the sparse living quarters, past the training rooms—he had to pause for a horribly long time as he heard Fifth and Tenth sparring in one of the dojos, masking his signature with layers of the Force—down into the hanger levels.

He exhaled slowly, a trickle of relief moving through him as he found the intended exit.

The cover detached soundlessly; Ezra carefully put it behind him in the vent and scanned with his Forces Sense before he peeked out.

The hallway was, as he'd anticipated, completely empty, the scheduled patrol not due for about a minute and a half.

Enough time for him to shimmy out of the vent and drop down.

Ezra crept carefully down the access hall, approaching the hanger's control room.

He paused outside the durasteel door and rapped twice, in quick succession.

After a tense moment the door clicked and slid open, revealing the floating ID9-7B, who chirped happily upon seeing him. Behind the seeker droid, the technician on duty was slumped at the panel, a smoking singed spot on his Imperial coat.

Ezra entered the room quickly, turning and hitting the button to seal the door again before his minute was up. The Purge Trooper that rounded the corner the next moment found nothing out of the ordinary, mechanically proceeding down the hall as his metal-booted footsteps echoed in the room.

The boy's shoulders untensed. He extended hands to 7B, who chirruped and floated closer to him, accepting his embrace with a whirr of delight. Ezra gripped the seeker droid with fervent emotion for a moment. This had been an unexpected component of the plan, but when Ezra had learned that leaving the hanger required special authorization and clearance—even for an Inquisitor—he'd seen no other way. He wasn't a skilled enough slicer to forge the authorization himself.

So he'd befriended one of Seventh's seeker droids enough to get his hands on it, reprogram it. A risky move, he knew—Seventh loved her seekers, treated them like mechanical pets, adored them—but the most logical course of action he'd seen to accomplish his goal.

Ezra let go of 7B, shuddering as he focused.

"Okay Sev-bee," he said, using his nickname for the droid. "Go ahead."

The seeker droid beeped and saluted with a proud manipulator, floating over and going to work at the console. Ezra watched the droid flicker and buzz as it plugged in, forging the authorization that would allow him to lower the shields of the hanger bay entrance and take a shuttle up, unaccosted by the planetary defenses, into orbit.

To freedom.

Ezra's nerves crawled with anticipation as the seeker droid worked.

Finally, with a cheerful series of clicks, 7B announced that it was done; Ezra had the clearance to leave Nur.

Ezra inhaled slowly, taking the news in. Hope shimmered in his heart, faint and yet growing, a sliver that pulsed through him as he imagined seeing stars again, seeing the blue tunnel of hyperspace as the Fortress disappeared behind him.

He beckoned the seeker with a warm gesture. "Come on, Sev-bee," he said. "Let's go."

The droid floated over to him, perching astutely on his shoulder.

Ezra waited for the next patrol to pass, then exited the control room, making his way down in the turbolift to the hanger itself, typing in his personal code on the keypad and feeling triumph ringing through him as the door accepted it, chunking and scraping open. Ezra found the first shuttle he could, darting across the room without a second thought, only paying a brief glance at the technicians on duty, who ignored him to continue their work.

Once in the shuttle he had to pause. His breaths were tight and unsteady. A creeping sense of foreboding was pulsing on his skull.

Before he could second-guess himself, he was shoving his way to the cockpit, an anxious throb of anxiety beginning to beat through his limbs.

No sooner had he hit the button to start the repulsorlifts than the Force flared up with a sense of icy-cold danger, sounding a warning all through his head, bouncing off the sides of his skull.

Ezra grabbed the controls for the shuttle, lifting it up to hover over the hanger floor. He pushed the yoke forward, hoping, praying, that the hack had worked and that the hanger would accept his authorization codes.

But he hadn't flown more than a few feet before his dashboard flared red, a robotic voice piping up through the speakers.

"Access revoked," the impartial female voice said. "Please descend."

"No!" Ezra cried, slamming the throttle forward.

But the hanger doors were already sealing, thick, impenetrable durasteel doors already descending over the opening, cutting off his view of the vast churning green sea beyond.

Ezra popped 7B off his shoulder, shoving its manipulator into the shuttle's console in the vain hope that it could get the doors open, but then a shudder went through the whole craft, the metal and glass creaking as an unseen force took hold of it.

Invisible hands manipulated buttons and switches inside the cockpit, shutting down the engines, bringing the shuttle back to ground. Ezra gasped with panic as he grabbed up 7B with one hand, pulling the droid from the port. He whirled around to face towards the back, through the open cockpit doors into the crew seat section, his hand straying to the lightsaber clipped to his belt.

The shuttle shuddered and groaned as it was placed on the floor. Stale artificial light flooded through the ship as the ramp was lowered and Purge Troopers filed into the compartment.

Ezra pushed forward off one foot, lunging with his saber as it ignited in fury, slicing through at least seven troopers before he made it to the ramp.

He ran down, heedless of anything except the panic ringing through him, holding 7B close as he turned towards the nearest door.

His limbs locked up before he could go three steps. His lungs expelled a gasp, heart giving a terrified jolt as he felt his body frozen in place by artificial Force power. He strained against the hold, craning his head back and seeing with a shot of cold dread the face of the Seventh Sister, standing there with a palm outstretched and holding him in place.

Her golden eyes flashed with hot fury, her other seekers hovering behind her. Out of all the Inquisitors she was his least favorite, her touch always lingering too long, too intimately, her taunts and teases always a little bit too sexually charged...

Ezra's chest clamped up with frozen horror as he struggled in her grip, watching her come slowly closer, her limbs stiff with a kind of infuriated purpose.

No... he thought desperately, crying out to the Force for help. No no no no not her, please not her! Please!

She made a yanking motion with her hand; Ezra jerked back and floated straight to her, her hand closing like a steel trap around his throat.

"Just where do you think you're going?!" she demanded.

Her hand drew back and then she slammed him against the floor, knocking his head so dizzy for a moment he saw stars, released his desperate hold on 7B as his limbs spasmed helplessly.

"I—I'm sorry!" he strained out, unable to think of anything else to say behind the blinding terror that assaulted him now, filling his head, drowning his senses.

She let go of his neck, straightening with ominous purpose. "Reprogramming one of my droids?!" she shrieked. 7B buzzed close to her, chirruping with assurances of its loyalty, but she swatted it aside with a swipe of her hand without a moment's hesitation.

Ezra cringed fearfully as he heard his ally smash into the ground somewhere behind her, broken or deactivated, he didn't know. He swallowed a hard lump in his throat, looking up into the murderous gaze of Seventh, who'd drawn her lightsaber and ignited it, her arm out stiffly.

She jabbed the red blade towards his throat. "Were you trying to run away, padawan?" she hissed, spitting the words furiously. "Did you think for a minute I wouldn't notice one of my seekers responding to different commands?!"

Terror choked his voice; he couldn't even breathe, the feeling strangling his windpipe. "I... I..." he stammered.

Seventh stepped back, icy and cruel fury on her face. "Let's make sure you can't run away again, little Thirteen,"she spat.

Her lightsaber swiped in a harsh red slash.

There was a dull thunk! as it met flesh.

Ezra sat there in shock a moment.

Then he shrieked, the pain and burning hitting him all in one moment, agonizing and sharp. He curled up, grabbing for the stump of his left knee as his brain registered that his leg was gone, she had cut off his leg, the horrible knowledge hitting his mind like a sledgehammer, knife-like and painful.

His eyes flooded with tears that blurred his vision, his mind spinning dizzyingly through the horrific pain, stabbing, throbbing, turning him to incoherent jelly.

Somewhere in the agony he sensed the cold familiar presence of his master, the vague undercurrent of anger as he stalked up to the scene.

"He is of no use to me if you maim him beyond repair," the Grand Inquisitor hissed, his footsteps loud and ominous even through Ezra's pain-dazzled senses.

"Tell him to leave my seekers alone," the Seventh Sister shot back venomously, growling, her fury like a physical weight on Ezra's psyche.

Ezra screamed and sobbed, wet trails cascading down his cheeks, the scent of burning flesh sticking in his nose and almost making him retch, his stomach in upheaval as his mind processed the grievous injury done to him.

The Grand Inquisitor watched him writhe and curl up on the floor with an impartial disdain, only leaning down and hooking his hand under Ezra's arm when the boy's blubbering became too pathetic, too embarrassing.

The Pau'an pulled Ezra upright, onto his one good foot, and Ezra choked for breath, straining and gasping as his body was manipulated by the man's harsh grip.

"I believe we have something to discuss, apprentice," the man emphasized harshly, his voice deadly and chilling, sending fresh reams of fear streaking through him.

Ezra hiccuped and capitulated in despair, letting himself be hauled up by an ungentle grip and borne away from the hanger, away from 7B and the shuttle, the cold dread closing around his heart with the knowledge that his punishment was going to hurt far worse this time than ever.

He had been so close, he thought with sinking hopelessness, as he was carried away to his inevitable fate.

---

*ollies out while "I'm So Sorry" plays in the background*

#askbox #bad things happen bingo #star wars #star wars rebels #ezra bridger #whump #BTHB #fanfiction #prompt fics

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my-boyfriends-a-cosmere-nerd · 3 years

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Thoughts on Hero of Ages:

Well after I posted my thoughts on WoA approximately a week ago, I managed to read all of Hero of Ages between Thursday and Sunday night. I was gripped with every page and I just plowed though it. I cannot believe how fast it happened. The "Sanderlanche" hit me with in the first half of the book.

SPOILERS FOR THE ENTIRETY OF MISTBORN ERA 1

Theories and Confirmation:

These are from the WoA post where I explain my reasoning better but I wanted to address them completely here

Vin and/or Elend will die - I was non stop crying from this point onwards. I wanted to quit the book there and then when Elend died and then again when Vin died two pages later. When we see them on the hill I thought maybe the had come back, but no I have learned when Sanderson says dead... they ARE dead (I know I will eat my words sometime in the future probably). It was such a powerful ending for both of them and honestly, reflecting on it some, I really like this aspect of the ending.

The flowers will return - Yep spot on on that one. Expecting Sazed to be the one to do it was not on the theories list, but him having the knowledge due to the studies of the religions was such an amazing part of his character.

Spook will go blind - I have a lot of thoughts on Spook, but going blind was not exactly what happened I guess. He did damage his eyesight, but I was expecting full no sensing blindness.

Sazed will become his own god - I was talking purely in a "he will find his true self and learn that he still has a lot to give the world" sort of way but you know literal godhood works too.

Ruin can talk though piercing metals - yep this one was very strongly stated in the book, even being the reason Vin could not be Preservations Vessel for a bit there.

18 or 23 Metals - Pretty much confirmed that there are other metals out there by Sazed in his note to Spook. Jury is still out on how many....

Thoughts:

the audible "OH its Ruin again huh?" that came out of my mouth from when Spook was talking to "Kelsier" and the voice told him to leave the metal blade in him is very funny in retrospect

When Spook when to open the canals and walked though the flames and dropped unconscious, I though he was dead and became a teary at 2:13 in the morning. When I had read one more chapter to see how the characters responded and he was alright, I got angry at myself for crying over a non-death

They danced :0. Elend pulling out a book in the middle of the dance floor was a very appreciated moment.

Vin fighting all 13 of those inquisitors + Marsh was just such a cool fight scene. The defeat of the first one, the way Marsh and Ruin had her pined just for Marsh to remove her earing and have Vin Ascend. *chefs kiss*

Speaking of Ascension… Sazed bringing the whole of Scadrial back was also one of the coolest scenes imo. I loved that the religions that he spent the whole book debunking actually gave him the framework to create the new world as they were all based in truths

“You've managed – in our short three years together – to kill not only my god, but my father, my brother, and my fiancé. That's kind of like a homicidal hat trick." I'm sorry but this line is to good not to mention

Theories for Era 2:

I do not have much for this section as Era 1 is a done and set book but I can do some small things:

Sazed and Marsh will probably show up in era 2 as they are the only two immortal beings that exist from the Era 1 crew aside from mistwraiths, kandra and possible other inquisitors.

Spook (or someone else) will have found the missing metals and they will probably be common place by Era 2

Yep not much there unfortunately. I am sure that Secret Histories will open some of that up. I read Eleventh Metal tonight before I sat down to write this, but any thoughts on that will get put into either a Mistborn short stories post or an Arcanum Unbounded post.

I have also started teaching myself how to write with the Steel Alphabet out of pure intrigue of the writing system of Scadrial. It makes me wonder if they use a base 8 or base 16 numbering system due to the way the number symbols work.

I plan to read Secret Histories soon but for Now I turn my attention to another corner of the Cosmere as I start Elantis tomorrow morning.

As always, I would love to hear how y'all felt while reading HoA when you first read it and to answer questions on other things I thought about it.

With love,

<3 Hannah

#brandon sanderson #cosmere #mistborn #hero of ages #mistborn spoilers #mistborn era 1 #mistborn secret history

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thelordofdarkreunion · 3 years

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Magnificent Scoundrels- The Shadowed Lords

I know I keep throwing new characters and places at you. Sorry. Scoundrel shenanigans will return next story. However, this is important for the story progression, and, to be blunt, these are some of my personal favorite characters I wrote in here. Enjoy the story, and if you are interesting in it, please read the end note.

“Nine heroes and their colleagues.

Six Shadowed Lords and the assets they bring:

One Ghost.

One god.

One collector.

One Man

One Cypher.

One Leader.

Six Stones.

One Weapon.

One Crucible.

One Ring.

Seven Lords:

One Lion

One Phoenix

One Warhawk

One Wolf

One Son

One Salamander

One Raven

And a little luck.” -A List of Items Required

Titanfall Galaxy

The Outlands

Hammond Robotics Lab 365-772

It was night out, and Dr. Lisa Wiltalker sat in the same chair, in the same office, as she did every night. But this time, she didn’t really mind. It was a wonderful night outside, crisp and clear, with the stars shining through the window, creating an ambient atmosphere of peace. Though, in reality, it was actually due to her work that she didn’t mind staying late.

She was the head of the facility, one of the most important ones in the Outlands region of space, and it was her duty to advance the Hammond company by any means necessary. And, by God, the opportunities that presented themselves now! Eight new universes that had just materialized from nowhere. Eight! The circumstances that presented themselves for Hammond and herself were...endless.

She was currently studying everything she could about these new galaxies, trying to learn anything and everything she could…

She looked up sharply. Could have sworn something was moving in the shadows… No. She had been here for...fifteen hours, was it? It was nighttime, and it was a lonely, empty office building, so no wonder her senses were playing tricks on her sleep deprived mind. She stood up, stretched, grabbed a coffee from the machine in the room, and sipped it while looking out the window and the stars. Feeling better, or at least more caffeinated, she returned to the task at hand.

Eight new galaxies. Endless opportunities to sell the products of Hammond. Spectre robots, the latest and greatest in infantry fighting machines, faster, stronger, and tougher than a man; explosive Ticks, small drones that seeked out enemies and detonated; and, of course, Titans. She didn’t think that any of the other galaxies had technology like that, and where better to add to their arsenals but from the Hammond Corporation? Made perfect sense…

She snapped around sharply. She swore she could have heard something moving, swore she could see something just inside her peripheral vision… She shook her head again. The office was massively secure, with guards, both of bolt and steel, and flesh and blood stationed throughout it. When in a sleep deprived and lonely situation, everyone started seeing the boogeyman hiding in the corners. She shook her head ruefully and turned on more lights.

Where was she? Ah, yes. Opportunities. Who to sell to? Everyone, if possible. Who could turn down six meter tall war machines, implemented with the finest in A.I. technology, programmed in the art of death and destruction? Well, probably a few of the more dense and/or peaceful of the governments out there. She leafed through a dossier.

The Galactic Assembly? No. Has only had two major wars in the last century, both of which had ended within the year. The United Federation of Planets? Also no. Too regulatory, too jealous of their own technology. The Galactic Empire? This one looked promising. A pro-human empire that had been fractured and on the losing side of a major war in recent years, desperate for anything to turn the tide. Yes, this-

A cold, metallic hand gripped her throat, preventing any sound from getting out, and a horribly deep, rasping, grating voice sounded in her ear.

“You ever get the feeling you’re not alone in the room? It’s because you’re not.”

The extremely tall, spindly...thing stood over the corpse of Dr. Wiltalker. The body had a massive, jagged, yet precise hole ripped through the torso, directly where the heart was, and currently lay deep in a pool of its own clotting blood. The thing, made of cold steel yet looking oddly humanoid, stood above it, watching, savoring the sensation.

“One more off the list,” it said in the same rasping voice. It made a move to turn, to exit the room, but stopped. It stared at the desk. At the dossier. “Interesting,” it muttered. It picked it up. “Very interesting indeed.” It leafed through it. The machine turned.

It had once been he. He had once been living. He had been turned into this… synthetic nightmare by Hammond, against his will or knowledge. He snarled and suppressed a shudder of rage. Once the greatest hitman the Syndicate, Hammond, or anyone else had ever known, at some unknown point his mind had been altered, his body destroyed and replaced with… this. He snarled again.

He had been having his revenge against everyone and everything associated with the company… but this new knowledge. This changed things. So many possibilities. So many skinsuits. So little time. He was the boogeyman. He was the Revenant. And he would have his vengeance.

Warhammer 40k Galaxy

Solemnace, Necron Tomb World

The hallways were jet black, cut from a strange stone that seemed to absorb all light around it. The only illumination came from strange runes and lighting fixtures that seemed to blend into the halls and ceilings. The light was a pale, bright green, and cast strange shadows on the halls and objects residing within. It swirled throughout the space, as if it didn’t quite understand what exactly it was supposed to be illuminating. A human would have found the long halls exceptionally strange. Disconcerting. Creepy, even, if one were less eloquent. It seemed like something from a horror movie, with mad creatures waiting to leap from the shadows on the unaware.

Even more strange and disconcerting were the objects located within the halls. Strange devices, artifacts, and objects littered the space. Each one almost unrecognizable; completely unknown except to the most knowledgeable of galactic historians, and, of course, the curator. For this place, this entire planet, in fact, was so much more than strange alien hallways and lighting that did not agree with the human ocular system. Above all else, itt was a place that preserved history.

The massive galleries, for that is what they were, contained a great many strange, horrifying, and wondrous things. Everything, from inactive artifacts of history to living beings had their place here. Each was protected, frozen in status by eldritch technologies. A massive man in baroque power armor. Tens of thousands of Imperial Guardsmen, from many different worlds, (including some lost) scattered throughout different exhibits. Huge war machines, from almost every race to bestride the stars. A large, beautifully embellished bell. Korks, the ancient and ferocious genetic predecessors of orks. The ossified husk of some strange, jellyfish-like being. The preserved head of an Imperial Saint. The graceful Eldar of the last high council of the destroyed Craftworld Idharae. Space Marines, from almost every chapter and legion imaginable. Several Inquisitors that had been just a bit too nosy. A Custodian. Stange, undocumented blue crab-like aliens. Members of species thought to be long dead by the rest of the galaxy. The total list would probably take hours, if not days or weeks, to describe.

The long galleries were patrolled by odd beings, bipedal silver robots with elongated skulls, wielding strange spears. They seemed to be mindless, uncaring of the weariness that would affect any other beings by the constant patrolling.

On one of the wings of the planet-sized museum, an individual studied a huge sculptured head. It was old and grimy, its original and secondary colors lost to time. The figure was lost in it, its bulk taking up a huge display gallery. Once upon a time the head had been part a a figure called the Statue of Liberty, and had resided in the human hive city of Nuva York on the Throneworld of mankind. 38,000 years ago. It was a huge monument to human accomplishment. 38,000 years ago. It was a historical relic, a testament to mankind’s history. 30,000 years ago. It disappeared, never to be seen again, a missing piece of history. 24,000 years ago. Now it resided here. It mattered nothing to the individual. He was older than the statue. Older than the human race itself.

His body was similar to those of the gallery guardians, but much more ornamented and higher quality. Made of silvery metal, his legs were long but powerful. A metallic rib cage, with a strange symbol etched in the breastbone attached, the legs to similarly structured arms. His metallic skull had a largely elongated jaw, with a permanent mouth etched in the metal. A cloak made of interlocking metallic plates was thrown across his back, and in his hands was a strange staff, made of the same metal as he was.

A sigh of contentment, strangely synthesized, escaped his lips (or what passed for them). While he did often travel the galaxy, looking for artifacts and individuals to add to his ever-growing collection, it was nice to look at his gains. He turned and strode out of the gallery hall.

A vast open room stretched before him, much better lit than his galleries. Ornamented skeletal warriors, weapons at the ready, stood on guard. They were there not only to protect him (not that he needed it, mind you, there were plenty of tricks up his sleeve), but the massive museum itself. He surmounted the steps to his throne, ornamental carved from the black rock, and surveyed his domain. He was not here simply to oversee his galleries. No. A voice broke him out of his thoughts.

“My lord?” asked another metallic servant, this one bearing heavier limbs and more decoration than its fellows. The seated figure looked up. A huge holographic map, made of eerie green light, sprung to life, taking up the majority of the colossal room. It showed not one, but nine different galaxies. Each a treasure trove. Each begging to be explored.

Trazyn the Infinite, Phaeron of the Nihilakh Dynasty, Archaeovist of Solemnace, curator of the Prismatic Galleries, and collector extraordinaire turned his head to the map. Eight new galaxies. Eight new sets of history. So little time. So much to collect.

Marvel Galaxy

Within the passages between worlds

There were ways. Passages between realms and planets, known to only a few. Some might call them ‘wormholes’, some ‘slip spaces’, others just plain ‘magic’. They were small, strange, holes in time and space. While naturally occurring, and while able to be explained by science, few ever found them. Fewer still ever used them.

Loki of Asgard, God of Mischief, was not among those few. He was with the tiny minority, the smallest percentage of all beings: he knew where they were, knew how they worked, and used them frequently. They were so incredibly useful; too hard to pass up. Not even Heimdall, all-seeing guardian of the Nine Realms, could not peer into them. Poor Heimdall. The man was a tedious bore, but he really didn’t deserve to die like he did.

Loki died that day too, choked to death at the hands of the Mad Titan, Thanos. Or did he? Was this the original Loki, cheating death yet again? Was this another Loki from the same universe, the same timeline, transported here? Maybe. Or was this a Loki from somewhere else entirely; the same individual from a different universe? It was possible. One never really knew with the God of Lies.

Loki wasn’t truly evil. He had a habit for causing mass death and destruction, but those killed were mortals, were they not? A few years taken off their miserably short lives wouldn't really affect anything. He liked power, enjoyed it, would use force to get it, but, at heart, he wasn’t malevolent.

But now, out there, seen in the spaces between time and space, there were new things. Things that truly were malevolent. Evil. Things that would enslave all sentients, destroy all life, rend reality asunder.

He was no hero. But things like this...they needed to be stopped. So, unfortunately, he would probably end up fighting on the side of heroes. However, that didn’t mean he still couldn’t find time for mischief...

Mass Effect Galaxy

Cronos Station, Headquarters of Cerberus

The room was bare, with only an ergonomic chair standing alone in the center. A huge window, sleek and curved, with no obstructions, gave view to a massive fiery star. Tendrils of fire, both red and yellow, spun into space, guaranteed to take any viewer’s breath away. The floor was black and polished, reflecting the star’s burning light. Sitting in the chair in the center of the room, surrounded by orange and blue holograms, was a single human.

He was wearing an extremely expensive, well-tailored suit, the edges perfectly cut to fit his frame. His brown hair was neatly styled, and his eyes glowed blue, replaced long ago with prosthetics. He stood, glass of incredibly expensive liquor in hand, the glowing tip of a cigarette sticking from the edge of his mouth, staring at the holograms. Somehow, he contrived to make the vices look incredibly elegant and classy, like a movie star of old.

He was the Illusive Man. One of the, if not the most powerful individuals in the galaxy. Creator of the pro-human terrorist organization Cerberus. He saw his duty plainly: humanity must become the most prominent race throughout the stars. He was not xenophobic. Far from it. He simply wanted his species to succeed, and if lesser individuals saw that as racist, saw him as a terrorist, then so be it. He cared nothing for the opinions of the weak. Those who were not willing to act were not worthy of inheriting the stars. But now...complications.

Eight new galaxies. He knew a great many things about them; far more than most. There were new threats. New problems. New factions and people of incredible power. But most importantly, humanity existed in all eight. His species.

Whether through the iron might of the Imperium of Man, or the peace and technological progress of the United Federation of Planets, humanity was in a prominent place in all of them. He would see them remain that rightful place. But now there were threats. Too many to handle alone. He would need help, and he would need it as quickly as possible if he were to succeed.

The holograms scrolled past, showing names. Faces. Dossiers. Heroes. Villains. Species.

The Illusive Man sat in his chair, cigarette dangling from his mouth as if forgotten. He was thinking. Planning. He needed more help, needed more people, needed more knowledge. Knowledge was power. Power was required to raise mankind to the top. Simple, but not easy. He thought some more.

Unknown Location

The faint light, cast by the glow of a nearby star, emanated from large floor to ceiling windows. The star was old, cold, but still let out a pure white light, enough to illuminate the room through the heavy, cathedral-like windows. It contrasted with the empty blackness of space, the only light beyond the star being faint pinpricks, barely enough to cast a second glance at. The room itself was dark. Nothing could be seen of it. Not its size, not its purpose, or any items within. The light only illuminated two figures standing side by side, staring out into the blackness of space.

The one on the right was the shorter of the two. It looked to be human, with two arms, two legs, and a head sticking out from a normal human frame. However, one couldn’t really tell what it was, for its face was hidden by an armored black mask and helmet. Two rectangular eye slits, glowing a dim red in the light of the star, looked out through the window. It wore black armor and gloves, stylized so as to allow the greatest range of motion possible. A heavy black coat, reinforced by some form of anti-ballistic material, reached down to the figure’s ankles. Holstered at its side was a large pistol, a human-made automatic of heavy calibre.

The figure on the left was massive. While the one in black was slightly taller than six feet, it towered a full eight feet tall. Its form was large and bulky, with joints of massive power armor poking through a plain white robe that hid the majority of its figure. A white hood covered its head, and while one might think this figure was some strange alien, the bottom of the face that could be seen through the hood and shadows was unmistakably human. It had a broad and chiseled face that fit the rest of its massive form, hinting that the bulkiness of its figure came not from the armor, but from the body beneath it. Two pistols were holstered at its side, both oversized to fit in the figure’s large armored gauntlets. One was blocky and black, and while heavily ornamented, seemed to be of the type that fired something akin to bullets. The other glowed a soft blue, coils replacing what would have been the slide on an automatic pistol.

An utterly massive sword was strapped to the figure’s back, and while beautifully adorned and seemingly crafted by a master, it was too large even for the tall man to wield it. Instead, it was kept in its place, resting on his back.

The taller man spoke. “You know what must be done, yes?” His voice was a deep baritone, rumbling with massive power and reverberating through the darkness.

“Yes.” The shorter figure’s voice was scarred and metallic, spoken through some sort of modulator in the mask it wore.

“Then we must move quickly.” The man on the left turned and stared down at the black-clad figure on the right. “There are those who would seek to stop this.”

“It is logical. I see no other way to make things right for everyone.”

“Good. Then it is necessary to do what must be done,” said the deep voice.

“The fate of the universe hangs on the shoulders of a few. But they have done it before. Proven their worth,” replied the black figure.

“This time there are forces outside of their control. Things they are not powerful enough to fight. This is why we must help them.” The red lenses tilted up towards the tall man’s face.

“Indeed. We have a mission, and for the good of all we must not fail.”

Hope you liked the story. I know that both Loki and the Illusive Man are kind of bad guys, and the the Illusive Man goes heavy off the deep end in ME 3, but that hasn’t happened yet, and I need all of these characters on the same side. Now, the message. If you have any ideas for stories you want me to write or any characters that fit in with the Shadowed Lords you want to include, please tell me and I will consider writing them if the fit in. If you have any comments, criticisms, concerns, or questions, don’t hesitate to ask! I hope you enjoyed the story, and I hope that you have a great day. Or night. Or whatever.

Edit: Also, Revenant is a sociopathic murderer, so he isn’t exactly a good guy either.

#magnificent scoundrels #story #writing #my writing #my story #fanfic #crossover story #mass effect #apex legends #warhammer 40k #marvel

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gwynbleiddyn · 3 years

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10, 11, and 12 for ri boi

mr rion severan sir it’s time to answer for your crimes

10. Their interactions with an enemy/rival

Rion’s pretty abrasive with those he doesn’t like. Not snappy, but not really afraid to show his teeth, so to speak. He likes people to know that he’s powerful, he doesn’t like people focusing on anything else because there’s a lot of weaknesses that he is acutely aware of hidden behind that initial facade. So, he’ll do a lot to ensure that facade remains standing, particularly with people he doesn’t like.

Rion watches Hawke pace the battlements, the sound of his armour putting dents into Rion's vision - sharp scratches of white sound, interrupting the shape of Hawke's words.

"Hawke, stop walking," Rion holds out a hand from where his arms have been folded tight across his chest. He waits until the other man looks at him in acknowledgement, the pacing coming to an abrupt end. "You knew about Corypheus, and you made no mention of it to anyone."

"That's not true--" Hawke takes a step towards Rion, indignance written across his face as his words fall flat against Rion's growl of warning.

"Then why was this hidden from us for years?"

"Corypheus was dead, Larius was on his way to tell the Wardens. My part in it was done!" Hawke argues, and Rion watches how his voice pitches dangerously into bloody purple hues, a colour Rion hasn't noticed before. He licks his dry lips, feeling sick to the stomach from the way his Blight-sickness has hit today, and his patience is running thinner than a razor. He could argue this all day long, how Hawke's reluctance had cost the Wardens nearly everything - but what good is fire against fire? Breathing in deep, Rion gives Hawke a long, cold stare.

It turns to ice at the mention of Larius.

"A Warden on his calling does not return," Rion's eyes narrow, stare hardening. "There's nothing left of the Warden, nothing worth knowing. They walk into those festering halls to die, nothing more. Did it not occur to you that a creature so twisted by the Blight should not be allowed to walk free?"

Hawke's expression twists, dark eyes fraught with confusion. "Larius, or Corypheus?"

Resisting the urge to smile, Rion shrugs. "Both."

11. Their interactions with a stranger

It really depends on the day you catch him. The older he gets, the more volatile his anchor grows, the worse his Blight-sickness seems to get.-- you tend to have a bigger chance of catching him on a rough day. He can be pretty sharp and snappy on these days, more than any other. Strangers would probably get the brunt of that, and come away the worse for wear.

On a good day, though, Rion does have this innate paternal quality to him that stands out to a stranger. He’s invested in people and their wellbeing, and his interactions reflect that. He creates a sense of being open without really revealing much about himself in the process. He’s always looking for allies, and most of the time, he’ll try and come across as someone worth knowing.

The boy is freezing, Rion notices right away. His jaw is clenched against the cold, his arms wrapped tight around himself with a white-knuckle grip, and he refuses to look anybody in the eye. His clothes are Tevene in origin, Rion guesses by the odd lines and layers the boy is draped in, although they're torn and worn thin, colour fading.

Rion can see Amrun and Ziyan bickering on the deck of the Boeric, gesturing towards the hunched figure every so often but neglecting entirely to include him in the conversation. A little rude, Rion thinks, but it is not his problem. He slips past a merchant's aravel and pulls a woven blanket from a pile of goods. He sees the first flicker of a complaint arising from the merchant, but one look their way and they can't seem to apologise quick enough.

"I will pay you later, friend. Does the Hahren no good to have a thief for a son, hm?" He quips idly as he passes, and the reply is lost on him when his focus returns to the boy, perched on a crate on the docks, staring at the ground like he wants it to swallow him whole. Rion approaches confidently, slowing as he draws near.

"You look cold." Rion offers his thoughts to the boy with an air of nonchalance, unfolding the blanket in his hands. The boy looks up at him sharply, eyes blown wide. There's a moment where he looks over his shoulder to Amrun on the deck, and then back to Rion, and recognition dawns. Rion gives a small, knowing smile, and throws the blanket around his shoulders. His thin frame is buried under the woven fabric, and his shaking slowly subsides.

"Thank you." The boy speaks softly, much softer than Rion was expecting. He studies him quickly, trying to put some pieces together in the short moment he'd swept the blanket upon his shoulders. He's young, very young -- can't be older than eighteen, surely? Lost, that much is certain. A little bruised and banged up, but the marks are fading. A runaway, but to Rivain from Tevinter? That's a long way. Perhaps Tevinter decided that for him, forced him out. A place so deliberate about its society is bound to have outcasts, even this young. All these possibilities filter through Rion's mind in an instant but he pushes the thoughts aside, settling on a simple question.

"Do you have a name?"

There's a moment of deliberation, before the boy pulls the blanket tighter around him and looks up with a sigh. "Lysander."

12. Them in their favorite outfit

We know he’s vain. He cares about his image. His favourite outfit is definitely going to be something that he feels powerful in -- probably his Warden-Commander regalia. It’s armour. It’s protective, it’s safe. But it’s also a symbol, and he knows it.

It's easy to stand before Adamant in his armour - Commander of the Grey, denoted by the griffon wings, the elegant plate, the stark blue tabard lying over burnished silver, a hint of blue sky amidst an endless storm.

Sure, it's heavy. It carries weight, weight that isn't tangible in its metal plates and leather straps. Weight made up of memories, good and bad and everything in between. If Rion closes his eyes, he can feel the first time he put it on in its most basic form, the unadorned half-plate of a recruit fresh out of the Joining, stumbling through Ostagar with his fingertips on fire. He almost misses that time of ignorance, the joy of not knowing what lay ahead.

He remembers adding the gauntlets early on, not suited for magic but beautifully weighted for a sword. A moment where he decided his future would not be ruled by magic, however innate.

The greaves to go over his boots came from Alistair, months into their campaign. For a man who could, on occasion, be rather obtuse in his understandings, Alistair was strangely intuitive. Rion remembers the awkward, hesitant conversations they shared over their training regime under the Templars, silently admitting their fears for the organisation beneath their outspoken love for the purpose they upheld. Rion had spoken of the armour, how he'd enjoyed the weight and sturdiness of steel over leather, how it forced him to use his blade properly. Alistair went out of his way to find some greaves in Denerim. Rion hasn't forgotten that. He won't.

He's never liked helmets. Too restrictive. But Leliana had found one in an abandoned chest in Redcliffe Castle - Rion didn't ask questions, she had a penchant for finding and taking what she liked - and gave it to him, asked him to wear it. Rion remembers the way he'd laughed and refused repeatedly until she all but begged, "Just once, Rion, I promise.", and so he did, thinking he'd finally hear the end of it. He remembers how quiet the camp had gotten, how devoid of colour as silence fell -- and the way she'd looked at him, like he was some kind of hero.

Piece by piece he'd built his armour - him and his friends, companions, brothers in arms - and that gave it something else that any other piece of armour wouldn't have. Rion doesn't know how to explain it, but he can feel it every time he puts it on.

Right now, in this armour, watching fire rain down upon the Warden fortress of Adamant, he isn't the Inquisitor, and that thought is incredibly freeing.

character description meme

#c: rion severan #c: lysander veturius #THANK U BEARO <3 #lorspolairepeluche

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brialavellan · 4 years

Text

It has been 20 years since Inquisitor ‘Manehn Lavellan defeated Corypheus, and 18 years since the Exalted Council. Solas is furthering his plans and so far, all efforts to stop him seem to be in vain….until the Well of Sorrows begins to speak to ‘Manehn once more. Led by ancient magics and beset by enemies from Ferelden and Orlais to Antiva and Tevinter, ‘Manehn must gather allies old and new in a race against time to defeat Solas - at any cost.

(NOW ON AO3)

Chapter 1 || Chapter 2 || Chapter 3 || Chapter 4 || Chapter 5 || Chapter 6 || Chapter 7 || Chapter 8

CH 9: Smoke and Mirrors

“What good luck we’re having,” Katrina murmured to herself as she made her way down the stairs towards the Cathedral exit, her hands on the hilts of her daggers and a smile creeping across her face.

Everything was going as planned. The bait was irresistible. It was almost foolproof, if Briala wasn’t so cautious, so cagey. Decades of loyal-enough service had won her a spot in Briala’s inner circle among her most trusted spies. However, if Natalie was too sloppy, and if Katrina did not choose her words and actions carefully, the web of careful intrigue would be torn to shreds.

Briala would not look lightly on traitors. Solas would not look lightly on failures.

She was about to open the doors towards the outside grounds when she heard the faintest footsteps following her. She turned to see Briala hot on her heels in russet brown leather armor with a crossbody bag and a bow on her back.

Briala was trained for years in the art of subterfuge, misdirection and occasional assassination. Her calm masked her anger. This slaying was merely more retaliation. Or misdirection. None of Solas’s agents were so sloppy as to be seen. She was sure of it. But she couldn’t let any potential lead go to waste.

Briala pulled Katrina to the side and checked her surroundings to make sure no one was listening.

“Where did you say the boy took off to?”

“The catacombs, my lady.” Katrina whispered back, “I was on my way to inform Amir and -”

“No need,” Briala said, “We’ll look ourselves.”

Katrina paused for a brief moment, caught off-guard by Briala’s insistence, worried this meant Briala was getting suspicious.

“Of course, I can take you to the last location I saw him,” she said as they both left the Cathedral, crossed the grounds, and made their way towards the bustling streets of Val Royeaux in front of them.

Carts and carriages rumbled past while pedestrians darted in between. Merchants and peddlers yelled to the crowds from stalls, shops, and street corners, selling wares from Orlesian finery to Fereldan leathers, from Tevinter curios to Nevarran books. The cacophony of sights, smells and sounds would be nearly unbearable to those newly initiated to Val Royeaux’s streets, but both Briala and Katrina knew these streets intimately. They had wandered the hidden alleys and the underbelly as much, if not more than the cobblestone streets that weaved their way across the city.

Briala and Katrina darted into a nearby alley and nearly collided with a family of huddled, filthy, weary elven beggars, all tearing into a loaf of hard tack with skeletal fingers, their pale skin as pallid as bleached bone.

“My lady,” a small boy with matted auburn curls scurried up to Briala and tugged at her sleeve with wide and sunken brown eyes. “Can you spare something, please?”

Briala pulled out a sovereign and pressed it into the palm of the young boy and closed his fingers over it.

“Don’t despair, little one. Have pride.” she said as the young boy stumbled away, wide-eyed, clutching his prize. She let herself be still for a moment as the boy presented his gift to the others, who eyed her with a mixture of gratitude and suspicion. She could have coaxed him for information but she wanted to pay a kindness without demanding a price.

Katrina noted otherwise. “You could have pressed the boy for information, ask if he’s seen anyone around.”

Briala glanced back at the boy before turning to Katrina. “We’ll find a better lead in the catacombs, and I have sovereigns to spare for bribing.”

They kept walking through the alley, watching for anyone who would tail them or would attempt to accost them, before coming to a dead end. They crouched behind a wall of crates and bags, both scanning the ground and tracing the cobblestone surface with their fingers until Briala found a rim of steel and a small slot. She took a small socket wrench from her bag and placed the wrench into the slot and pushed hard with both hands, nearly wrenching her own fingers in the process. The cobblestone began to move and loosen with the shriek of grinding metal. Briala pried the circle of cobblestone from the slot and descended into the catacombs, Katrina following closely behind her and pulling the cobblestone on top of them with a loud scraping thud.

————————

Cassandra and Vivienne found a templar and a servant to clean up the body and the mess, respectively. Vivienne had suggested taking the body to a doctor to examine the wound and deduce any potential clue, and Cassandra had agreed. The Knight Vigilant had ordered rotations doubled and a pair of templars stationed outside the Divine’s office, which she had protested.

“I do not need a full garrison, not when forces are stretched thin. Put your men back in the Circles or out on patrol where they belong!” she argued, “We need to find who did this!”

“With all due respect, Your Perfection, your life is obviously at risk, and we will not allow you to come to harm,” the Knight Vigilant implored her. “One garrison to protect you now beats the ten I would have to put on the streets to calm rioters if you are slain.”

“We have men looking at the scene and watching for anything suspicious.” he said to mollify her. “We will let you know immediately if anything is amiss.”

Vivienne coaxed Cassandra to turn towards her and placed both hands on her shoulders with a gentle squeeze and reassuring tone. “It’s for your sake, darling. The Knight Vigilant speaks sense. Yes, you can handle yourself, but let them do their jobs.”

Cassandra closed her eyes, and took a long, heavy breath.

“Very good, Knight Vigilant,” Vivienne said with a wave of her hand in dismissal, “Let us know if you find out anything at all.”

“Of course, Grand Enchanter,” The Knight Vigilant said with a bow as he departed. Vivienne and Cassandra retreated into Cassandra’s quarters.

“Despite everything, Briala has her uses and her network of agents are vast enough. They will find something,” Vivienne said as Cassandra sat herself down at her desk. “Whether they will act quickly enough is another question. The important thing now is that we find out who was so brazen enough to do this. I will interrogate the girl’s associates.”

Cassandra shifted in her seat and rapped her fingers loudly on her desk, trying to displace her energy into something as close to punching as she could manage. She was far more comfortable with a straight and honest fight, but she was grateful to have someone well versed in the ways of the Court to advise and support her. She did not have the head for the politics of the Chantry and the patience to learn the intricacies of the Grand Game. For her, it was not only a distraction from her work as overseer of the religious life of all Thedas’s people, it was an affront. She believed that the Divine should not stoop to such pettiness. Many of her beliefs had been tested since she had been voted into her position.

“I don’t think you should do that.” Cassandra said after a long silence, “If you’re right, you’d be in danger. Maybe I should go with you. A Chantry sister would not think to lie to my face.”

Vivienne laughed at her naivete. “They will absolutely lie to your face, my dear.”

She saw Cassandra’s jaw clench and face redden and reached to grab her hand, gently squeezing it as she leaned against the desk. “Chantry sisters are Chantry sisters because they wouldn’t last even five minutes at a simple soiree without losing their status, their wealth, or their lives,” she said with an apologetic smile. “I appreciate the offer. And the sentiment.”

“Now, why don’t you change into some armor, take a guard with you to the training grounds, and beat out some of that nervous energy?” Vivienne teased her as she rose to leave. “I will inquire about her dealings. I’m positive, as I’m sure Briala is as well, that all traces will lead to Natalie.”

Cassandra took a deep breath and rose to her feet. “I will take your advice. All of it.”

“Of course you will,” Vivienne said with a mischievous smile as she departed. She walked down the hall and down the stairs, leaving the Apartments and crossing the grounds to the Chantry sisters’ living quarters. She would find a few initiates there, and a few answers. She had lied to Cassandra. Some sisters were actually quite good at the Game.

But she was better.

————————

Useless! Useless! Useless!

The word drummed in Mirwen’s head as she combed her way through every scrap of paper in every book she could get her hands on in that squalid library. They had nothing, of course. No information that she didn’t already know. In fact, most of the books were wild conjectures and half truths all bathed in anti-elf sentiment and disdain for every magic outside of a proper Circle’s purview. Contempt leaped from the pages.

Even the “forbidden” books were merely re-treads of the same theories in less palatable language for a rigid Chantry. All books with any mention of blood magic were here, she noted, not because they condoned such magic (none did), but because they mentioned it existed.

Mirwen took a deep breath to suppress her bitter disappointment.There was no reason for her to feel this way, she thought to herself, just as there was no reason to expect that the any shemlen Circles had answers. Maybe Tevinter’s libraries might bear more fruit. Their magics were appropriated from elven magic, after all. Legend did say their first magister, Thalsin, had learned blood magic from the elves.

And what all of Thedas had learned within the two decades she had been alive was that most of their legends were true.

As she lifted the last tome from her reading stand and put it upon the shelf, she noticed a small paper placed in the empty space, meticulously folded. She glanced around the room. The paper wasn’t there before, and her section of the library was sealed off. She took the paper and placed the book back on the shelf. She gingerly unfurled the paper. At her touch, odd symbols began to scroll across and envelop the page. These symbols could reveal themselves only to a mage’s eyes, she hypothesized, and though the symbols were unclear in their meaning, there was a definite pattern to them, a flow of structure that suggested that this was a cipher of some sort.

Footsteps and voices coming closer to her snapped her back to her senses. She took a few sidelong suspicious glimpses around her as she hurriedly shoved the note into her small belted satchel, just as the First Enchanter was unlocking the door.

Varric peered into the room, the First Enchanter standing behind him, with the smallest glimmer of a smile.

“Did you find what you need?” he asked. “Shall we go back to the Keep?”

“I found nothing at all, unfortunately,” Mirwen said as she adjusted her belt. “Let us move on.”

————————

Back at the Keep, Mirwen and Varric shared a small table and a scrumptious meal, with servants waiting to change courses and serve water and wine. The air was warm with the scent of succulent foods and the vaulted walls of the Keep’s dining hall were softened by the glow of candlelight and of a setting summer sun. Mirwen felt much more comfortable in this space than the squalor of the Alienage, the cold sterility of Kirkwall’s Circle, and the harshness of Sundermount’s rugged peaks. A small amount of guilt began to gnaw at her as she ate. She enjoyed such finery to the point that she almost expected it, while her brethren wanted for little more than food, shelter and safety.

She couldn’t help it. She was, in all arenas except magic, quite sheltered after all.

She tried to put her unease out of her mind by listening to Varric talk. She could see why he was a prolific author and she smiled softly as he weaved his tales of her mother’s heroics and their long-past battles. Mirwen placed her head in her hand, feeling strangely nostalgic as she listened to Varric wax on. She did remember his love of stories, and her love of his love of them from when she was small.

She remembered her mother’s other friends as well. She remembered Dorian. She remembered Iron Bull. She remembered Blackwall and Sera too. When her mother spoke of them, there were faint flickers of faces vaguely familiar from the time when she was a toddler in pinafores teetering around Skyhold. But that was all they were. She knew Vivienne well and Cassandra well enough, but these were her mother’s friends, her mother’s stories, and her mother’s memories - not hers.

Now, she wasn’t so small anymore. Now, she felt incredibly irked by her sudden complacency. Her mood soured immediately and Varric’s sweeping tales now sounded like meaningless drivel. There was no more time to waste on nostalgia, she angrily mused, her breath quickening. Not when her mother and Davhalla were aimlessly wandering Maker-knows-where while Briala was up to Maker-knows-what and while they fumbled for answers, an immortal self-proclaimed God was Void-bent on destroying everything.

His rising has shattered her small world once before.

And he was coming for whatever she had left.

As Mirwen silently groused and Varric talked to her to soothe her nerves, the doors slammed open and Aveline barged in with a full retinue of guards, her jaw clenched and her face as red as her hair. Three elves flanked her and the guards, dressed in bl leathers and brown cloaks with short swords on their belts and sour grimaces. Mirwen recognized their leathers and their faces. They were Briala’s people, she was sure of it.

“Varric, we need to go. Now.”

“That bad, huh?” Varric said with a weak chuckle.

She shoved a small, bloodstained paper into his hands. Varric’s eyes widened as he scanned the page.

“From my retinue stationed outside the Alienage,” she said grimly. “Sent by courier just before they were cut down.”

“Well, shit.” He looked at Mirwen, his jaw slack and eyes wide. “We need to get you back home. Immediately. You’re not safe here anymore, no matter how many guards I post outside my doors.”

“I can take care of myself -”

“This is a little beyond taking care of yourself, Sugar Plum,” Varric said, his voice trailing off, followed by a small stream of curses, “Ancestors preserve me, I didn’t want it to come to this…”

“They have not taken the docks yet, but we would have to go through Lowtown to get there.” Aveline said. “Unless…”

She drew out parchment and quickly scribbled a crude map of Kirkwall. “Remember Hawke’s estate? Her wine cellar leads straight to Darktown. And she would just be another elf fleeing the chaos. No one would know or notice.”

“Sure, you can get to the docks from Darktown, but how many of your guards would you like to send to their immediate deaths?” Varric pointed out, “Guards would draw way too much attention.”

“We don’t send my guards,” Aveline said “We send -”

“Here on behalf of Marquise Briala.” the youngest of them, a petite man with striking black hair and carrying a fourth cloak, addressed them with a slight nod of his head and a strong Starkhaven accent. “We’ll make sure she’s safe. We’ll stake our lives on it.” The other two nodded at his words.

Varric pulled Aveline closer and whispered. Mirwen couldn’t hear what he said, but could read his lips as he asked her the most important question.

“Can we trust them? If some of her spies have turned before - “

Aveline looked at Mirwen and back at the spies that stood at the doorway as the sound of shouts and fighting began to make their way up to Hightown’s sealed gates.

She whispered back. “We don’t have a choice anymore, do we?”

Aveline approached Mirwen and unclasped a small silverite dagger with a golden handle that gleamed in the warm glow of the candlelight from her belt.

She pressed it into Mirwen’s hands.

“Consider this a gift from us that we hope you never have to use,” she said firmly, her eyes darting to the side where the elves were standing.

Mirwen nodded as she took it and cinched it on her belt. “I understand,” she said darkly as she rose from the table. The young Starkhaven elf handed her a cloak to put on and carefully fastened it while pulling the hood over Mirwen’s head.

“Keep that cloak covering you nice and tight,” he advised with a crooked grin, “Fancy-dressed elves don’t last two seconds in Darktown. As long as you follow our lead, you’ll be fine.”

“Right then. I’ll take you to the estate,” Aveline said with a firm shake of her head. “My guards here will stay near the entrance to the Keep. Varric, I beg you to please stay put until I get back.”

————————

Aveline and the elves promptly left the Keep and sprinted to Hawke’s old estate, occasionally sticking to the shadows to avoid drawing attention and to give time for Mirwen to catch her breath. As they approached a Kirkwall mansion at the foot of the stairs that led to the Keep, Mirwen could see what time had worn away. The white marble that shone in the Kirkwall sun was a dull, drab gray from decades of accumulated dirt. The glass windows were shattered from vandals, and the crest that had hung above the door, a proud mark of Hawke’s heritage, was hanging askew and weather-worn away to the point that she could only see a vague outline and smatterings of blood red. This was formerly a glorious building, now decaying and dying, as if it too mourned the loss of the Champion.

Aveline wrestled with the rusted lock for a short while before impatiently bashing in the door with a plated boot. The elves scrambled inside and Aveline slipped them her map. As she pulled the door, now hanging off its last hinge, shut, she urged them one last time.

“Do everything in your power to keep her safe.”

————————

The Starkhavener moved down the stairs towards the cellar, keeping to corners and signalling with a quick wave of his hand to move forward. The other two trailed behind Mirwen, eyes darting towards the slightest hint of shadow or movement. Mirwen kept her cloak pulled close. She had reluctantly left her staff behind. It would draw too much attention, the spies had warned her. Varric had promised she would get it back “when the shitstorm settles down at least a little bit”.

The years of disuse had turned the cellar as fetid as Kirkwall’s sewers. Waves of vermin scurried across the tiles, parting at the sound of their footsteps. Rank puddles pooled in spots where slick water dripped from the ceiling. They had even found a couple of groveling squatters, who had seen a flash of the elves’ blades and decided not to take a chance on attacking the group, or the pangs in their bellies would no longer come from hunger but from steel. By the time they had descended the ladder into Darktown proper, Mirwen was queasy from the noxious smells.

They stopped for a moment to let her breathe, and huddled close to a corner, watching waves of elves and humans alike slip and scramble as they fled from the fires of Lowtown into the tunnels. The guards and rioters would not dare descend down here. That is what all four of them were counting on.

What they were not counting on was that someone was waiting for them.

As they crept forward towards a hatch that would take them towards the docks, they were met by three elves - a woman holding a staff and two men holding axes - all three grinning with homicidal glee as they approached.

“I didn’t think you would make it at all,” the woman taunted. “I’d hate to go through all this trouble to find out you were all eaten by giant spiders and such.”

Briala’s spies moved forward to guard Mirwen.

“Sorry to disappoint,” one of the other ones said in a brusque Fereldan accent. “But we have no time to stick around.” All three unsheathed their swords and rushed towards the mage but were intercepted by the two melee fighters.

The clatter of blades was muffled by the sound of people fleeing, but she could hear the death wail of one fighter falling, his axe clattering to the ground, and a hiss from one of Briala’s people as the other fighter made contact with his side.

Mirwen stood ready to cast but found her arms grow leaden, her head beginning to ache, and her magic sputtering away. The mage began to approach her as Mirwen’s knees began to buckle.

The mage, eyes gleaming, walked up to Mirwen and began to taunt her, “All of this effort over a child who is useless without her -”

She shrieked as Mirwen tackled her to the ground, flailing and reaching for the staff. The mage rolled over and grabbed her by the cloak, choking Mirwen and throwing her aside. Mirwen snapped back up and drew her blade but the mage had readied herself, grabbing Mirwen’s curls and slamming her head to the ground. She began to stand, assured in victory before a leather boot collided with her face. The black-haired Starkhavener rushed forward, snatched the staff from her hands, snapped it over his knee and threw it on the bodies of the melee fighters all three had slain. Then he calmly walked towards the mage who now struggled to her feet and cut her down.

Assured she was dead, the Starkhavener raced to Mirwen’s side, ready to apologize, but she waved him off with a weak smile.

He smiled back, “Guess you were right, you can handle yourself fine.”

The Fereldan elf lifted Mirwen from the ground, examined her head, and slapped a poultice on her scalp under the matted curls where she had begun to bleed. The third clutched his side, mildly limping as he approached. The Fereldan elf turned towards him and slapped another poultice on his wound.

“I can do better,” Mirwen said as she approached the man and gingerly touched his side with her fingers. He winced but stayed still. A few words from her lips and the bleeding stopped. Flesh and sinew began to stitch itself back together. He said nothing back but nodded with grim approval.

The Starkhavener walked towards the hatch and bashed it open with a swift kick. The Fereldan elf went first and motioned for Mirwen to follow as they all descended a long ladder. Mirwen could hear the rush of water and saw a small ballinger waiting in an expansive stone grotto. She could not help but gape at the size of this cavern, for she could not possibly fathom how Varric or Briala’s spies could have kept something like this hidden, though she had to assume someone knew something.

Otherwise, how could they have been attacked?

Anxious to get to safety as their feet found ground, the elves rushed towards the ballinger while several elves already on board wrestled with the sails. Mirwen and the others hurried on board. They set the ballinger loose, all exchanging wary glances even as they shook hands and smiled.

Mirwen watched from the deck as the ballinger emerged from the grotto and she caught a glimpse of Kirkwall within sight. Her veins turned to ice as she saw the furling of black smoke and flickers of orange that were starting to engulf all of Lowtown. She turned from the sight, took a deep rattled breath and descended into the hold below.

#da fic #dragon age fic #cassandra pentaghast #briala #vivienne #oc lavellan #fic by brialavellan

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herald-divine-hell · 5 years

Text

Woven Memories

Am I starting a new multichapter fanfic with Amayian? Yes, yes I am. Am I including most of my other OCs like Alexandra or Esaira? I will indeed try. Will this fanfiction story actually ever be finished or even liked by the Dragon Age fandom? Most likely not! But we are all slaves to the unbridled power of Inquisitor/Leliana on blog, so take that as you will.

Artwork is done by @mortt-artsy!

Prologue - A Land of Silver and Crimson

Year: 9:14 Dragon

The horse stomped the earth with impatient hooves, shifting from one to the other with kicks sending dirt and dust flying. Esmarian could see a heavy gray, billowing mist comb over the vale, before descending like a rippling cloak at its feet. Hints of sunlight came as thin, cold wisps, and the sky was gray and thickly-strung with clouds. He could only see a few paces in front of him, the mist rolling and folding in on itself like steel.

Drawing his reins near to his chest and tilting a little toward the right with his weight, he sent Dasor off into a trot back to Vasenarg. The path was hard underhoof, sturdy enough that Esmarian did not fear Dasor losing his step. It curved and twisted before rushing like a river into a shadowy forest where the mist still marched on, low enough to hide the earth beneath Dasor’s feet.

Long limbs of trees rustled with the soft breeze from the north. Singing lowly in his ears, Esmarian could only hear the wind in the air, cold and slick with a moisture that warned of rain. He trotted along the path in silence. Leaves crunched beneath Dasor’s hooves, moaning and groaning with each trample. It brought forth an eerily melody that he longed to be rid of. Another rain-cursed night, no doubt.

He knew the path back to Vasenarg well. He had often wandered the forest when he had just been a boy of six, with his elder brothers. That had been before the war with Starkhaven, when Ostwick had allied themselves with Kirkwall - before when Lord Amayian of Vasenarg had three boys instead of two. Then, the forest had been washed with golden light and filled with vibrant greens. The earth had been soft enough that if one lost their footing climbing the child would be wrapped and left unharmed.

But it had been a cold and hard winter in the thirteenth year of the Dragon Age. Not enough wheat and barely had been grown, and more than enough snow had fallen from the heavens in horrible white tears. Most had melted, burned away by the spring sun’s warmth. Yet, rains returned and mists formed and the world seemed tired once more. Not even a bird’s chirp cried out in the gloominess. Only grays and blacks colored the world that Esmarian knew - had since the day he held Abalian’s body in his arms. Rhyis had only saw the ale before trotting away with his cold, dead excuses. There were many things he could forgive his brother for, but not that.

That had been over nineteen years ago, when their father still lorded over House Trevelyan as its patriarch; when Rhyis had only just been named the Storm of Starkhaven.

The forests thinned and then spread into a gloomy field of rolling hills marked with gray-green grass. Esmarian could hear the crashing of the Waking Sea’s waves against the jagged black shore. He tugged at the reins before resting it and his hands upon the leather saddle. He knew that he had faced westward, staring into the unknown toward Ostwick’s ally, Kirkwall. The mist lifted, though dim and unfailingly hid most of the world in its arms, and Esmarian could see Vasenarg, a mountain of carved and chiseled marble ice peeking from the white-gray shroud. A little northward, and he would have seen Ostwick.

Once, his family had resided in the ancient city, but it had been nearly ages since any Trevelyan claimed the ancestral meadhall of Osthabern as their seat. Vasenarg had been built away from the city, but near enough to claim a large portion of its trade routes for House Trevelyan’s own - the ones that ran from Kirkwall and Starkhaven, at least. Esmarian was on one such path, though it was ancient and rarely used any longer, not since Ostwick had expanded southward and built a port at the feet of the Waking Sea.

Sending Dasor into a canter, Esmarian rode over the ancient, near-forgotten path. The wind came open and free, whirling from the sky to slashed and pushed the heaving mist back and fro like children fighting over a toy. The breeze was soft, grazing across his touch with gentle fingers. He needed this, more than he expected. There was something sweet in the wind, a clearness in the air. Something he could not have in the buzzing halls of Vasenarg, less so in the streets of Ostwick.

The wind swayed the grass, like rippling sheets of gray-flecked green. The salty air of the sea filled his senses and he inhaled softly, smiling as the breeze grew strong and swift, marching along with a whistle at its lips. The hills rose and fell in gentle slopes. A thin riverlet trinkled softly between two cradling mounds. He passed over it, water splashing and splattering, before climbing up a hill. The mist followed along as well, swathing across the meadows and valleys with its long, widening arms.

It was a sorrowful and lonely rode to Vasenarg, as if the world was hushed to silence with the wind giving the eulogy of a bygone age, forgotten in the hearts of time and men. Rhyis hoped that summer would be a more plentiful revival—he had even visited the Grand Cleric to break fast and morning prayers—but Esmarian had doubts, stronger than he would like. And Rhyis doesn’t even have a spare. If Ashania grew ill…

Soft beats of warmth indicted midday, though he could not see the sun in the sky. Rolling clouds shrouded the world like a heavy cloak, bordering on darkness. Northward, he caught glimpses of a rigid arm of mountains blocking the horizon, tips cladded in shimmering silvery-white and stomachs darken like licking shadows. The Vimmark Mountains. It seemed to have been years past since Esmarian rode at the feet of the great mountains, towering and looming like a sharp, jagged castle. To face Ser Elthbart, if I recall correctly. Maker, had it been that long?

Shaking his head, he tugged at his reins toward the left before gently kicking Doser’s flanks, sending him off in a gallop.

Mist swirled and churned like a veil of shimmering moonlight. It was thin enough for Esmarian to see the path at least. Enough for him to continue on his gallop with relative ease. Family belief held that Trevelyans were first given to the horse and then to their mothers after their birth. Esmarian had seen enough pregnancies to believe such rituals only occured on occasions, and typically for heirs of cadet branches. He had been disappointed when his mother had informed him that he was never given to such an honor. But he rode any horse as if they were his second - technically four - legs.

He laughed and kicked Dasor’s sides once more. The wind struck his cheeks, kissing and grazing, and he laughed harder. Esmarian never felt more alive then when he rode upon Dasor, wind in his hair and the rumbling of hooves meeting earth, bouncing him along. A song was formed, crafted, and he was the conductor.

The gatehouses glimmered faintly with the same paleness of freshly fallen snow. On silver poles stirred the rearing golden horse of House Trevelyan upon a black stable, flapping and weaving through the air. Vasenarg’s doubled-walled fortifications ran left and right, expanding like spread thick wings, and dipping with the fall of hills. Shouts and the clanging of metal rang loud as he rode into the lower bailey.

A few dozen or so of his brother’s household guards trained with great and bastard swords. Faint glimmers of sunlight shone on the metal of their armor and blade. The mist was softer here, faint and thinned, as if Vasenarg washed out the darkness and coldness of the world when one passed through its gates. Orange-golden light burned bright on hung torches, enough to bring tears to Esmarian’s eyes.

Wiping his face with a gloved-hand, Esmarian swung feet of the stirrup and dismounted.

“Uncle Esmi!”

Esmarian groaned as a weight slammed into his abdomen, knocking the breath out of him. “Ashania!” He managed to choke out. “Release me a bit, lass.”

The crushing of his sides were lessen and he inhaled sharply, capturing the air as if it was the smell of roasted mutton and freshly pressed bread. Glancing down, his gaze were met with large, almond-shaped purple eyes. Rhyis’ eyes, he thought with a hint of a smile.

The heir of Vasenarg was a girl of only three years, with curls of russet-brown hair falling like a waterfall, gleaming faintly with the flickering of the torchlight. Her pale cheeks were tinted with a rosy-red, hinting to her staying out in the cool day longer than she should have. But, Esmarian could not have been mad at her. In everything but her eyes, Ashania Trevelyan was her mother’s daughter. She had the same russet-brown curls; the same rose-tinted cheeks and pale skin of House Mouguare of the Orlesian Empire. Some of the family would had claimed bastardy if she had not been born with Rhyis’ eyes. She is too Orlesian in appearance. Maker bless Rhyis with a child that had his black, wavy locks and olive-tan skin of House Trevelyan. If not, than Jacqueline should be worried.

Ashania was still smiling, sweet and soft in the way only a child could. But, as if a bolt of lightning had struck her, she remembered her manners. She bowed low, dipping her feet and rising the edge of her dress a little high, and said, “Hello, Uncle.”

Esmarian laughed and ruffled her curls with his hand, grinning down at her. “No need to be formal, love. I’m not Aunt Jaylia.” He winked, then bent down on his knee, wrapped his arms around her waist, and then rose her high into the air. “Where’s your father, lass?”

Her brows furrowed and her nose wrinkled. “Um, I don’t know.” She pouted, and her eyes grew glossy. Then, she gasped. “In the big room!”

“Ah, yes, the big room.” Esmarian chuckled, shook his head, and then stode toward the great bronze doors of the keep. The big room was actually his brother’s study, and while one of the largest chambers in the castle, it was nowhere the largest.

Two of the household guards, straight-faced and stern, stood at the entranceway of the keep. With a nod of greeting, Esmarian waited as they pushed open the ancient doors. Groaning softly, the doors fell open slowly, and Esmarian passed through with his niece in arms, the wind slapping against his cloaked-back.

The great hall was silent, with only the soft patter of servants' feet bouncing off the walls. Light pooled and spread, scattering the shadows into hiding, and filled the warmed hall with a haze of orange and gold and crimson. He turned toward the right, gazed as darkness slipped and filled the wide hall. Smiling at Ashania, who mumbled incoherent and insensible words, he stepped through.

His brother was not in his study, he noted as he passed through its threshold, empty-handed. Ashania had wanted to go off and play with a sleeping cat; so much so that she had nearly tried to jump out of Esmarian’s arms and onto the stone floor below, which could have resulted in an injury—one that he was not willing to sacrifice his neck for.

He found only Lady Jacqueline, seated near a window with its curtains thrown back. Bars of pale sunlight slanted through and splattered onto the floor in lengthened fingers. “My lady,” greeted Esmarian with a slight bow.

She was facing toward the window, humming softly, a hand resting upon her protruding stomach. “Lord Esmarian.” Jacqueliene did not turn to face him. “If you’re looking for Rhyis, he’s still sleeping.”

Esmarian grinned and raised an eyebrow. “Sleeping? That might not have to do with you, Lady Jacqueliene?”

Jacqueline Trevelyan was as beautiful as a marble statue, with her long waves of russet-brown falling down to her mid-back and her large, almond-shaped green eyes flecked with gold. Her lips were soft and small, but full. Her cheeks were rose-tinted and freckled lightly, only able to see it when she was flush, which Esmarian found rare. Only Rhyis seemed to make her flush, and even those were far and between. Jacqueline smiled and laughed beatifically. “I have no idea what you are suggesting, my dear good-brother.” Her eyes twinkled with a mischievous glint. “My love works so hard and without any rest. I thought it would be merely good for him if he actually could attain one, even if it is for a single night.”

“How’s the child?” asked Esmarian after chuckling for a few moments, eyeing the woman’s stomach with concern. Without Rhyis there to fret over the woman, it fell upon him to do so.

Jacqueline sighed, irritated, as far as Esmarian could tell. “One rests and another takes it place.” She raised a hand to her brow, rubbing at her temples. “The babe is fine, I assure you, Esmarian. I would have summoned the healer if there were any problems.” She eyed him, a frown tugged at the corner of her lips. “You are far too like Rhyis at times.” Scoffing, Jacqueline laughed softly and rubbed her stomach, staring at it with gentle eyes. “Maker save him if he is cursed with two Rhyises.”

Esmarian blinked. “Him?”

“Oh, a mother’s intuition.”

“How do you know it is a he?” Esmarian never trusted the idea of the so-called “mother’s intuition.” Rhyis said that Mother had been wrong about Abalian, and perhaps he was right on that.

“A dream I had, Esmarian.” Her voice was almost breathless—detached, remote, as if she was no longer truly there in mind. She returned her gaze back to the window, rubbing her stomach in fleeting circles. “A dream of a little boy with a shadowy crown and green eyes with the sun’s light in them, standing against a storm of fire and darkness, billowing, threatening to swallow the world in darkness.”

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sablelab · 5 years

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Covert Operations - Chapter 79

DISCLAIMER: This is a modern AU crossover story with Outlander and La Femme Nikita. LFN and its characters do not belong to me nor do those from Outlander.

SYNOPSIS: Claire gives direction to a tourist and Inspector Jiang Ng meets his inquisitor in the White Room. Irrespective of what might happen to him, the Inspector is resolved to give nothing away. If he is going to go down, he will go down fighting.

N.B. This chapter contains some violence.

Once again, my gratitude for supporting my story by reading, liking, reblogging and for leaving a comment about what you had read. I am always enthralled by how people interpret the chapter with their predictions, some which are very close to the bone. So, THANK YOU one and all.

Previous chapters can be found at … https://sablelab.tumblr.com/covertoperations

CHAPTER 79 (V)

Claire continued on down the street and finally reached where she had parked her car. Opening the door, she was just about to get in to the driver’s seat when she was approached by a young man wearing a backpack and a camera around his neck.

Looking forlornly at her he spoke politely, “Oh, excuse me ma’am ... do you think you could help me please? I seem to have lost my way.” The man held a map in his hand and was obviously a tourist who needed directions. “Sure ... where did you want to go?” Claire replied helpfully. “I’m looking for the bus terminal to Stanley Park, but I’m having some trouble reading this map.”

“That’s because you have it upside down,” she laughed giving the young man a side glance.

“Is that right? I seem to be a bit confused with all of the Chinese writing,” he replied just as jovially but a little embarrassed at the same time.

Claire smiled at his hound dog expression while capitulating to his boyish charm. “Give me a look at your map and I’ll show you how to get there,” she responded taking pity on the young tourist who seemed a little frazzled.

Placing the map on the bonnet of her car, she explained how he could make his way to the terminus he was looking for. As Claire pointed out the direction on his map, the young man held on to her every word.

“Thank you, ma’am. I couldn’t make head or tails out of it, but you’ve been a great help.”

“You’re welcome. That shouldn’t be too hard now. Have a good trip ... you’ll be in plenty of time to catch the Stanley night markets. The bus route is very picturesque, so you will get some great photos along the way.”

“Thanks again ma’am ... I really appreciate your assistance. I hope I haven’t held you up?” He replied taking his map back. He folded it neatly with the route marked out so it was easy to read and stepped away from the car, so that Claire could leave. The young man then smiled at her and opened her car door civilly. “No not at all ... I’m just on my way home. Good bye and good luck,” she replied in thanks. Claire got into her car and pulled away from the curb into the traffic and once again continued on back to her apartment thinking of the leisurely bath, she still had time to have.

Meanwhile at Section One ...

Inspector Jiang Ng was strapped to a metal chair in the centre of the White Room. As he slowly began to regain consciousness, he moved in the chair trying to get his circulation back. The Inspector shrugged and attempted to move his hands but feeling some kind of restraint inhibiting their movement, he tentatively glanced down to see what was restraining his hands. To his surprise they were manacled in fetters to the arms of the chair. Twisting his fingers, Jiang stretched them to gain some modicum of feeling back into them but he’d obviously been there a while as the bonds that held him had long since numbed his circulation. He glanced up then around. The chair was in the centre of an empty room. There was nothing in this circular room ... only silence. It was so eerily quiet that Jiang could hear the beating of his heart. The overpowering relentless colour of the white walls was also playing havoc with his senses. He had a pounding headache. Blinking his eyes he tried to adjust to the glaring white lights but closed them quickly again as the glare was too blinding. The metal coldness chilled his body but the eeriness of the room chilled his bones even more. A shiver passed through his body. Where was he? Gradually regaining his faculties Inspector Ng realised he wasn’t alone after all. He felt the presence of someone else in the room with him and out of the corner of his eye he saw an operative standing quietly to the side guarding him in the silent room.

“Who … who are you? What the hell is going on?” However there was no reply to his outburst.

Inspector Ng became very agitated when he suddenly realised that he couldn’t move his lower limbs. “My legs! ... I can’t move my legs! ... I can’t feel anything! ... What the hell did you do to me?” he asked angrily but frantically trying to disguise the anxiousness he was feeling as well. Once again the man did not respond but merely stood there. He did not say a single word which only exacerbated the frustration Inspector Ng felt. He was not used to such insubordination. At the OCTB he was always the one in control and having to relinquish the sense of power for a subservient role reversal was difficult to take. He felt defenceless, frustrated and was very worried for he could still not feel any movement in his legs. He wondered if he would ever get any answers to why he was here in this place. The only noise Jiang could hear was his breathing and the beating of his heart ... that was until the sound of a door opening caught his attention. The creaking hinges of heavy steel doors opening wide shattered the eeriness of the sterile room. Good, now I’ll get some answers, he thought. Listening he heard the sound of heavy male footsteps echoing across the tiles as someone made their way to where he sat. However, the footsteps stopped behind the chair and he was none the wiser as to who had entered the room. “Where am I?” What is this place?” Jiang demanded brusquely not wanting to give his inquisitor an edge over him first. He heard an authoritative male voice reply, ““Hello, Inspector Ng. Welcome to Section One.” “Section One? What the hell is that?” was his disdainful reply. “You’ll find out soon enough.” “Why am I here?” “You’re dead.” “I beg your pardon?” Jiang asked incredulously. The man was clearly delusional. This was a joke. “I said you’re dead ... you had a heart attack on the steps of the OCTB building.” He laughed out loud, “You’ve got to be joking! I’m not dead ... I’m alive.” Operations signalled to the operative that was standing to the side. He stepped forward with duct tape in his hands to tape Inspector Ng’s mouth shut as Operations came and stood before the target. “For the moment Inspector Ng ... but not for long ... if you don’t give us what we really want.” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ The young backpacker watched Claire pull away from the kerb. When she was out of sight, he threw the map into the nearby trash can and stood on the pavement waiting. A black sedan soon pulled up beside him and he got in. “She’s headed back to her apartment.” “Good. We’ll take a short cut and be there before she arrives.” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Jiang looked at the man and analysed him as he did so.

He appeared to be a very determined person who would not suffer fools gladly. This was a man who meant business and was obviously not one to be reckoned with. Jiang recognised that he had a ruthlessness about him that was threatening, for his facial features attested to this demeanour. This was a man to be feared. He was powerful and may hold the key to his life in his hands.

Operations nodded to the operative to proceed. Muttering furiously Jiang asked, “Who are you?” However he was unable to request any further answers as tape was unexpectedly placed to his mouth. Caught off guard by the quick action of the operative, his muffled voice echoed heatedly in remonstration. Taking no notice of Inspector Ng’s protests, Operations leisurely circled the target at a slow deliberate pace. Glancing at the man in the chair he began to intimidate him by showing him just who was in control. The calculated slow pacing was meant to be threatening but Jiang was not fearful. Advancing on the chair Operations came closer and closer until he was facing the target eye to eye before stating condescendingly, “I understand your confusion. It’s not important who we are.” Jiang’s eyes filled with fury as he watched a supercilious smirk cross over the face of this imposing older man. Then without preamble or warning the next words out of his mouth were words of concern for his fate. “If you ever want to have the use of your legs again, you’ll listen to me carefully. We need some information from you. Because we knew that you’d be reluctant in advance to give us this information, we’ve had to resort to some rather drastic measures Inspector Ng.” The two men started at each other. No one gave an inch. “You have no feeling below your waist. The reason for this is we’ve injected you with a nerve agent that will permanently paralyse you from the waist down.” Operations glanced at him for a brief moment noting the alarm in his eyes, then held up a syringe and dispersed some of the liquid in the needle. Jiang watched as the liquid squirted out of the top and shot up into the air. He then saw the determined look in Operations’ eyes as he looked back over at him. “You’re close with Sun Yee Lok of the Rising Dragons. In fact we know you are the mole who has been providing information to the triad from the OCTB.” Glancing at the syringe then at the man’s eyes again, Jiang raised an eyebrow in surprise. “We want your leader’s whereabouts Inspector Ng. Are you prepared to give us that information?” His eyes darted to the contents of the syringe not knowing if it was more liquid to paralyse him further or an antidote. “Take your time; I know it’s a difficult decision.” Panicking, Jiang tried to speak but he couldn’t against the tape covering his mouth. He looked at Operations who nodded for the operative to remove the duct tape sensing that he finally wanted to comply. “He’s reclusive ... I don’t know where he is.” “Not good enough Inspector Ng.” “He moves around a lot.” “Where?” “Macau, Hong Kong, Shanghai ... Beijing.” Operations took the syringe in his hand, as though he was going to inject it into his arm. “Macau, Hong Kong, Shanghai and Beijing. Is that right?” he repeated. Panicking as he knew time was running out, Jiang shouted, “Yeah, that’s right. Give me an antidote.” Operations put the syringe down and walked away. Jiang became hysterical. “Recluse Bay ... That’s the truth! Come on! I need an antidote.” At the door, Operations turned back. “Who said there was one?” Inspector Ng writhed in the chair as the paralysis took hold of his body.” “Please ... I’m begging you.” “Very well ... I will give you time to think some more Inspector Ng then you might give us the right answers. Don’t waste the time ... you don’t have much.” “Nooooooo!!!!!!!” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* It was evident to Jiang Ng that he may have made the wrong decision with the older man who had spoken to him earlier, for his failure to co-operate had left him in this predicament. He had no feeling whatsoever in his legs. They were paralysed but ... he was still alive. In despair, Jiang sat slumped in the uncomfortable metal chair thinking of what he could do and what would happen next. His thoughts turned to the most plausible scenario open to him, and that if he was going to go down, then he would go down fighting ... for that was the triad way. Jiang also knew he would need his steely resolve for whatever these people had in mind. Trying to psyche himself up for what may transpire next, he recalled the Rising Dragons' mantra and recited it in his head. His mind went into a kind of trance as he sought comfort from the words. "Death with Honour" its way of life With motto "Strength by Dare" Once you yield fear nought … but When it seeks you, beware! The Rising Dragon!

Aware that the door to the White Room had opened once more, Jiang was broken from his trance like reverie. He listened carefully trying to make out if the same man had returned to terminate him. Jiang heard footsteps approach the chair. This time however, they were not the brisk steps of the first man. No! These footfalls were the calculated, unwavering steps of someone much different ... someone more enigmatic ... someone who would be more difficult to fathom. Hence he decided to speak up before he even saw the face of his interrogator. "You're here to turn the screws, if you only knew what a complete waste of time that is for both of us." Jamie's face registered the look of someone who did not give a damn what the target had uttered. With a look of complete indifference on his face, he made his way to the chair in the middle of the room, but instead of immediately stopping in front of Inspector Ng, he walked around the room slowing glancing at the target. Each step he took was resolute. Exact. Determined. Jiang followed Jamie's slow menacing stride with his eyes until the man dressed all in black disappeared behind him where he couldn't see. However, his footsteps still echoed in the stillness of the room as each thud hit the floor. The man finally stopped in front of him with his hands folded in the front. Jiang's eyes scrutinized the man from his spread feet up to his face. His eyes were met with piercing blue eyes as cold as ice and a voice equally as cold. "Inspector Ng." "Who are you?" Jamie ignored his question and continued walking around the room before stopping once more behind his chair. "Where's the other guy? Hmm? I know ... he sent you in here to do his dirty work. Well I don't know anything more ... Do you hear? ... You're wasting your time." Grabbing hold of the side of his neck, Jamie zapped him with an electronic device. "Ye're lying." "Prove it." Although he flinched with the pain of the electricity as it shot through his body Jiang was still as defiant as ever retorting, "I've already told you all I know," he sneered in non-cooperation waiting for a reaction from Jamie but receiving none. "No ... Let's start with the truth this time! Where is Sun Yee Lok?" Another bolt of electricity zapped through his body. "Thank-you!" Jiang replied smirking and turning his head to the side of Jamie while showing no emotion whatsoever. He then added with insolence, "Is that the best you can do? Without saying another word, Jamie stared at the target then turned to leave the room. Walking over to the door he opened it then waited for a moment as Section's torture specialists, came in carrying cases with what they would need to interrogate Inspector Ng. Jamie nodded as they entered the White Room for their task as he in turn exited the room. The sound of the squeaking door ricocheted in the room once again and echoed in Jiang's ears. The torture twins entered with all their paraphernalia in their little bags of tricks. Elizabeth and Henry were called to the White Room frequently in order to acquire information from hostiles swiftly and efficiently. Their deadly techniques using a variety of medical equipment persuaded each victim to relinquish information quickly. They cast a dismissive look the target's way then stopped and set up their kit. Inspector Jiang Ng would also relinquish what Intel he knew too for they seldom if ever, failed in their tasks especially after they had used their signature calling card. Nodding to one another Henry and Elizabeth approached the target without saying a word. They menacingly circled around him, one in the front, the other behind him. Jiang wondered what the third session would be like. However, little did he know but the two people who had just entered the room would make any feeble speculation he had earlier the reality he may not have been expecting. He would soon find out.

Meanwhile in front of Claire’s apartment ...

Parking her car in her allocated spot Claire got out and locked the Porsche Boxster then vigilantly looked around. Although there were a few residents' cars parked in the bays, the parking lot was deserted. It was eerily quiet and her senses were raised a little. The sound of her footsteps echoed on the concrete floor as she determinedly made her way over to the elevator that led up to her apartment. However, just as she was nearing the elevator the sound of heavier footsteps suddenly echoed along with hers. The quicker she walked the quicker was the sound of the other footsteps following her. Readying her gun, Claire picked up her pace and was nearly at a run. She looked over her shoulder to see if she could see the person following her but as she did so she bumped into a solid chest that had appeared out of nowhere.

"Hey! Remember me?" said a voice that was vaguely familiar. She turned just in time to make out the face of the young tourist she had helped with directions earlier. Her eyes widened as she realised what was happening, but before she could do anything she was hit on the head from behind while dropping her revolver on the ground. "You didn't have to hit her so hard," another man’s voice berated as Claire fell forward into his arms. "Quick get the car ... we need to get out of here." When his companion returned, the two men placed an unconscious Claire Beauchamp in the trunk of the car. With a last look around to see that there was no evidence left behind, one of the men noticed the revolver that Claire had dropped. Retrieving it he pocketed it in his jacket, then they both got in their vehicle and casually drove away.

In the White Room ...

The White Room door closed with a resounding click behind James Fraser. Standing on the landing for a moment he began walking down the steps into the austere corridor, but stopped when he heard the sound of an elevator slide open behind him. He turned to see its occupant; Dougal Mackenzie exit. Jamie turned toward him hearing the irritated inflection in his voice.

"Well?" "We'll know something soon," he replied briefly casting his eyes to the door of the White Room where the torture twins were interrogating Inspector Ng. Continuing down the steps to the bottom Jamie stopped in front of Operations who sternly looked at him. "We've spent too much time on this as it is, we can't spend anymore." Just as he was speaking, the White Room door opened, and the torture twins came out carrying their suitcases. They both stared at Jamie and Operations but Elizabeth shook her head sombrely. Her answer was not what they had wanted to hear. Unfortunately Inspector Jiang Ng had not broken. He was obviously stronger than they'd given him credit for. As the duo passed by, Jamie looked down thinking of another tack they could take with the hostage, however, Operations voiced words that he did not want to hear. "Claire will just have to find out what we need to know from Jonathon Randall." Ignoring the words, he had uttered, Jamie turned towards Operations with another proposal, "Let me try once more." He could see that Dougal was thinking about the effectiveness of trying to break the Inspector again especially after the torture twins had not succeeded. Weighing up the pros and cons of such a decision, Operations looked at him and finally gave him a nod of consent to try once more. Turning on his heel, James Fraser re-entered the White Room as Section One’s leader watched his retreating back. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Jamie approached Jiang Ng strapped in the chair, but he said nothing. The target sat erect with the signature slits under his eyes and watched as the younger man drew nearer while he glared back at him in defiance. Wanting to gain the ascendancy over the other they both shared a look with neither breaking their gaze. Jiang, however, was the first to look away but a smirk crossed his mouth when Jamie came closer. He watched as the man began the insidious walking around him as he had done before. Then he spoke. "Do ye want to live?" "Not especially. I'd rather die with honour ... that is the triad way." "I'm afraid that's not up to you Inspector Ng. I know yer mantra ... What is it again? ... Death with Honour ... Strength by Dare." Jiang refused to look at Jamie but straightened his body some more. "There was no death with honour for Fiona Graham was there Inspector?" Jiang's eyes registered surprise at her name. "She betrayed me." "Did she? Or was she too close to exposing ye and yer treachery?" Approaching the chair until he was face to face with the target, Jamie placed his fingers to the slit under Jiang's eyes and pressed down firmly. "Go to hell!" he spat out, shouting loudly. "I'm already there," was Jamie's dismissive reply. The pain was horrendous and Inspector Ng recoiled back in agony. But the demeanour of the stoic person in face of adversary soon crumbled and he screamed out as Jamie pressed down even harder. "Arrrrgh!" "Ye will give us what we want and ... ye’ll tell us everything. Do ye understand?" "Will I get an antidote if I tell you?" he panted as pain riddled his eye sockets and permeated his brain. "How do I know that I could trust you?" "If ye want to die with honour Inspector Ng, what do ye have to lose? For ye will die regardless." "How will they know I'm telling the truth?" "Give all the details; tell them everything that has happened ... They'll know if it corroborates with what Fiona Graham gave us on disk." Inspector Ng was taken aback by this Intel and knew that his life lay in the balance. He had no choice. "It's all coming back to me now."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ to be continued on Saturday

#Jamieandclairefanfic #jamieandclaireau #jamieandclairecrossover #covert operations #Section One #James Fraser #claire beauchamp

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nemossubmarine · 4 years

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Warhammer 40k: Wrath & Glory RP #24

We finally make it to Elysium in this session, eventually, after much waffling about, as we always do. Let’s see what happened.

We pick up from the warehouse, where Gimlet as ”brother Julius” goes to invite the man Xerxes inside as ”something has gone wrong”. When Xerxes follows Gimlet, Saef knocks him out with a big hammer.

By all appearances Xerxes seems to be a regular citizen of Civitas A. We figure it best to give him over to the officials anyway.

Saef ties Xerxes up in a knot he can’t quite undo, woops?

While Saef goes to find the Sable Swords, Vivek is teleported back to Santa Maria, as he wants nothing to do with any branch of the imperial army.

Gimlet stays behind to watch over Xerxes.

He goes and gets data of Elysium’s location from the ship, as well looking over the lenses that the Red Corsairs used. They appear to be powered by similar methods as the Civitas A metros are.

Gimlet pockets the lenses he has been using.

Saef finds a group of Sable Swords and approaches their sergeant, who turns out to be Carl, the same man Gorm fought alongside of (he is wearing some kind of a Wolf trinket Gorm must have gifted to him).

Saef reports our findings to Carl and takes him to the hangar to check out the scene.

Carl questions why the servitors are dead, and doesn’t quite seem to buy when Saef says they were like that when we found them.

So Saef very nicely brings up Gorm, and hey are you Gorm’s pal too? Gorm’s friends are Carl’s friends too apparently, so the servitor question is dropped.

Carl will be taking over from here, and Saef asks if there’s a chance they might have the ship after it has been looked over, it’s something Captain Pepper would really like to have for herself.

Carl says obviously a Rogue Trader will get whatever she needs, so it is arranged that Carl will call once he is done with the stuff there.

Gimlet and Saef retreat back to the ship. Vivek is in Saef’s room playing card games with Rat, when the dynamic duo returns.

The subject of Vivek’s health comes up, and it is decided it might be best to get Vivek to Eden as he is the only one Vivek will let doctor him.

But how?

Obviously Eden is guarded, so Vivek just can’t waltz in.

There are the lenses of course, and perhaps more specifically the lenses on the bunny Vivek looted.

It’s worth a try? So Saef sticks the lenses onto Vivek, and voila in his place is a bunny plushie.

Saef and Gimlet take the Vivek as bunny and go to Eden’s room. In front of there is a guard who stops them.

Even when Saef says he needs Eden’s medical attention, an entrance is not permitted.

Saef attempts to contact Inpax, but she isn’t picking up her phone.

New plan? Gimlet goes to Tabasco and asks for keys to the surgery next to Eden’s prison.

Tabasco says sure, but whatever for, is Gimlet planning on playing doctor? To which Gimlet says no, to which Tabasco says he plays doctor everyday (winky face?).

Anyway keys are gotten, and through the surgery’s air vent Saef manages to get to talking distance with Eden and lets him know that there would be a bunny coming in that is actually Vivek in need of a medical attention, so just play along, okay?

Eden says alright.

New plan is in action as Saef writes a love letter to Eden (and stuffs the envelope with as many small medical supplies he can think of) and with it and the bunny approaches Eden’s guard again.

This time it’s a different person, so Saef lays out his story, the tech-priest inside has saved his life, and Saef would like to give the letter and the bunny as a thanks and also because he is ”very much in love with him”.

”Okay, that’s weird,” says the guard, but agrees to take the items.

The letter he doesn’t touch but he does have to check the plushie in case it has something inside that’s not supposed to be there.

So he squeezes its middle, trying to see if there’s anything other than stuffing inside. All’s well so the guard takes the gifts to Eden, warning Saef not to get his hopes up.

Vivek stays inside Eden’s room for a few days.

During those days Gimlet invites Saef over to have a little chat, since it’s been a while since they’ve caught up, and Gimlet feels bad that he hasn’t been very open with Saef regarding many things.

Gimlet pulls it back, saying that stuff started “going to Hell” in Limestow.

Gimlet explains to Saef why going to Limestow was hard for him, and he also talks about his missing memories.

Then Gimlet asks how Saef is getting along with Inquisitor Inpax. Saef says they’re in talking terms.

Gimlet admits that he was the one who told Inpax about Saef being a psyker, and is sorry about that.

He warns Saef to be careful around Inpax.

Then he asks if Saef is angry about Gimlet telling her. Saef says ”I guess nothing bad happened”, so he’s cool.

Gimlet still thinks he should have told Saef, and Saef says they’re not talking about every single thing in their lives.

He then adds that he’s not talking about Rat with Gimlet, because Rat’s secrets because they’re not Saef’s to share.

Gimlet asks if she was in the bomb shelter, and Saef says yes.

Gimlet also brings up Lu Yan, as Saef met her in Inpax’s room. Lu Yan’s Gimlet’s friend, and not in the Inquisition, so she’s cool. That’s the first conversation.

Next day, Gimlet pops by and asks about Theo and Saef’s family.

Saef says his family is on the ship and want to do work, and that’s about it.

And as for Theo, Inpax gave permission to fix him, as Kane Bullard had made him servitor illegally.

Saef also mentions that Kane Bullard was arrested with a man who looks like Saef’s gang leader, which is frankly quite confusing.

Gimlet tells Saef to eat healthier. Saef says he’ss buy chocolate flavored protein bars.

Finally after those few days, there’s a delivery to Saef’s room. The guard is there and he has a package that the prisoner has sent back.

Saef thanks the guard and asks if the guard is doing alright.

Apparently the dude is a bit overworked.

The note that Eden has attached to bunny, says that the bunny is currently sleepy, which is to say when Saef takes off the lenses, Vivek is asleep.

He is fixed, but really really bruised. He also is sporting one of Eden’s eyes.

It takes a bit for Vivek to wake, and when he does he seems a bit quiet for a moment.

Gimlet asks what the Hell Eden did to Vivek to make him look like that.

Vivek said, that he was like that when he got to Eden, apparently the squeezing didn’t feel nice, woops.

Vivek says he asked if Eden knew anything about the whole Elysium thing, and Eden knew that Fane employed a Triplex Phall Tech-Priest by the name of H4-4nk.

He also mentioned that Fane’s acolyte made it out alive and Gimlet says yup, that was Tanner. So right, that’s a bit of a personal connection. Not that Vivek would know that.

Carl gets in contact and Gimlet and Saef come to get their ride back. Carl doesn’t have much to report that our heroes didn’t already know. He throws Saef the keys and Gimlet says that Carl’s pretty cool. Saef stumbling and nearly dropping the keys is not.

Saef goes to give Molly the 1/4th of the money. She’s a bit disappointed there isn’t more of it, but she accepts them, and says she’ll be spending this in the tax-free on some jewels.

Our heroes decide that before heading for Elysium they should probably let Cayenne know what’s up, and it’s agreed that Santa Maria should stay a bit farther away but close enough that emergency teleports can be done relatively quickly.

Our heroes use Santa Maria to get closer to Elysium before hopping onto their perma-invisible ride.

Vivek takes the pilot’s seat and getting fixed clearly has helped, as his Mech brain kicks in, and he can calculate where Elysium should be.

In two-ish days they reach the spacehulk, a bunch of ships and space debris smashed together.

Every hole in it is dark, it appears barricaded.

The ship is suggesting an entrance, but Vivek takes the ship to a tunnel on the other bit of the hulk.

Saef’s psyker senses are flaring up the closer they get to the hulk, he can feel the lenses’ energy getting stronger and the lenses begin to glow.

At the end of the tunnel, our heroes find an old entrance that has been barricaded with a steel plate.

Luckily Vivek has a steel cutting tool in his new arm, so he does a small hole and peeks inside.

Inside there is a full-blown city with people and servitors wandering around.

All the people (notably mostly women and children), have the lenses on.

Vivek tells the others what he saw and suggests that the others put the lenses on themselves (Vivek attempts to get Saef to put the bunny lense on Gimlet, but Saef sees through it), while he just can pretend to be a servitor if need be.

Vivek pulls up his hood and loans some kitten-gloves from Saef, disguise complete.

After that the trio gets inside the city. Some people greet them as they pass, saying savior’s blessing, which sounds off.

There’s a factory at the other end of the city that most adults seem to be heading for. The city ends in a metal barricade barricading the rest of the hulk from the city.

Suddenly a woman starts walking towards our heroes, and greets them, with hugs.

Our heroes claim to be messengers from another place. Sectors, it turns out, they are called, and this is sector 14.

The woman is surprised by the beards two of the three wear, as they are not allowed in sector 14.

The woman, named Onelda invites our heroes to her house for a bit of tea. Our heroes agree and off they go.

Onelda’s house is nice though a bit sparsely furnished.

There’s a picture of Onelda’s family, her three kids and her husband.

When Vivek asks about the man, Onelda says he has been Enlightened and send outside as an offering for the Emperor. Cool.

The tea and cookies Onelda offers are bit bland to eat, though only Saef appears to be eating.

Anyway, Onelda has similar kinds of lenses that the Red Corsairs have, so it might be prudent to, uh, get close with her.

So Vivek turns up the charm, which ends up with Onelda suggesting some baby-making (after Saef and Gimlet have left), which Vivek agrees to. (Vivek claims to have two daughters himself)

Onelda invites our heroes to stay over for lunch, as a friend of hers is coming over.

Our heroes think it might be time to leave, but Onelda physically barrs the door and says they should really stay for lunch.

Vivek questions Onelda why she is so insistent, and she reveals that she knows that our heroes are from the outside.

Onelda is part of a rebellious group inside Elysium.

Our heroes decide to stay and get some information out of Onelda.

It appears that ”the savior” Inquisitor Fane, claims that the outside world is overrun by Xenos and the people here are the only ones surviving.

They appear to not realize they are making weapons.

The Savior himself is rarely seen but his right-hand man, someone they call Smith (no doubt the tech-priest) keeps up the factories.

The sectors are guarded by Ultramarines led by someone named Mor’drax (doesn’t sound much of an Ultramarine to be frank).

The Servitors are known as the Enlightened, and most males get made ones by age 21.

Onelda also talks about how her middle child Wes snuck on board one of the out going ships to find his father. Vivek shows Onelda the bunny he looted, and Onelda recognizes it, so Vivek has to deliver the bad news that her son is dead.

Finally Onelda’s friend arrives, she is a woman in her forties by the name of Malika Nitzkowski, the leader of the rebellion.

Apparently the Smith is coming over to sector 14 in few days to inspect the factory and Malika plans on assassinating him.

She and her rebels have smuggled weapon parts from the factory and made swords. So yeah, definitely some fire power would be useful.

Our heroes agree to partake in the rebellion.

Next up, assassinating a tech-priest. Fun!

#nemo roleplays #long post #wag rp #wag rp writeup #campaign tag: the spacehulk of the happy and free

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ascension-soliloquy · 5 years

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Mistborn first read - book 2 - The Well of Ascension part 1.5 chapters 6-11

[Spoilers for the chapters covered, and all previous chapters]

Predictions (in addition to the ones previously listed):

•Who is the mystery Watcher who helped Vin? Maybe the Inquisitor in the first book was lying, and it is Vin’s brother Reen. I guess I’m holding out hope that he turns up alive, because all we have seen of him so far is in Vin’s memories. On some level I think I sort of relate to him, because I’m the older brother of two sisters, although my relationship with them is considerably better than Reen’s, and, unlike Vin’s sister, both of them are still alive.

•What does the new alloy do? Since aluminum strips away the other metals an Allomancer has ingested, maybe this one makes them last longer. Either that, or perhaps it’s the key to using Allomancy and Feruchemy together.

Part 1.5: Heir of the Survivor (chapters 6-11)

Chapter 6

Vin and Ham spar. Elend, Clubs, and Spook watch. Spook apparently sneaks around in disguise. Spook says someone is spreading rumors about atium being kept in Luthadel, probably to make opposing kingdoms attack the city. Vin beats Ham. Afterwards he tells the other men, “Vin’s a thin little thing, but when she burns pewter, she grows several times stronger... She packs all that strength into a small body, and doesn’t have to bother with the weight of massive muscles. She’s like...an insect. Far stronger than her mass...would indicate. So, when she jumps, she can jump.”

Elend thinks about how the group that had followed Kelsier is able to laugh and seem to have a good time even in dire situations. “They still faced an army several times larger than their own... Yet, if anyone could survive such a situation, it would be Kelsier’s crew.”

OreSeur can still speak, even with a dog mouth. He finds the new body offensive and degrading. Vin thinks he’s being forward and belligerent. She still thinks of him as Renoux. “Anyone can claim loyalty, Vin thought. If someone has a ‘Contract’ to ensure their honor, then all the better. That makes the surprise more poignant when they do turn on you.” Vin agrees to spend more time with OreSeur, even if she’s not sure that’s what she wants.

All this hinting at a betrayal makes it almost certain in my mind that there will be one at some point in this story, but the idea that it will be the kandra could be a red herring to throw us off the trail of the actual betrayer. Earlier in the chapter, Elend sees a look of jealousy cross Spook’s face. Maybe he’ll be the betrayer.

I looked up pictures of wolfhounds online. Man, those things are huge! If Vin is small as described, it’s comical thinking of her carrying an unconscious one over her shoulder.

Chapter 7

Sazed tries to teach skaa how to write, but they have no real desire for learning. “The Lord Ruler was dead, but the story did not seem finished. Was there something he had overlooked? Something larger...than the Lord Ruler? Something so large...that it was effectively invisible?” You mean something like the Deepness? Nah, couldn’t be.

“He knew that Vin and the others saw him as docile, but compared with other Keepers he was a wild man.” *sigh...I’m trying so hard to resist...but not really. If you have read the Wheel of Time, you probably know which character I’m thinking of right now, so I’m not even going to say it.

Creepy McNightmare Marsh shows up to scare the bejeezus out of the villagers, and tell Sazed to come with him to the Conventical of Seran, a Ministry stronghold. Sazed thinks about what knowledge he may find there.

[The next paragraph contains spoilers for Wheel of Time book #2 The Great Hunt, Star Trek The Next Generation season 3 and 4, and Doctor Who season 8 (12th Doctor)]

“...my brethren...” Clues of betrayal, or just a new idiosyncrasy? Wait...don’t tell me...they’re not going to turn Sazed into an Inquisitor, are they? F*** it, I can’t resist the WOT comparisons. Until I find out otherwise, that’s just my point of reference at the moment. This just feels like [WOT book #2 spoiler] Liandrin leading the girls away to Toman Head. I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough if I’m right or wrong. I suppose other references I could make would be the [Star Trek TNG] Borg capturing Picard, or [Doctor Who season 8] Danny Pink and the Cybermen. That is if what I think is happening actually does happen. Of course, both of those characters still ended up being turned back to the good side, but then again they didn’t have spikes driven through their f***in’ eye sockets!

Anyway, I overthink things way too much, and this chapter has me on edge. I’m as paranoid as Vin right now. I’m sure you can tell I don’t trust Marsh. I haven’t ever since he got the Obligator tattoos in book one (I shudder to think of what Marsh was doing that impressed the Obligators and Inquisitors so much), and this chapter just magnified that distrust exponentially.

Chapter 8

Vin tests OreSeur’s abilities as a dog. He’s faster and has sharper senses than he ever did in human form. He keeps up with her easily. The Watcher turns up and Vin decides to go after him. Attack someone who has already helped you in a fight; alienate potential allies; great idea Vin! They fight a little, and then chase each other. The Watcher finds a hiding spot, and Vin figures out where it is by burning bronze. She burns duralumin while burning other metals to see what it does. She feels what seems like a massive explosion, but after a moment of shock realizes that the alloy had amplified the other metals she was burning, made their effects overwhelmingly intense, and depleted them quickly.

OreSeur catches up with her as she sits there stunned. He gives her the belt that has more vials of metal in it so she can replenish what she just burned away. As she looks to the room where the Watcher had been hiding, he drops down close to her. They have a cryptic conversation, trying to figure each other out.

“Who are you?”...

“An enemy...”

“Why, then, did you help me fight those assassins?”

“Because...I’m also insane.”

After the Watcher leaves, OreSeur shows Vin that he can store her vials of metal in his flesh. Ew...helpful, but ew.

Chapter 9

Sazed thinks about how Marsh has changed. Marsh’s nickname according to Spook had been Ironeyes, which now seems prescient. Marsh seems to be concerned about Sazed wasting time in the countryside and thinks he should be helping his friends in Luthadel. Hmm...maybe I have been quick to judge Marsh, but still, I’m wary. I’ll reserve judgement until we see how the trip to Seran plays out. Maybe this conversation is meant to lull us into a false sense of safety before the trap is sprung.

I have noticed in my copy of the book that the map has different spellings than in the rest of the book. For example: Seran is spelled Searan on the map. In chapter 3 when Ham talks about the assassins that fought Vin he mentioned a place called Fadrex City, but on the map it says Fadex City. Is this a typo, or is it intentional?

Chapter 10

Elend is holding an assembly. Vin and Ham, among others, serve as security guards. Ham pats Vin affectionately on the shoulder and makes her uncomfortable. “Ham’s innocent gesture made her want to squirm. It seemed to her that people shouldn’t be so casual with the way that they touched others.” Vin and Ham have a discussion about politics. Vin is concerned about Elend giving away too much of his power to too many other people.

Elend gives a speech about their freedom as a nation, and how that freedom was in danger with the foreign army attacking. Elend asks for time to meet with Straff. The assembly degenerates into arguments. Elend keeps trying to get everyone to vote. Lord Penrod says they all know what kind of man Elend’s father is, and that if he wants the city, he will take it. He supports Elend’s proposal saying it may help them to not give up too much control when Straff takes over. They put it to a vote, and the proposal passes. Vin gets paranoid about potential assassins. Soldiers come to say a second army has arrived outside the city.

To be honest, this chapter was difficult to recap, as I wasn’t sure what was important to include and how to word it, so I did the best I could. Politics aren’t my strong suit. I’m sure there are political maneuverings going on behind the scenes with the characters involved in the assembly, but until it’s revealed, I can’t really comment on it.

Chapter 11

Ooo boy...this chapter is a doozy. I’ll see if I can even do it justice. Time to ramp up the paranoia like there wasn’t enough already!

The new army flies Cett’s banner, so it’s most likely hostile since the assassins Vin fought were traced back to Cett. Vin sees Breeze being chased and decides to go help him. She uses duralumin, this time effectively, to amplify pewter and steel to reach Breeze in time to fight off his pursuers. It didn’t take her long to gain control of this new alloy, did it? Masterful performance, I dare say.

When they get back to the city Breeze admits to spreading the rumors about atium in order to lure Cett’s army to come to Luthadel. He says he did this to cause a standoff between Cett’s and Straff’s armies. Neither will attack the city if either thinks the other will ally with Luthadel. This gives Luthadel time to negotiate with the armies.

Vin, Elend, and OreSeur are riding in a carriage. A guard comes to tell Elend that a body has been found in Vin’s room. This turns out to be the skeleton from the body that OreSeur discarded when he switched to the dog. Elend tells the guard that they know about the body, and asks him to dispose of it for them.

“He probably assumes I ate the person or something...Sucked the flesh right off his bones.” I laughed so hard at this part!

Then the guard asks what to do about the other body, they’re like, wait, what other body? He tells them they found another skeleton when they brought dogs in to sniff around to see if they could find the killer. They tell the guard to show them. When he brings them to it, Elend dismisses the guard. They figure out that it’s from another kandra, and that kandra is probably now impersonating someone close to them; someone from Kelsier’s crew.

Yeah...I can’t do that last part justice. Just reread that part of the chapter for yourself. Wow. So which of our friends got eaten by a body snatcher, and is now an impostor? Welp...I’m struggling to put together a coherent thought, so time for a cliffhanger.

(To be continued)

#brandon sanderson #mistborn #the well of ascension #fantasy #cosmere #vin #sazed #elend venture #mistborn liveblog

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fanesavin · 5 years

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Guests settle in while trouble brews in the market.

[ Part 1 | Part 2 ]

Collette indulged in sampling what few luxuries there were at this coronation. The food was lavish, even if it wasn’t the gold leaf and truffles that she’d heard the last king served at his own. She’d only ever eaten so richly as a named warrior for an ancient and long dead noble house.

There was a long table spread for reception, although that would likely come after the coronation ceremony took place. He couldn’t help but notice the one person actually partaking of it, while the servants quietly tried to bustle and work around her to finish setting up. His tried to hide his smile, but it came anyway, watching in amusement as the White Lady sampled things, turned her nose at other things, slowly picking her way through the large but still austere eating choices. If anything could symbolize the spirit of this day, it was certainly embodied in that food. It made perfect sense to Iann; food being such a literal and symbolic description of security.

Collette carried a small silver plate of her favourite choices and a glass of a golden meadlike liquid. She headed towards her captor, the food and alcohol in her belly making her of a far less aggressive disposition. She did have to thank him for one thing. ‘This mead is lovely.’

Iann looked surprised again, when the White Lady approached him of her own volition. He came to a full pause, hands clasped behind his back as he gazed down at her. “Our honey is the pride of our nation, second only to the Freewinds Fleet,” he stated, but Iann was clearly pleased, his chest puffing out as he looked at the cup of mead in her pale white hand. “Third is our obsidian flint, of course. As our Isles are formed from the Sea Goddess’ incessant belching, while she lay pregnant under the ocean,” he laughed, because he loved the Sea Goddess myth, and in many ways believed in her. In addition to paying lip service to the Cloverry, of course. “Volcanic rock, which can light a fire faster than any flint found on the mainland.”

‘Charming,’ Collete said as she sipped the mead. ‘Obsidian is the only gemstone I have time for. It’s rather useful in all kinds of things.’ Perhaps he’d have won her favour if he hadn’t covered her in the symbols of wealth and power like golds and silvers, then. ‘I prefer the myth I heard long ago about the battle of the Fire God and the Earth God, which then gave birth to the stones, glass and metals.’

“Obsidian isn’t considered a precious stone on the Forty Isles, it is a tool.” Indulging the White Lady, he pulled out a dagger that rested on his hip, the blade black and shiny enough to see her reflection in it, dark and luminous. “Forged in the fire created by the selfsame obsidian flint, in an ocean fire that burns even underwater. It strengthens the blades, unbreakable when they clash with mainlander steel.” He slid it back into its sheath, and then took the Lady’s cup. “May I?” he asked, then sampled it. “Ah - this is from Melis Island, I think. Their apiaries make honey of blueberries and lavender.” He returned the cup to her. “Fire God and Earth God? Are they related to the Sea Goddess, then?”

Collette reached out to touch the blade but found Iann had slid it back in its sheathe before she could. ‘Hm?’ She let him sample the mead and watched as he decided where it was from. ‘Lavender is lovely.’ She took another sip of the mead and nodded. ‘It was over the Sea the two were fighting. Earth won which gave birth to rivers and lakes. But even though Fire lost, he birthed a bastard with the Sea.’

Iann hummed. “I’d never heard that aspect of the myth,” he murmured, but he couldn’t help but make connections to more recent legends. Namely the one of the Forty Isles once being one large Island, up North, connected by a natural stone bridge that spanned into Savinlands. The Dragon War had fractured his beloved islands long before Iann had been born, and dragon magic pushed his islands south, creating the Forty Isles as he knew today. He recalled Inquisitor Savin confirming that part of the legend, albeit from a Northman’s point of view (which was neither wrong nor right, just different. This was in no way a slight on the North or the way Northerners thought or carried their legens. It was merely an additional perspective on a history that Iann had grown up learning on the Isles, which Iann welcomed, especially from al ally such as the Savins). “I myself have many bastards. I admire this Fire God and Sea Goddess for doing what they chose.”

Collette White ‘Maybe. But every recollection is different. For some, it’s an affair of the heart. Others it’s a sign of the savage Fire consuming what wasn’t his.’ Collette swayed a little as if dancing to the music that was playing. ‘All myths are different, after all. And not everything gets better with age.’ She made no comment on Iann’s bastards. Who could pass up the chance to further their legacy?

Iann smiled. “Then I like it even more. Myths with multiple claims and versions have always fascinated me. It’s like looking at your reflection in the ocean, the most natural mirror of the known world, but always changing. When you look into the ocean, you never know what face you will see, staring back at you.”

‘And how many reflections have you had? Ones of gold and silver like today? Or ones of black and red, like the day I was captured?’

Iann inhaled, unclasping his hands to stroke at his beard. It was flecked with grey at the corners of his mouth, which was kept so perpetually down-turned. When he smiled, when he frowned, when he sulked, when he felt stress and strain breaking his back. “My ocean defines who I am, and nothing else,” he replied, calmly, his words carefully chosen. He looked down at Collette, her white hair in smooth, elaborate braids that emulated snow-capped mountains to his eyes. “What defines you, my dear Lady?”

Collette made a small noise of her own, an unintended scoff. ‘I’m only defined by my actions. I kill in protection of the land I love the those I am loyal to.’ And that had been a long time since. ‘I am defined not by my money or the people I surround myself with. But it all lies on what I fight for.’ It wasn’t the place of the north she fought for. But the historic ideas of the honour and protection of its people. But it was the blood and fire that followed was what defined her to the people.

“Well said, and wonderfully traditional, as well. Honourable creeds to spark true inspiration within any good, earnest soldier’s heart,” Iann praised her, then smiled. “You see? We have now turned the tides as I promised, and I shall only shower you in accolades.”

‘So you’ve finally stopped gloating?’ Collette’s lips curled into an almost sweet smile. ‘But thank you.’

“I have, it grew boring and there was simply no satisfaction in gloating over you. No one here enjoys a good triumph, not any longer. Everyone’s beholden to one single morality, with no room for anything else.” He glanced around, then motioned for a servant to bring him a cup of mead. He took it, and sipped it. “So you’re not much of a prize, unfortunately. Everyone only pities you and despises me. So I’ve decided to leave you to your own devices.” He looked around the slowly gathering courtyard, then down at her. “Return to the north, as you please. Your captivity has no strategic service within the new high-minded post-war structure now being built here in Bluesprings. It’s a damned shame to release you, though. I was starting to like you.”

‘How dull! Are you sure you’re telling the story correctly? With all the fire and death? How I held your men hostage after you attacked?’ She was unimpressed with how weak the people down here seemed. ‘No, You’re the only person who treats me like the legend I am. I’ll stay with you so long as you respect my myth.’

“Bragging is considered unseemly here, people are so desperate to maintain peace their only care is the same as yours. Good of the people. The people, the people,” he shook his head. “Everyone’s minds are on the well-being and harmony of the people.” He shook his head. “Can I even blame them? Hardly. My people have lived as freefolk on our islands. Those who fought in the wars on the mainland were soldiers and sailors, not innocents.” He looked at the White Lady, with some sympathy. “And you, my dear, have become a lovely but old-fashioned relic, in light of all this blessed, necessary peace among both nobles and commonfolk alike. The White Lady of blood and fire will now be the White Lady of squabbles over sheep-theft and pregnant unwed farmer’s daughters. After the coronation, I’ll return you to your beloved North. Your personal escort - I’d like to visit my son in Blackspire anyway.”

Bella had not left the Dead Woods since she was a much younger woman, the war outside was not something she wanted to involve herself in, a battle for power mattering very little, but now the dust had settled and it seemed appropriate she venture out into the Kingdom to represent what was hers. By no means did she imagine this future ruler would have any command over the forest, she doubted he could make it inside without the magic that was at the root of everything there tearing him apart, but that was her ego and she needed to see for herself. The company of so many humans already quite daunting to her as she walked into the courtyard of the main city where the coronation was to occur. Black gown falling over her slender frame her face wore green and black staining over her eyes that were golden she listened in on a conversation being had by a collective of people with regal postures and titles being thrown about.

Collette stared at Iann for the longest moment. ‘There have been supposed peace’s since I was born. There’s not a single moment I deluded myself with the idea that the battles will not return. If not after this king’s death, his children’s. Or a squabble between houses with no bearing on the throne. I’m not afraid of peace because I know it will never exist.’

Iann gave a one-shouldered shrug, mouth once more down-turned at the corners. “Then you are set for the rest of your existence, my Lady. And as this fictional peace degrades over years, I’ll continue to live my meaningless mortal life out, on the sea where I belong.” He flinched at his own words though, angry at himself for thinking of the sea first, before his Forty Isles. Dammit, when would his father die. For now he gave the White Lady a small, if formal bow. “And I wish you well.”

Collette felt something shift after what she said. Even her reluctant captivity felt more pleasant than being there right now. This freedom he’d given her felt empty and unearned. What had she done? Nothing? Had someone else won her battle for her, or was he simply surrendering. Whatever he was doing wasn’t going to work on her. She wanted to win this victory, not to be handed it. ‘I’m not leaving your captivity,’ she said, chin up.

Bella looked to the woman whose hair was perhaps the polar opposite of her own, listening as she implied peace had once existed, Bella could not recall a time and no social graces retained in her she interjected without introduction or elegance. “Why should your life be meaningless because it is short?” she asked the gentlemen whose skin seemed worn with age and deeper than her own or the other woman’s there. However as she had missed much of the conversation for the woman to say she was choosing to remain his captive seemed to make each of them less endearing.

Iann blinked, unsure he heard the White Lady correctly. “You - ” he was about to say, when another Lady he did not recognize seemed to materialize near them. She had a dark, chilling way about her. Claustrophobic even, even though she was only a small thing. But Iann hated small spaces that were not within the bowels of a ship. And this new strange lady was certainly no ship’s child. She reminded him of the strange woman he’d met earlier, Faye of Lacroy from the Wildwood Marsh. Someone truly connected to land. Iann gave her a formal bow. “My apologies, I don’t believe we’ve made introductions. I am Prince Iann de la Cardero Reyes Ojeda Lopez, and this is my - ” he stopped, then looked at the White Lady. “This is my…esteemed bondwoman, the White Lady of the North.”

A prince, he did not quite appear as one, he was terribly old to be a Prince. “Queen Bellamy Jacqueline Chevalier of the Dead Woods,” Bellamy introduced herself but she wore no crown, nothing so ostentatious, and her wolves she had left at the gates, for the time being, as to not seem as aggressive as she could often be. “What is a bondwoman, if I may? Is she your wife?” Bellamy questioned, curious if perhaps these were just unfamiliar words to her, ones from other Kingdoms or that had sprung up in her absence from a more gallant society.

Iann had the exact appearance of a Heir Apparent Prince, considering the wealth of his deportment, and his imposing stature that both commanded power while also exuding the comfortable casualness of one who knew how and when to wield said power. That this little Queen held her doubts spoke of her own inexperience, more than anything else. He opened his mouth to respond, then Lady White filled in the answer for him, which Iann rather loved. “So like a wife, one could argue. Especially to someone as unlovable as myself.”

Bella looked over the man, curious to see if there was any sort of enchantment on him. “You really are a pathetic sort of Prince if you deem yourself unloveable and your life lacking in meaning, I hope you have older siblings far more worthy of whatever Kingdom you are in line to inherit,” she said without hesitation, or even malice, her tone was lower and slow, as she merely voiced her opinion. Looking to the woman. “I’m not sure why you would voluntarily be something akin to a wife,” he wasn’t even attractive, but this was coming from a woman whose partner was in the form of a wolf for more than half of the time.

‘A wife? I’m nothing like a wife! I’m a willing captive, until the moment someone finally acknowledges this man’s strength on the field of battle. And if that means until he’s bested his enemies, then so be it.’

Iann looked down at the White Lady, his arm snaking around her armoured back. Not to protect her, but because Iann had a feeling the White Lady would not hesitate to launch into violence if she felt insulted. She’d already fought an exceptional battle with many of Knight Harrison’s own men, when they had kidnapped her. He didn’t touch her back, it was more of a demonstration that he stood beside her if things turned sideways. The Queen of the Dark Woods. It seemed strange and unfamiliar to Iann, not that he doubted this self-titled creature. She was here, after all, and must hold some merit on the mainland. The idea of the White Lady calling herself a 'willing captive’ was similarly fascinating to Iann. This 'Queen’s’ petty and childish insults washed off of Iann like water. “As you wish, our Highness,” he said neutrally, and then looked at the White Lady. He bowed to them both, although his bow to the White Lady was considerably lower and formal than it was to the Dark Woods Queen. “If you’ll both excuse me, I shall take my leave and attend to other business.”

Bella practically sneered at the woman’s detestable sort of personality, not that her own was shining very brightly then. “And how exactly is that going to make anyone acknowledge anything about him? Latching yourself onto him like a leech, so far you’ve only made him seem more pathetic to me than his own words have.” She was glad for him to leave but imagining his 'captive’ would follow soon after.

Collette stepped forwards, towards this ‘Queen’. Her hand flew to her sword, that Iann had stolen along with her other effects. She was unarmed, thankfully to the others’ opionions. ‘He bested me in combat when I rendered the odds impossible. And so far no one has acknowledged the achievement no other man has managed!’ Two hundred years and in her first visit south she had been insulted deeply.

Faye let herself be led towards the stables by… the Inquisitor, she’d heard him called. She didn’t dismount just yet, not caring to be shorter than most around her. Especially since the Lord himself was far taller. “I don’t think I caught your own name in the confusion, m'lord. Unless of course, you didn’t give it.” Her horse, Abraxas was his name, shook his head and clapped his teeth in the Inquisitor’s direction. Faye spoke something to the stallion, a few soft words, and he shook his great head again but fell quiet.

Fane knew the sigil of the Guard embroided onto the breast of his jacket would likely be a giveaway as to who he was. Even if he was a frequent visitor to these parts people had some idea of who he was and more than one curious look was shot at him and the woman astride her horse with whom he walked. It wasn’t a far journey but he was unaware of the kerfuffle that had taken place not long after their departure a fact he would no doubt learn of later. “I didn’t give it, and technically neither did you,” he intoned in slightly put upon amusement, “but in the way of introductions, my name is Stefan. High Inquisitor of the Dawnguard and Lord of House Savin.”

Faye made a humming sound, a tiny smirk lifting one corner of her mouth. “That’s quite a mouthful. I’m afraid mine is less impressive. Faye Lacroy. Of House Lacroy. It’s an honor to meet you, Lord Savin.” She glanced at him again. “I don’t seem to remember the Dawnsguard having an Inquisitor in the past. Though I’m not current on many things, it seems.” Her tone was slightly humorous, meant to keep her fears hidden. They arrived at the stables, and Faye entrusted her horse to a groomsman, giving him the required coin from a small purse hidden deep inside her cloak.

Fane merely tipped his shoulder lightly, “everyone here has some extended title or epithet, honestly the struggle is remembering them all and the right honorifics to go with them… Duke, Lady, Lord, Prince so on and so forth.” Arriving at the stable he leaned his shoulder on the wooden column supporting the thatch roof, “so in that regard, it’s quite nice really,” he said of her seemingly unimpressive title. Though he was aware of the other little epithet that she and her kin had garnered but he held his tongue on that for now. Perhaps he would ask later, “there have been a few Inquisitors when the realm has need of them, with the ushering of this peace perhaps we won’t have need of them at all… But for the time being, I hold the mantle.”

“Peace,” Faye said, mostly to herself. “I’m not sure most people know what that word means.” Now stood on the ground, she was shorter than him by a head. But she watched him with her strange eyes, looking for any signs of falsehood. “What will you do then? If the world has no need of you?”

“Indeed, I doubt many do… Nor anticipated to see it in their lifetime yet… Here we all are.” Now that she was on foot he could see those infamous violet eyes that had supposedly cast many a soul asunder. It seemed they were of a mind, gaining an estimation of the other. Fane wished to see the peace maintained, even if he doubted it would ultimately last and that meant gaining an understanding of those that also seemed to wish to support it too. At least, support it for the time being. “I look after my people’s interests and see our wares are traded for goods we require in return.”

Faye: “I certainly didn’t. War has seen the end of my House. I wonder how many more will see their own end during peacetimes?” It had been a false sense of peace that had slain her ancestor, if the stories were to be believed. But war had gone on for so long, and what did she really have to lose? Nothing at all. “I have no people, Lord Inquisitor. I have only myself.” She tilted her head to indicate they should walk back towards the Keep if he wished.

Fane inclined his head solemnly. “The wars have been the end of many once great houses, but perhaps an era of peace will allow for those that have suffered to rebuild.” He couldn’t say if it would happen, but perhaps there was a tentative hope. “That seems a rather lonely existence,” her nod caused him to step back ever-mindful of giving her space and not crowding her considering how she’d reacted when her horse’s rein had been caught earlier. “So might I ask then, what does Lady Lacroy do to pass the time in the Wildwood Marshes?”

Faye: “Perhaps,” she said of rebuilding. Though Faye held little hope for finding a husband at this point in her life. She was in her third decade now, far past the age of marriage and children. The best she could hope for is that her House was not forgotten completely. “It is.” Faye grew lonely all the time. She remembered a time when there were always people in her castle. When the hearthfires burned all the time and the smell of cooking and sound of laughter and music could be heard. But not anymore. Not for a long time now. His question caught her offguard, because why did it matter? “Read. Tend the garden. Sometimes I go for a walk.”

Fane knew to some degree of loneliness once widowed and without heirs. While he had not loved his wife for it had been a marriage of politics he was fond enough of her and she had passed in a fever-bed too young to see the end of her days quite so soon. But that was the way of the world it would seem. Though no one needed to know his thoughts on such things they were his own personal council. “What do you grow?” he asked on her mention of a garden “I can’t see how marshland is very good for agriculture unless you’ve managed to find a system to grow on such land?”

“I grow what I need,” Faye told Lord Savin. “It’s just me after all. I have a garden in the courtyard. The soil there is good. I have a few chickens. Some caged doves. I hunt the occasional swamp deer or boar.” Though she saw those rarely nowadays. “Some things grow best in the marshes. Though I doubt you’d want to eat them.”

Miguel had spent a few hours with Adeline, reading to her and asking her questions about the houses, making sure she was ready to face all the nobles that would be milling about. Making sure that she was safe. A few of the castle guards had been added to her entourage, and Miguel asked his own two crew members to watch over the child. And then he took back to wandering. This time in a more respectable outfit, fitting for his station as a lesser son of the Cardero house. A flowing cream colored shirt with gold embroidery and obsidian buttons. His broad sword, ever present at his hip. An obsidian dagger to match Iann’s at his belt - and one in his boot. He smiled and greeted everyone it would benefit him to greet. And some he greeted for fun, his amusement benefit enough. The food was interesting, with variety from across BlueSprings. He stayed away from the food that reminded him of home, he wanted to try new things. His curiosity brought him back to the violet eyes of the witch of the wilds, he had met her once before and he wondered if she remembered him. Perhaps, it didn’t seem like she had many visitors at least. He circled once, taking stock of the inquisitor and whomever else wound in and out of the conversation. “Inquisitor, Lady Lacroy.” He nodded his head in greeting.

Faye’s attention was brought from her current conversation by a familiar voice. Granted, one she never thought to hear again. She stopped, peering at the man who’d been one of her rare visitors in the last few years. “M'lord,” Faye greeted him. “Fancy seeing you here.” Though a tiny smile lifted her mouth. “You look well.”

Fane nodded in understanding. “Ah, yes I suppose you’re right… I’m rather unaccustomed to Houses having so few people belonging to them… Normally there’s so much that needs to be taken into consideration… We have glasshouses that we use to grow the things we need… The rocks don’t lend themselves to very good growing conditions.” But as another approached, Fane found his eyes studying the newcomer. Ah, one of the other princes belonging to the Isles. “Your Royal Highness,” he greeted with a small bow, more formal than Fane had greeted his elder brother earlier.

Faye glanced at the Inquisitor, wondering if he was insulting her or not. She was quite literally the only person left. No husband, no children. Just her. “One may find things a bit less complicated when everyone else is dead, m'lord.” The words were said flatly, but held little heat.

Miguel smiled at the two. “Oh everyone is here Lady Lacroy. But I am happy to see you.” He smiled an extra special Forty Isles honey smile for her. She was overlooked by the other nobles far too often. And he wouldn’t be making that mistake. “I’m happy to see you as well Inquisitor,” he said and his smile turned a little cheeky.

Fane had meant no offence, it was a simple truth. He wasn’t accustomed to Houses with only one survivor. Small households yes, but one individual alone was… something else entirely. “I apologise… I meant no disrespect truly.” But Miguel’s arrival saved him from a little too much awkwardness. “I can say the same of you and your brothers, it seems like an age since we last wrote to one another. How have you been fairing on your voyages lately? Any new discoveries to regale us with tales of?”

Faye nodded at the apology, but said nothing else about it. Her attention turned to Miguel as her two companions seemed to know one another. “You as well.” His smile was returned with a bit more familiarity than Faye had given anyone else.

Miguel pretended not to notice the end or the awkward discussion and instead kept his jovial persona in place. “Oh yes! I recently got back from the Western continent. There I learned about some interesting blacksmithing techniques. Have you heard of crucival steel?”

Fane was thankful at least that no commotion was made of what he said. Some nobles could be incredibly tetchy about things and even if peace was looming some were still far too high-strung for Fane’s liking. “Oh aye? Crucival?” he shook his head a little, “I can’t say I have but you have me intrigued. How does it differ to typical steel?”

Miguel was perked up and grinning. “Well! It’s a mix of pig iron, iron iron, and steel. Along with ashes or glass. All melted in a crucible. The addition of the junk actually makes it stronger. I tested it against my obsidian blade and my blade splintered.” He glanced around and frowned. “I’ll talk to you again Lady, Inquisitor.” He didn’t want to spend too long with any one group. Plus there was still food he wanted to try.

Fane politely inclined his head as Miguel excused himself, not particularly minding. “I apologise… If I did cause offence earlier,” he said more quietly and sincerely then as they walked. “I only meant to try and understand what it would be like to live as you do. But in hindsight it was callous of me to phrase it the way I did and for that and any offence i caused you Lady Lacroy I’m sorry.” He wasn’t full of himself enough to know when an apology was needed and this felt as though it required one.

“No harm done. I don’t speak to people very often. Not unless they need something.” She pulled her cloak tighter around herself. “Why?” she asked, frowning down at the ground as they walked. “My way of life is…” Faye stopped talking lest she make herself out to be the rude one. “You have far greater concerns than me, m'lord.”

Fane made a quietly sympathetic noise as they walked. That was something he understood, people wanting and asking things of you but ultimately that was their job. Though in Lady Lacroy’s case he assumed that perhaps it was a slightly different beast if rumours were to be believed. “Need there be a why?” he countered thoughtfully, straightening himself he clasped his hands behind his back “I take the position that if we are all expected to live in peace surely there needs to be some degree of understanding that exists between us no? How else do you understand a person but by asking the questions to learn about their life?” Perhaps a tad philosophical but no less true in Fane’s opinion at least. “Perhaps,” he allowed to her statement of his greater concerns, “and yet I choose to walk here with you instead.”

“There’s always a why,” Faye said rather shortly. Always a why. Or a how. Or a what. An addendum to everything. “And it’s hard to understand something when you fear it too much.” She meant that as a general statement. Even now as they walked, people glanced at her and upon meeting her eyes many moved quickly away. Some stared. Some even looked angry. And for what? A rumor. A superstition that lingered over her family for ages. Though she was certain by now word of her presence in the city had spread. The Witch come to curse the new ruler. Or something equally horrendous. “Perhaps not the best choice on your part,” Faye told him, though it seemed to keep people from staring at her too long.

Fane tipped a brow at the abruptness with which she answered, well then. “Perhaps there often is, but in this case the why would be I’m curious.” Fane pressed his lips together as he considered her words. “Aye, ‘tis true,” he conceded patient but no less curious despite her attempts to deflect said curiosity, “but I’ve seen things worth fearin’ and I can’t say you happen to be one of those things. Not by my typical estimation of things that’ll maul me to death on the spot at least.” Fane noticed the lingering looks but where Faye seemed uncertain of them he chose to not acknowledge them. “No, perhaps not and yet I choose to stay because I would like– if you would allow me to that is, to try and understand.”

“And I should merely bend to the whim of your curiosity?” The words were only slightly less heated, but she did glance up at him as he returned his own opinions of things to be feared. “Maybe that’s exactly what I want you to think.” Most beautiful things were dangerous in some way. Faye was no less so merely because she isolated herself. She shook her head as they walked. “Stay if you wish. It will only serve to show you that I’m not worth the time.”

Fane looked rather amused by her prickly nature. “Now that’s smart but that wasn’t what I said, I may be curious but you don’t have to indulge my curiosity.” His hand rested loosely on the pommel of his sword, a casual stance and more for comfort than any other reasoning. “Aye, perhaps so. But I’d rather meet my end as such than torn limb from limb by Nightspawn if I had to choose.” Content for the moment he continued to walk alongside her. “That said, it seems unfair if I’m the only one asking questions. If you haven’t socialised for as long as you say surely you have questions about the state of things, no?”

Maya started by walking through the market just observing. You could learn a great deal, she knew, just from observing. It was easy to spot the spice sellers. From a stall a little down the way she watched the only woman among them haggle with someone. After the customer left, Maya headed in the direction of the stall. She was almost there when someone bumped into her. “Have you considered watching where you’re going?” she asked as she straightened herself. She turned to see who had run into her, hoping that it wasn’t a noble.

Aedan was pleased to find that peace would fall on the country. So he was beaming and a little in his cups when he brushed past someone. He wasn’t expecting the woman to take so much offence. He raised his brows at her and sipped his drink. 'I was watching.’

Maya stood with her back completely straight. Despite her slightly worn and common clothing, there was still pride in her air. She noted that the man didn’t actually apologize. She swallowed any annoyance she might have at that fact though. Any trouble she caused would fall back on her master. This was especially true at an event like this. She liked working at Blackspire and didn’t wish to find herself jobless again. “I apologize sir,” she replied, “It has been a…trying day.”

'Events like this are always trying. But perhaps next time be a little politer. Most of the gentry would have leapt at the chance to attack you.’

Maya raised an eyebrow. “Attack a servant in the marketplace? When the land is finally so close peace? I should think most nobles smarter than that,” she replied, “And as for politeness, perhaps you should consider heeding your own advice.”

'Nobles are idiots. And either way, a small nudge didn’t justify your reaction.’ Aedan polished off his glass and handed it to a passing servant. 'But I apologise nonetheless.’

“And it is yours to decide my reaction?” Maya asked, “Perhaps I was concerned that while you managed not to injure me the next person might not be so lucky.” She did give a small curtsey when he did apologize. “I, as well, sir.”

Aedan reached for another drink. 'Lord Ruaidh, King’s Master Architect. You?’

“Maya, no one of importance,” she replied. “What brings you to the market if I may ask? In my,” she chose her words carefully, “limited experience, most nobles send their servants for such tasks.”

'I prefer to buy things for myself. How am I meant to choose the right thing through a servant?’

The Red Priestess had been slowly making her way through the market, getting the feel of the people gathered to see this new ruler crowned. They were an odd mix of nobles, petty lords, and townsfolk. Though a few caught her eye here and there. Those with certain… attributes. Though it was rare to find anyone that was humble. Which is why the woman’s voice caught her attention. As did the man’s next to her. “Sometimes a servant knows exactly what their lord requires,” she said as she made her way towards the pair.

Maya replied, “That must take up a great deal of your time.” It brought up questions for her of if he simply didn’t trust his servants or if he couldn’t employ trustworthy servants. Neither spoke especially well of him. Maya turned at the sound of someone chiming in. She curtsied to the priestess as the woman approached. She also did not respond, seeing as she was now in the presence of two people of more equal rank to each other. Better to wait until it was clear when she was being spoke to.

The Red Priestess dipped her head at the girl. “Hello, Maya of No Importance.” The priestess gave her an appraising look before giving an equally appraising look to the young lord standing next to her. “You yourself are but a servant of the king, are you not?”

Maya “M'am,” she replied with an incline of her head and a short curtsy. It concerned her a little the way the priestess looked at her, but she was still fair from where anyone knew her name. It was going to be fine.

Bella sensed the power of a strong Priestess in the marketplace, having abandoned the courtyard in search of the woman she had given shelter to for some time. Bella’s black gown clung to her form as she moved through the market, wolf now at her side as she was not so close to the castle, no money on her person it would have been the jewels that hung down her back that a thief would go for. So far as she could tell there were many that were going to take advantage of such an event, and she doubted that the wolf would deter them when they were already facing the myriad of guards that had come with royalty. “Octavia,” she called, but her eyes were on a dark haired woman whose energy felt opposed to Bella’s own.

Octavia followed closely behind Bella, keeping an eye on the merchants and customers alike. “Yes, my Queen?” she answered. Her leather bodice held a knife ready for protecting herself and mainly Bella, she never left her room without it. She brought her hand up to it, tracing the outline of it hidden by her long black cloak.

The Red Priestess looked at the girl again as she curtsied. “Do I know you, child?”

Bella looked to her as she stood in the square before her eyes flickered back to the Priestess and the people she was speaking with. For a time Bella had felt guilty that Octavia had readily taken her station, calling Bella by a title she held over people who chose to live in the Dead Woods when Vi had one of her own, but there had been little discouraging her. ��Have you been to this place before?” she asked. “Does she look familiar?” Bella continued to question, pointing a hand towards the Priestess as someone curtsied before the woman. Bella knew people had come long distances to the coronation, but even though Ruby was not from the area Bella could not know any better.

Maya shook her head, “I wouldn’t imagine so. As I said, I’m no one of great importance. Merely a kitchen girl in the employ of House Savin.”

“It has been a very long time, but I have been here once before during a peace summit. What good that did.” Octavia said, mumbling the last sentence under her breath. “I do not think I have seen her before.” She whispered close to Bella as she studied the woman.

“I doubt it has done much good now,” Bella noted. Based on her conversation with the self loathing Prince she didn’t imagine many royals were happy, but it was their choice to acknowledge any of this. Still as she watched the Priestess engaging with the slender girl before her she thought perhaps it was not so unlikely that peace could remain. “How would your father have felt about all this?” Bella asked her as she began in the direction of the two women, no tact to speak of she had merely decided she wanted to speak to them and would.

Octavia looked down to her feet, her stomach dropping any time her father’s memory crept into her mind. “He would have loathed this show they’re putting on today. Pretending to bring peace to this war ridden country. I’m sure he would have had a say against this High Raj.” Octavia smirked, following Bellas change in direction towards the woman she had previously asked about.

The Red Priestess: “So you say,” the priestess told Maya. “Most truly important people don’t realize it. Those that do are usually either gluttons or fools.” She recognized the name of the House, and nodded. “A fine name to be connected to. Where’re you from, if I may ask?”

Bella heard Vi’s words, wondering if perhaps these sentiments were what had actually killed the man, rather than his daughter. If you were in the way of peace why would those seeking it not remove you in a less than peaceful way? “I suppose we shall see what the High Raj is like momentarily but for now,” Bellamy moved on as she reached the Priestess and the girl about her own height and build. The Priestess was speaking and, though Bella did not share whatever beliefs this woman had, she would by no means interrupt her. Instead waiting patiently for the girls answer before leaning in. “Excuse me, Priestess,” Bella spoke, eyes dipping to the other girl. “And company. May we join you?”

Maya couldn’t help but smile at that, “One might argue that the gluttons and fools aren’t as important as they claim though.” She paused before answering the priestess’ other question. Luckily, she was saved by two more people’s approached. She curtsied to the newcomers and didn’t answer the woman’s question. I t was not her decision if they joined her and the Priestess.

Octavia lingered close behind, giving the two women a smile. She pulled back her hood to reveal her long waist length hair, feeling it fall down her back.

“Spoken just like someone who wants that indulgence, but also want to appear humble.” Faye eyed the way his hand rested on his sword, a habit she was certain, but something to note regardless. Her own dagger lay inside her cloak, long and wickedly curved, it wasn’t just for show. She thought about his words, and whether or not she did have any questions. She had just opened her mouth to ask something, when there was a commotion to the side. Something heavy careened into Faye, knocking her off balance and into a market stall. “You fucking witch!!” the crazed man screamed at her, brandishing a rusty blade beneath Faye’s throat. “You’re not welcome here! You’ll bring a pox! A plague! A-” The man made a sudden tight, huffing sound, and suddenly grew very, very still. Though his blade was still held to Faye’s throat, and a small trickle of blood ran down her neck. “Release me,” she said, her words wavering slightly, “or you’ll be carrying you entrails in a handbasket.” Her dagger was pressed to his stomach, the tip piercing the soft flesh but not deep enough to truly harm. The crowd around them had scattered, and the hushed whispers of 'witch….’ spread through the onlookers. Faye’s eyes tightened slightly as fear started to settle in.

Fane had to laugh at how she spun the situation. “Now that’s incredibly presumptive of you Lady Lacroy.” She was an interesting character to boot, and by the minute he found himself all the more intrigued by her. Unfortunately, their peace was interrupted rather abruptly and Fane grunted as he too was knocked though not directly enough to loose his footing. It all happened in the space of a second but a second was all it took. Fane’s smaller dirk had been drawn from his side, “now– there’s no need for this… Release the Lady and you’ll come to no harm…” his voice was sterner now. “If you harm her you’ll answer to the full authority and justice invoked of the Guard.”

He stared in shock as Hadwin only pressed the blade tighter to Faye’s throat. His fingers curled tighter around the hilt of his dirk that remained at his side, the other hand raising non-threateningly. “Lady Lacroy is here to make peace just as the rest of us are – by invitation of the Crown.” The wild-eyed man’s eyes snapped across then considering the small area of space that had been made by the crowd backing away from the commotion chattering nervously amongst themselves. Hadwin spat a thick brownish globule of spit in Fane’s direction but the Inquisitor remained unmoving, eyes fixed on Lady Lacroy and the man holding her at blade-point just as she had him. “What gives you the right t'invoke the Guard for this stinkin’ witch?!” the blade was pressed tighter and Fane instinctively took a step forwards so that he was closer to intervene if forced to.

“That’s why they’re fools,” the priestess smiled. “A true ruler doesn’t have to remind anyone of who or what he - or she -” A pointed look at Maya. “- is.” Before the girl could answer her other question, Scarlett turned at the sound of another voice. Though as she took in the woman in black and her armored companion, the priestess’ smile faded ever so slightly. “Of course. We were merely speaking of the market, and all its finery.” A small lie, but the priestess knew this woman, if not personally, then by reputation. “What brings the Deadwood to the Capitol? Other than the obvious.”

Octavia looked over to where a slight skirmish had occurred. She watched as a mad hovered over a woman with a knife to her throat. “Ma’m, may I assist the woman over there? She seems she may need the help.” Octavia whispered lightly to Bella before she realized the woman had possibly already begun to defend herself.

Bella only knew of her reputation in the most peculiar of ways, since she rarely left the Dead Woods it was more from those who ventured in that she understood the way that she appeared. Blood magic was not something typically practiced. It was strange to imagine that her parents had twisted things enough that she was the villain in their story, in reality things were a little different. “I thought perhaps with the war ending that things might be different out here than they were in Chevalier,” she answered of her families Kingdom, none of whom had shown their faces so far. “I don’t imagine I know either of you though but your presence is unrelenting,” Bella said of the Priestess. “This is my ward and protector Octavia,” Bellamy introduce, the girls had at her own dagger unmistakable but hopefully not threatening.

Bella gave Octavia a gentle nod that she could do as she liked, Bella would quite see what she was speaking of but she had her wolf at her side and that would be enough.

“And how is that?” the priestess asked of the woman’s home. Her tone was genuinely concerned, and not mocking. “Or do you speak of the rumors that circulate about things people don’t understand?” She dipped her head in thanks at the compliment. “As is your own, m'lady.” The priestess greeted the woman’s guardian as well, not treating her any differently than she did her mistress.

“Ladies.” Octavia gave the three women a slight bow and took a step backwards, pulling her sword from it’s place at her hip to ready herself. “Is there a problem here, M'lady?” She asked. She saw a man at the ready as well, attempting to talk down the crazed attacker. “Sir.” She said giving him a nod.

Fane opted not to draw his sword, considering the close confines of the square there was no way to swing a blade of any real length without potentially risking harm to other commonfolk gathered nearby. So Fane kept his short blade handy while he spoke to the man holding Faye presently. A few of his sworn shields that happened to also be in the city, the crest of the Dawnguard emblazoned on their shields and tunics stepping up behind Fane. “There appears to be… unrest… here over Lady Lacroy’s presence in the city…” he explained without taking his eyes off the situation at hand.

Faye stayed quite still, even if the fear in her eyes was real. She was no fool, and this wasn’t the first time she’d ever been set upon. Though it had admittedly been a long time. Since the dagger in his belly hardly seemed to do much, Faye’s free hand reached into a small pocket in her robe. Into the small satchel she kept there. When the man glanced aside at Fane and another woman that come up to help, Faye blew the small handful of grey dust into the man’s face. He sucked in a breath as Faye held hers. Instantly, he started shaking his head, clawing at his eyes and throat. He dropped the blade as he staggered and fell to his knees, still clawing at himself. Faye stood up, closing her fist until she could wash off the powdered fireberries. Sheathing her own dagger, she wiped the blood from her throat. “Still think they wish to understand me, Lord Savin?” she asked, moving off to clean her hands, ignoring the crowd as they parted to let her pass.

The woman still had not introduced herself and just as Bella went to say had designs on what was once her home there was an announcement that there was to be a celebration, something festive in preparation for the event staved off to the following day. “Would you like to walk together?” she asked of them, her hand drifting over the head of her wolf and running fingers through it’s fur. “Perhaps you can tell me what you are a Priestess of, I haven’t come across another since my time at home.” The church in Chevalier was more known for its choke like hold over the people in conjunction with the monarchy. It made her nervous to be here, though it seemed the church here had done a lot to bring the unsavory war to an end.

Iann from the crowd, Iann applauded loudly. “What a show! Such a magnificent demonstration of elegance, of power. The reason we are all here today, wouldn’t you say?” He looked around at the watching crowd, still anxious but now confused. “Scatter now. You have all heard the announcement. Go enjoy yourselves, rather than seeing your blood stain the swords of the Dawnguard. I heard the mead is delicious.”

Octavia:pulled out a handkerchief from her bodice, offering it to Lady Lacroy. “M'Lady.” She said eyeing the woman. “Will you be attending the celebration this evening?” Octavia asked the two keping an eye on Bella as she made her way to the festivities with the other two women.

Fane blinked and before he could quite say what had happened the situation was… resolved. He looked after Faye as she cut through the crowd, and while he wanted to say something… What else was there really to be said that hadn’t already? Grunting, he shoved his dirk back into his belt and walked over to the man clawing at his eyes using the toe of his boot to roll him over onto his back and look down at him for a moment. “As for who invokes the Guard, the Inquisitor does,” the man’s eyes and nose were flushed a snotty scarlet red. Unimpressed by the man’s display Fane kicked his blade aside and indicated with two fingers for him to be seized, “put him in irons and let him think on his actions behind bars.” He said nothing more as he watched the man be picked up and hefted away while Iann thankfully got the stragglers to scarper.

Octavia followed Lady Lacroy through the crowd.

Miguel had watched the clamor, interested in what it would mean for everyone. He found he was content when Faye came out on top. The image of her blowing the powder. Of the hard look in her violet eyes, like sharp crystal, it was elegant and exciting. Something that Iann echoed a moment later. He went to his brother and bumped lightly against his shoulder, a habit from simpler times, when there was more affection between the eldest and youngest of House Cardero. “Is the mead or the honey from our Isles?” He asked.

Faye heard the jeering from the crowd. A mocking voice she’d heard earlier in the day. Typical for someone else’s pain and fear to be amusement to the ones in power. Nothing ever changed. She looked up as the woman who’d come over to assist Lord Savin spoke to her. “Thank you,” Faye said, accepting the handkerchief with a nod. She only felt a bit ashamed of walking away as she had, but her anger was none of Lord Savin’s fault. And she didn’t wish to take it out on him. “I think I shall. If only for the mead.”

#got au #got scene

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blackwxtchmccree · 5 years

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Me... Post more than once in a week? Unheard of, truly. This is actually a rewrite of something I posted to AO3 last year and upon rereading it, couldn’t stand, so I had to fix it. Damien is my warrior Inquisitor and gay son who I adore.

Warnings: violence, amputation (not graphic), angsty gays -Valk

Can also be found on my AO3 >>> here

Four Times Dorian Thought the Inquisitor Wasn’t Okay, and the One Time He Thought He Was

1. In Your Heart Shall Burn

Dorian had looked over his shoulder one moment and the Herald had been there—the next, he was gone, having told them to run, but never promising that he would follow. Haven was on fire, the newly formed Inquisition was scattered, and the man who sought to be a god and his archdemon loomed, signaling their impending destruction. Whatever plan Damien had, Dorian hoped they hadn’t just lost the only person capable of clearing their path to victory.

Dorian had watched the subsequent avalanche from the mountain path just above Haven—they wouldn’t have made it that far without Trevelyan’s intervention, but watching Haven as it was swallowed by snow made Dorian’s heart jump into his throat. Damien, their Herald, the supposed champion of Andraste, was down there somewhere and Dorian realized he cared enough to be genuinely concerned for the man. The Tevinter mage hadn’t been with the Inquisition long, but Dorian had learned that Damien had more tenacity than all of Tevinter had wine—Dorian just hoped it would be enough to get him through this.

What Dorian didn’t expect was the amount of relief he felt when he saw Cullen and Cassandra practically dragging Damien into camp—his heart skipping a beat when he heard the victorious uproar of everyone the Herald had inspired and given hope as they crowded around the ginger. Dorian had been afraid of losing their only way to repair tears in the Veil and reliably face-off with an ancient Tevinter magister, but Dorian came to realize he was genuinely fearful of losing Damien —not the Herald, not Andraste’s champion, not their soon-to-be Inquisitor—but Damien.

Dorian had grown used to being greeted by friendly emerald eyes genuinely interested in his ramblings and even looked forward to any books Damien thought to hand his way. It was a simple, what Dorian had read as friendly gesture at first—a leatherbound book passed between rough battle-worn hands. It made Dorian feel like a teenager again when his heart fluttered if their fingers brushed. The pages made the miserable cold of the Frostback Mountains easier to ignore and he had only one person to thank for that. That person, though nearly frozen and subject to hypothermia with snow and ice frozen to his eyelashes and boots, was alive and breathing and that’s the best outcome Dorian could have asked for.

2. Champion

Damien had told him that he wanted to be untouchable—unkillable even, if possible. Dorian chalked it up to the redhead’s recklessness. The warrior was known for charging into battle headfirst, deflecting incoming arrows and blocking heavy blows from a hammer or another greatsword so that he and Varric could flank their assailants. He had already tried taking Corypheus head-on—and had done so without so much as flinching.

The Inquisitor was a skilled swordsman without a shadow of a doubt, the greatsword in his hand moving just as naturally as the staff in Dorian’s hand. He kept the blade sharp and Dorian could see the satisfaction on Damien’s freckled face whenever the metal bit through enemy armor, the protective layer crumpling easily and the blade drawing fresh blood that had come to represent their impending victory. Back to back with Cassandra, they were a force to be reckoned with and they seemed to hold a mutual respect for each other, regardless of the decisions Damien made that Cassandra was sure to voice her displeasure about later.

Dorian would discover; however, that Damien’s self-described motivations were a façade. A drunken night shared between the two of them on the balcony after arriving at Skyhold had revealed his intentions and while Dorian had expressed his surprise at the time, the mage had always suspected there was a more complex underlying reason. He had seen the Reaver methods book sitting on Damien’s desk—and had noticed when it had disappeared and had been replaced. The mage meant to ask about it then, but distracting lips had been pressed against the back of his neck and the thought was lost.

The sadness Dorian saw subtly reflected in Damien’s emerald eyes would soon become a familiar sight, but in that moment on the balcony that night, Dorian felt a pang in his heart. The newly named Inquisitor was staring off into the distance, wine bottle in his hand, half-lidded eyes misty with what Dorian realized was more regret than melancholy and in his alcohol-addled state of mind the mage couldn’t not ask why. Damien had smiled in response, passing him the wine bottle, saying he had lost two people close to him because of his recklessness—saying he couldn’t let it happen again. He would defend them to his last dying breath if it meant the people he loved survived.

Dorian had nodded silently, almost regretting having asked, but the fluttering of his heart when Damien playfully bumped his hip with Dorian’s eclipsed the feeling. Dorian would soon find that the specialization seemed almost made for the red-head. The mage couldn’t see him as anything other than a walking fortress in the end, so it seemed Damien’s choice was a fitting one after all.

3. Vinsomer

They had an entire boat ride to decide to turn back, but it seemed that no one could get the idea of fighting a high dragon out of Damien’s head. They had seen her fly over the Storm Coast, circling before disappearing into the fog beyond the shore, what little light that filtered through the clouds glinting off of her steel-gray scales.

Dorian and Varric has been intimidated—rightfully so; Cassandra came from a line of dragon hunters and seemed indifferent, but Damien looked almost excited. It was hard to miss the mischievous glint in his green eyes as he looked off the side of the boat into the distance, his body seemingly vibrating with anticipation.

Once they were on the battlefield in front of her, Dorian expected that look to change to something akin to fear, like he saw for a moment in Cassandra’s eyes—though she’d never admit it, but the mage watched as Damien confidently taunted Vinsomer, drawing her attention away as he pulled his greatsword off of his back. Steel met scales and the champion was quick to dash out of the way as electricity crackled through the air, the rain beginning to fall more heavily now than before.

The downpour eventually blinded Dorian to where he could make out little more than patches of color that he could only assume were his companions. Vinsomer’s roar echoed across the island and he was sure you could hear it from the shore of the coast, but he didn’t give it much thought once the yelling that followed caught his attention.

Varric was dragging Cassandra away as Damien took another heavy blow, causing Dorian’s heart to skip a beat as the high dragon’s claws sliced through the air, connecting haphazardly with the warrior’s sword again, throwing him backwards, but he landed on his feet, deflecting the next blow and beckoning for the giant winged lizard to follow him as he moved away from where his companions were gathering.

Dorian was quick to cast a barrier around their Inquisitor before rushing to Cassandra’s side, grimacing at the deep gash she had acquired on her left thigh. He was never skilled with healing magic, but he did his best. He looked up again just in time to see the Inquisitor— his Inquisitor, as of recent—become engulfed in pure electricity. The mage felt the power rush through the air and it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up and his heart leap into his throat.

It couldn’t end like this—not here and not now.

Cassandra cried out for the Herald, trying to push herself up, but Varric pushed her back down, squinting as he tried to see through the rain. It took Dorian a moment, but he felt it, too—an overwhelming sense of finality. He didn’t know who had just experienced their final moments, but he would soon find out. The next few seconds felt like an eternity as they waited.

The next few seconds was all it took for Damien to fell the high dragon of the Storm Coast.

Dorian watched with quiet satisfaction as their Inquisitor emerged nearly unscathed from the blast, rain running off of his red-tinted armor in rivulets that from afar looked almost like blood. His green eyes seemed to glow in the dim light and Dorian realized he had never seen Damien look more alive than in that moment—greatsword buried in Vinsomer’s chest, pulling it out and giving a final, deft and precise slash to her throat.

The ground shook when her body finally collapsed. Damien stood over her and Dorian saw his mouth moving, sure the Inquisitor was apologizing to the air for bringing down such a noble beast, but once he had finished his apology and their eyes met across the battlefield, Dorian saw him smirk.

4. Corypheus

When Corypheus tore the Breach back open over the ruins of all that they had lost, Damien had announced it was the end. Whether he meant the end of their journey, the end of the road, the end of their time, or perhaps just the end—Dorian wasn’t sure. This would be the last chapter in a long book detailing victories and losses he had experienced first-hand—the mage could feel it. Now, they had to face the would-be god who they thought had started it all.

They gathered around their Inquisitor, reassured by his smile and the warm green glow of the Anchor, but Dorian could see the war Damien was fighting in his head. When Damien’s soft green eyes met Dorian’s warm brown ones across the war table, Dorian realized his amatus was silently apologizing to him. For what, Dorian had yet to find out, but once everyone had left with their orders save Cassandra, Varric, and himself, Dorian found out.

“I can’t- I can’t in good conscious ask any of you to come up there with me,” Damien started, leaning back against the map-covered table and crossing his arms across his broad chest. “We could die and I love all of you too much to ask that of you.”

“We’re with you—wherever you go,” Cassandra promised, smiling a rare smile that made Dorian realize just how deeply she believed in their cause and in Damien, not just as the Inquisitor, but as her friend. “We couldn’t have asked for a better Inquisitor.”

“Come on, kid—we knew how this was going to end,” Varric replied with a smirk and a shrug, voicing Cassandra’s silent convictions. “We stayed because we believe in this—believe in you … and you’ve been changing the narrative since the day we met. This ending likely won’t be any different.”

Dorian found that for once in his life, he was at a loss for words. Damien extended a hand his way and the Tevinter mage was quick to take it, leaning forward to press his forehead gently against Damien’s, resting a hand at the nape of the ginger’s neck. Their eyes fell closed almost instinctively. Dorian hoped Damien knew his answer without him needing to say it.

5. Trespasser

Once their real enemy had made himself known, Dorian wasn’t sure how they hadn’t seen it. Solas’ departure had been shrouded in mystery—the result of which was why they were chasing him through eluvians and fighting off angry Qunari. The quarrel with the Qunari and the resulting conflict between the nations at the Exalted Council were his fault, anyway. The mage had a thing or two he’d like to say to the elf.

But Damien had disappeared through the last eluvian by himself, asking them to stand guard while he chased after the agent of Fen-Harel—Dorian wouldn’t believe Damien later when the ginger told him Solas was Fen-Harel, but that was beside the point. Their fight with the saarebas had been a long and difficult one and the pain on Damien’s face when the Anchor flared again and the tears stinging at the edges of the Inquisitor’s eyes made Dorian’s heart hurt. The mage just hoped that Solas could at least keep the Anchor from killing him.

After all of this, he couldn’t lose the love of his life—they had survived high dragons and would-be gods and titans and this couldn’t be the end. He felt like it was almost their responsibility to take care of Solas, too—if only they hadn’t been so blind. He felt guilty that he was going back to Tevinter after all of this—he hadn’t meant to break Damien’s heart and he likely wouldn’t forget the look on his lover’s face when he said he was going back for good, this time.

The mage had meant the sending crystal as a peace offering, hoping it was enough, but standing here now he realized it made for poor company and even poorer consolation. Damien had joked about stealing an eluvian or two and while Dorian had brushed it off at the time, he was starting to think maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. Damien had promised him a night in a wyvern-down bed at the Winter Palace, after all, and this time the Game and the royal’s squabbles wouldn’t get in the way.

Yelling drew him out of his thoughts—a common occurrence when Damien made his appearance that Dorian had gotten used to over the three years that had passed. Relief flowed through him as he turned, glad that Solas hadn’t decided to turn his Inquisitor into a pile of dust, but that relief was quickly replaced with pure terror and dread. Damien came limping out of the eluvian he had originally disappeared through, tears streaming down his face and his entire left arm flaring green, his opposite hand pulling at a cloth he had tied around his upper arm—a tourniquet, Dorian realized seconds later. Cassandra and Varric had rushed forward, catching the Inquisitor as he all, but fell forward to his knees, holding his arm out.

“Cassandra please before it kills me,” the Inquisitor cried, his voice breaking as he pleaded with the new Divine, fresh tears staining his freckled cheeks when the green light from his palm flashed again, his watery green eyes squeezing shut and his jaw clenching as pain radiated through his body. Dorian could feel the strong pushing and pulling of the Fade around him, realizing just how much pain Damien had to be in. Cassandra moved to hesitantly draw her sword, opening her mouth to argue.

“Inquisi-” but Damien interrupted her, grabbing Varric’s hand as he extended it in preparation.

“CASSANDRA!”

Dorian rushed forward as Cassandra raised her sword, falling to his knees in front of the Inquisitor and grabbing Damien’s face, turning it away as the mage pulled it against his chest so the warrior wouldn’t see. Cassandra’s sword cut deftly through the air and for Damien’s sake, Dorian hoped the blade was still sharp. The Inquisitor cried out as metal met skin and bone, digging his face into Dorian’s robes, his grip on Varric’s hand tightening. Dorian forced himself to look, grimacing before cauterizing the wound with flames produced from his hand, sealing it over with ice to hopefully numb the pain.

Damien let out a choked sob, collapsing against Dorian and Varric, his green eyes half-lidded as if he were in a daze, but Dorian could detect a sort of relief in his posture. Dorian pulled him closer, wishing he could do more to ease the pain, whispering calming encouragements in Damien’s ear.

But, even to his own ears, the words “Everything will be okay” sounded almost fake.

#dorian pavus #dorian x inquisitor #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #da:i #dorian x trevelyan #angst #my writing #damien trevelyan

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january-warlock · 7 years

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Here’s the second commission I’ve done for oblivianrose, and it’s entirely Alistair X Warden.

Pairing: Alistair/Warden

Summary: Neria and Alistair’s Calling is approaching, the Wardens are in turmoil, and trouble brews in the Imperium. A cure for the Blight will give them the leeway they need, but only if it works.

Here it was. The moment she’d been waiting for since Alistair first informed her of the Calling, and her thirty years to live. All of her research, her time with the Inquisition, slaying high dragons for their blood-it all led up to this one moment.

She was certain it would work-her tests on blighted soil sent straight from Lothering, on those cysts she found in dragons, and when her cure worked, she knew she had to test it. If she did this, perhaps the Grey Wardens could come back together and seal the rift, and, just as importantly to her, she’d cure Alistair and herself and prevent them from having to go on the Calling.

And Alistair wasn’t all. Thedas was ripping itself apart once more-they couldn’t go a decade without some catastrophe breaking out. First, the Blight and the civil war in Fereldan. Then the Mage-Templar War and the War of the Lions in Orlais. And Kirkwall still hadn’t fully recovered from either the Qunari Invasion, the Mage-Templar War, or the damage done to the veil by the Breach.

And now this Solas, and the Grey Wardens were tearing themselves apart, and they feared a war among them.

Inquisitor Trevelyan had sent word to her and Hawke, and while she, Hawke, Anders, and Alistair would eventually make their way to the Imperium to fight this Solas and whatever he was planning, right now, the Wardens needed them, Neria especially.

She turned to her lover of ten years-Alistair. The years had caught up to him. Lines around his eyes and mouth,

Her cure was primarily made of high dragon blood; she’d long ago been convinced that that was the key, but it took reading some forbidden texts from the First Blight that had to be translated; the notes of Arch-Mages from long ago that were doing research into the same matter. That had taken a few months, and then, she’d gone as far as the Forbidden Oasis for dragonthorn. Then it was back to Orzammar for lyrium.

The process hadn’t been easy; after months of failure (she’d tried just straight dragon blood at first, only to find that it quickly overwhelmed and killed the plants, so she’d not try that on Alistair). She needed something that would dilute the blood just enough, and tried dragonthorn. Then just a touch of lyrium so the two would not overpower each other. Then there were weeks of testing; and when the results were consistent and what she wanted, and with Alistair and several other Wardens getting worse and worse, she knew it was time.

“Love, it’ll be fine.” Alistair must’ve seen the worry lines on her face. “You’re the smartest woman in Thedas, it will work.”

“It had better.” Neria’s own time was running short; thirty years. That is what Alistair had told her all that time ago at camp during the Blight. They’d have thirty years to live, and back then, that was preferable to dying in the Circle because at least as a Warden she would’ve lived at all. But now, she had Alistair, friends, a real life, something to live for, and she wanted her time back.

Her alchemical setup was impressive; plants hung from the air and climbed up the walls. The air smelled like itchweed, felandris, a mix of poisons and potions, with the slight burning sugar smell of lyrium. Her notes were sprawled all over the tables, and her book piles were taller than she was.

“It’s ready?”

Neria nodded, biting on her lip. She lit the burner, saw the flask heat up, and the mixture went from blue to a dark red. “It is.”

Alistair smiled, and she knew he was trying to put her at ease. “It’ll work.” He said, a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Neria took a deep breath, trying to slow her heart down. With a chill of ice magic to cool down the bottle, she tried to hand it to Alistair. When he reached for it, she flinched and pulled it away.

“What is it?” He asked. “Neria, you’ve done the work. This will cure me.”

“I should be doing it too.”

“And what, risk us both?”

“So, you’re saying it won’t work?” Neria’s voice cracked and her eyes were starting to sting. “If this kills you, then I’ll go too.”

“No, you won’t.” He took her hands, setting the concoction to the side. “Neria, you’re the Hero of Ferelden. You’re brilliant, and the world needs you. If this doesn’t work, it can’t take you too. Somebody has to deal with the mess with the other Wardens, and they’ll listen to you more than me.”

Neria sighed. “Okay.”

She handed him her cure, and tried to turn her to nerves to steel and prepare herself for what happened next. Alistair smiled at her, and she hoped that that wouldn’t be the last time.

But she couldn’t prepare herself for what happened next.

Once Alistair had thrown back what was in the bottle, it was like her Joining all over again.

He fell to the ground, writhing and convulsing. His eyes went all white, and she shrieked, and she could’ve sworn she had seen Davith for a split second. He thrashed on the ground for a few minutes more, until he finally stopped moving.

When she was sure he was done, she put two fingers to his throat, and nearly jumped when she felt a pulse. The relief didn’t stop the sweat on her forehead, but she picked him up, threw him onto her shoulders, and carried him to the infirmary.

The medic wasn’t much help, but there wasn’t much she could do except put him on the bed with his head propped up. No one had ever done this before, and there was nothing to be done except wait, and hoped he woke up. But after the Joining, the amount of time a new Warden spent unconscious varied; the longest case was two days. But hopefully, he would wake up.

She grabbed a chair, and put herself next to him. She didn’t care how little she would sleep tonight; it wasn’t going to be anymore than usual anyway.

She drummed her fingers on the windowsill, trying to not cry in front of the medics or other patients. All she could think about was all the time they had together. The Blight, while not a perfect meeting and a rather shit time to be alive, pushed them together. She remembered his rose that she kept preserved, all his jokes...and now, the Calling was coming to take him away, if she hadn’t just succeeded in killing him first.

She could feel her heart breaking. Alistair wasn’t just her lover, he was her first love, her best friend, one of the reasons she kept going, and she might have killed him. But he was breathing-had a pulse, a decent color. All she had to do was wait and hope that he would eventually wake up.

She shifted herself, and prepared to wait for quite a while if the need arose.

It was a full night and half a day before Alistair woke up.

Neria was half-asleep against the window, the sun heating the glass to the point where it was threatening to cook her skin.

Alistair, groggy and with a head that felt like it was full of rocks and metal, managed to say, “Neria?”

And she was awake, just like that. Another thing about the Blight; having to sleep in an unfortified camp with just a tent to protect you from brigands, slyvans, wolves, and darkspawn made you a very light sleeper, especially after shrieks attacked your camp. “Alistair!”

He pulled himself up, and she threw her arms around him. He winced when the light shone in his eyes, but managed a weak laugh and hugged her back. “Hey, I’m alright, I’m alright.”

“You’re alive.” Neria didn’t even try to hide the tears; she didn’t care who was watching. “I thought I’d killed you.”

“Well, you didn’t. Morrigan is sure to be disappointed.”

“When we see her in the Imperium, I’ll tell her.” She took him by the jawline, trying to be as gentle as possible as she examined him. “How do you feel?”

“I feel like that time the that genlock cracked me over the head.” Alistair said, rubbing his temples.

He looked just as old, but less pale, and more like himself. His voice was sounding stronger and stronger by the minute. He didn’t seem to have any problems breathing that she could see. She handed him a glass of water, and his grip was strong, just like pulse.

“Did it work?” He asked.

“You’re not dead, but I’m not sure it took the Blight out of you.” Neria bit her lip. “I guess there’s one way to go see.”

“Fight some darkspawn?”

“Not now. As you can walk.”

It was a few days of Neria constantly checking his temperature, his demeanor, paranoid as ever and waiting obsessively for some sign that he wasn’t well which never came. When Alistair could walk, then run, then raise his sword and shield, they packed their bags with food and other supplies and headed down to the closest Deep Roads entrance that they could find.

Neria’s magic had grown stronger after being freed of the Circle, but it was her ability to sense the darkspawn that gave her an edge against them. And while if Alistair’s loss of that ability meant that her cure had worked, it almost meant...he lost that edge, and maybe crawling down into a darkspawn-filled tunnel with just the two of them might not have been the best idea.

They slipped inside the cave, finding themselves in a long stone corridor that reminded Neria of Orzammar, except it lacked political machinations and people trying to kill them for supporting the “wrong king.” No, down here, it was just...darkspawn.

And it was a few more minutes of silence before Neria could feel darkspawn shifting positions and coming near them.

“Can you feel that?” She asked.

“Feel what?”

Before she could exclaim that he couldn’t sense the darkspawn, she realized that no, he couldn’t sense darkspawn and she put up their barriers, and not a moment too soon. Soon, hemlocks and genlocks ambushed them, arrows flying past them and fireballs scorching the ground a few feet away from them.

Fortunately, Alistair, while ten years did make him older, they didn’t make him slower. Neria shielded them with her magic, and Alistair cut down a few with his sword, and raised his shield to block incoming blows.

“Cover me!” Neria shouted, running to get distance.

She could feel her hair start sticking up when static filled the air; clouds formed overhead, with ominous flashes of lighting, before bolts struck. Some hit the ground, leaving black marks, others hit the darkspawn, taking out a fraction of them.

Alistair cut down a few more, with either decapitations or his sword through the heart.

With enough darkspawn dead and the roads and walls stained black with their blood, Neria, hair mussed and splattered with innards, yelled, “Let’s go! We got what we needed!”

Alistair nodded, slipping his sword back into its sheath, and they made tracks in the dirt, and with enough distance between them and the survivors, Neria pressed her staff to the wall, and with some force magic, it caved, sending boulders down, and sealing the entrance.

Standing outside and trying to catch their breath, Neria’s smile hurt her own face. Alistair had barely gotten his footing when she threw her arms around him, kissing him with the same fervor as the first time.

“We did it! We did it!” She shrieked.

Alistair smiled, and laughed back, swinging her around well above his head. “You did it. I just helped.” and she would swear to any and all higher powers, for a moment there, she could see the years melt right off him, the lines fade from his face, and some of the sadness he carried fade. She felt like a great weight that had been crushing her was finally gone, and that hole in her soul was filled. It was like they were ten years younger, and in a world that hadn’t been determined to break them the moment they were born.

Alistair set her down, but her face was still flushed. Neria cleared her throat, trying to speak without screaming. “We have it. Our cure. Maybe this bring the Wardens back together.”

Alistair frowned. She knew how much he had idolized the Wardens, and seeing them being divided was tearing him upside. “Or at least call for a truce.”

“Solas is on the move in the Imperium, and he will destroy Thedas if he gets the chance.” And at this point, she’d put too much into this godsforaken world to let some wannabe deity come and end it because it didn’t suite him. “We need to make sure we don’t get thrown into a civil war, and then, we’re going down there to help the Inquisitor and whatever rag-tag group they’ve assembled now.”

“That bright, it is?” Alistair grimaced. “Nothing’s changed. It’s always just yesterday’s problems in new forms. So, we get some leeway into our own problems, and then march down to the Imperium to face more before some bald lunatic destroys us all?”

“That’s the sum of it.” She sighed, already feeling the aches in her back that would come from whatever occurred later. “Let’s get back. I need to put into writing what I want to say, but first, help anyone who’s close to their Calling.”

The walk back was hopeful, but heavy. They silently held each others hands, Alistair’s grip as tight as ever. She wondered what the others were doing; she’d have to get a hold of Zevran. They would need his skills in the upcoming battle. Wynne...Wynne was gone, but she left Neria her talents as a spirit healer. Sten was Arishok, and the Qunari had renewed their attacks on Tevinter, but if that kept Tevinter soldiers distracted while they focused on Solas…

Oghren was a fellow Warden, and she knew his time was coming. Leliana was Divine now, but the Chantry had its supporters, and Orlais had recovered, and they were owed favors in Ferelden.

She had to start thinking about a retirement. If cured of the Calling left one unable to serve as a Warden, and with no templars or Circles to worry about, perhaps the time to find some quaint place in the wilderness, far away from people, had come. After whatever was going down in Tevinter with Solas was solved. Because once again, failure was not an option, because failure meant the world being destroyed, and once again, she was going to fight to see the next day.

And now, that was retirement with Alistair. Sleeping in well into the mornings, a rushing river, catching their own food. Sitting in front of a warm, lit fireplace with the dogs at their feet every night…

But that would have to wait.

Once they had gotten back to Weisshaupt, Neria immediately went to her study. She got her ink and quill, and drafted a speech.

My fellow Wardens,

Since our conception as an order, we’ve been succumbing to the Calling, the fate every Grey Warden has suffered when the Blight takes us fully, and we must go to the Deep Roads to die with honor. But no more. My long-time companion Alistair and I have finally found a cure.

Made of high dragon blood, lyrium, and other components, we cured Alistair of the Blight. While this leaves him without his Warden capabilities, it also means that he will not die young, and neither must any Warden, ever again.

She stopped, putting her quill next to the paper. Maybe it was too soon to announce the cure; experiments meant having to watch for side effects, but it wasn’t just the lives she was saving that she was concerned about; it was also the oncoming conflict within their own order that had stirred since Adamant.

She sighed, and went to the next sheet of paper.

My fellow Wardens,

Ever since the events at Adamant, we’ve been splintering. What should our direction be? What place do we have in the world? Do we even have one anymore?

As the last one to slay the Archdemon, I can tell you that the world still needs us. Another Blight will arise eventually. Not in our lifetimes, but some day, and should the world forget again what we do for the people in it, next time, it will be far more devastating.

Alistair came over and slipped his hand over hers. “Neria, you have to rest. Any problems we have won’t get solved tonight.” She knew he was right. The problems with the Wardens wouldn’t be solved in a few weeks, let alone a day or night. He kissed the side of her head. “Come get some sleep. Real sleep, not those two-hours-at-your-desk that you’ve been doing for the past how many months.”

Suddenly, she felt the lack of sleep catching up with her. She couldn’t lift her head, and then even her eyelids. Alistair picked her up in his arms, and carried her over to the bed that they had been sharing. Neria was asleep first, and she didn’t stir when he laid her across him, and pulled the blanket over them, finally getting a real night’s sleep.

#alistair x warden #dragon age #alistair theirin

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gielnorianwrites · 7 years

Text

Sister of Mercy

Jethor Cruelheart, villainous slayer of Scarlet forces in Lordaeron, is given the Light’s mercy.

The death knight had been captured in the aftermath of the battle at the pass leading through the mountains between Tirisfal and central Lordaeron. It was intended by his masters to be a quick, surgical strike at the Scarlet forces holding the critical point. They’d been outnumbering the zealous idiots three-to-one and somehow, they’d cut through all of his undead forces, which was... unfortunate. Ghouls were never very useful.

Of course, disgust was the only emotion that Jethor Cruelheart could feel right now. It was all he could feel, even as the priests ripped through the dark spells laid on his armor, or when he shacked in that accursed Light, or when he was was dragged into a wagon and sent off to destinations unknown.

Disgust was all he really could feel. Undeath had stripped every emotion from him save for a few. Not that Jethor minded it. No, in fact, the death knight revelled in the loss of what he had come to consider to be trappings of pathetic mortal existence. When the darkness had begun to take him, instead of resisting, he’d merely given in. Jethor had become an eager killer for the Lich King, happy to spill the blood of those he once could have considered fellow countrymen.

The death knight had, of course, been taken to the Scarlet Monastery. The hallowed halls there were ripe with the righteous marching in crimson and white, wielding steel and faith as they trained for battle across Tirisfal and the plagued Lordaeron. Blessings and hymns echoed through the halls as often as the clanking of armor, all in the name of the righteous Crusade they’d declared as they fought to take back Lordaeron.

There had been no show as they dragged him through the monastery. Jethor had been expecting a public burning, or hanging, or whatever the hell these zealots did to the death knights they captured. Instead of being taken to the courtyard, though, he was dragged off somewhere unexpected.

Unlike the halls above, the lower levels of the Monastery were quiet. Almost dead quiet. They were likely an armory of sorts, by Jethor’s best guess. The occasional door would lead off from the main hall, likely into some small broom closet or prayer room. He’d been a holy man in life, and he still knew how these places were organized.

Finally, the contingent of Scarlets that were escorting Jethor turned to the right, where a door was open. Inside, was dim, lit only by candles. So, he was to be interrogated, then.

---

It would be four days and two interrogators later that the Scarlets had decided a new solution would be needed for the death knight in the cell. The first one had been a mishap- the runes that had been nullifying his magic had been crudely drawn, and he’d merely reached out with his death magic and snapped her neck. The second interrogator he’d broken had been a paladin that was unafraid to get physical with him in her quest for the information she sought. She’d beaten him relentlessly without any idea of how to extract information save for pain. Pain that was, of course, dulled by the “gift” of undeath.

When the time had been right, he’d managed to snap his bonds and strangle her right there in the cell.

In the time since then, he’d been under constant watch. Two Crusaders in his cell at all times, weapons trained on him. They’d even brought in an archmage from Hearthglen to ensure his restraints were properly set and reinforced with layers upon layers of magic. Jethor wasn’t getting out of this one. Not this time.

The two soldiers guarding him kept a watchful eye on him, but were ever silent, even as he taunted and jeered at them from where he was pinned against the wall. Perhaps they had orders, perhaps it was just simply Scarlet zealotry keeping them from speaking to undead. It went on for perhaps another day or so before one of them finally spoke back to him.

“The Sister of Mercy will be here to see you shortly.”

That was all that was said- and then both Crusaders simply... left the room, their chain mail jingling as they exited, and the death knight was left in silence. He snorted. Mercy? After he’d slaughtered two of their previous interrogators? It was probably some young and dumb priestess who’d thought she could cleanse undeath from him. He awaited this Sister with amusement written on his face.

---

The Sister of Mercy entered the room, and her cold, unwavering stare fell upon the death knight chained to the wall. She was clad almost entirely in ornate robes, with a masqued helm covering her head. The only bit of skin visible was her mouth- which opened to speak as she stepped towards him.

“Jethor Cruelheart. I have been waiting for this meeting a very long time. Do not disappoint me,” the Sister spoke. Her voice was held completely neutral, and no emotion was given away by her tone. As soon as she’d finished, though, she merely held her gaze, peering at him.

As she spoke, the two guards from earlier carried a small table in- a table laden with a variety of items on it. Jethor had a hard time seeing all that was in there, as a bucket blocked his sight. Even still, it was clear to him that this woman was prepared, if nothing else.

Upon closer inspection, the mask was... almost a bit horrifying, even to a hardened death knight like Jethor. There was some sort of strange quality to the eyes. They seemed black as night, like soulless pits that seemed to swallow his own gaze. It was like staring into a cold abyss. The black had curved down onto the cheeks of her mask, as well, in a fashion meant to mimic the markings he’d seen upon Scarlet Inquisitors.

For the first time since he’d arrived, Jethor felt a little uneasy.

“Thank you. Leave us.” Her gaze had never left him, even as the two guards had placed down her table. Even they seemed somewhat cowed by her presence, hurrying out of the room before she began. The door shut behind them, and finally, the Sister would turn away, and place her hands behind her back, beginning to pace in front of the bound death knight.

“You have left a particular trail across Lordaeron, Jethor Cruelheart. I know your last name is no coincidence. You bear it with a smug pride. Your cruelty is... well known among the clergy of this land.” Still, her tone not changed, but the Sister’s steps carried her towards the table left in the back of the room. She lifted two large metal rods, and placed them into a bucket that rested on the table before turning back to him.

"I come bearing the tools of confession and absolution. I will endeavor to offer you both before the night is up. You will accept the Light’s mercy, Jethor Cruelheart."

He chuckled darkly. “Absolution? Confession? Mercy? Bah!” Amusement was written in the death knights’ face again. “You’re just as deluded as the other two I disposed of. I will tell you *nothing* of the Scourge, save for the glory of--”

The pain lanced through him, the sensation like that of a dagger plunging into fresh, soft flesh. He had no idea where it had come from, the woman hadn’t even moved. Right on his chest, a hole had been burned- and straight through the lighter armor they hadn’t bothered getting him out of.

“I will offer you the chance to confess your sins now. Confess your sins, that I may begin work towards your absolution.”

The death knight growled, the memory of the pain still fresh in his mind, and evident upon that coat of darkened chain mail. That was all they’d left him in, taking the padding from underneath, but replacing the mail for some odd reason. “Rot in hell, Scarlet scum.”

Again, that pain lanced through the death knight, striking at not only his flesh, but his very soul. A pure, white-hot holy flame scorched at him in a different spot this time.

“Still... not... a word,” he muttered, though the pain was growing greater. “Perhaps you should show of your thighs like the first idiot priestess that came in here, that might get you a little further--”

Jethor shut up as the Sister of Mercy withdrew two long iron pokers that were orange with heat from the bucket. He’d initially assumed they were dark rocks in it... not hot coals.

“If you will not confess your sins willingly... then I must take more extreme measures,” she spoke softly. “You are best by sin- wrapped in it so utterly I can sense it fouling the holy ground you stand on. I will cleanse you of it, Jethor Cruelheart. I will cleanse you of your sin by fire, and I will learn of all the crimes you have committed, and all the information I desire.”

Jethor tried to shrink into the wall as she approached him, but there was nowhere else to go.

“It is a mercy to cleanse it from you, Jethor Cruelheart. Are you ready to receive my mercy?”

WIthout waiting for an answer, the Sister stepped in close, and what she called her tools of confession met his skin for the first time.

The next twenty minutes would be nothing but pure and utter pain, the likes of which Jethor had never experienced in life or in undeath. There was more than her heated iron pokers at work.

The Sister’s mercies next came to heating his chain mail. Her holy flames had scorched it with intense until the chain mail was beginning to melt... onto his skin. Even undead could only take so much, especially with the constant fire licking at both armor and the greyed skin beneath. He had screamed and thrashed about, but she merely went about her work with little concern for his cries of pain.

The whole while, she had insisted that he confess everything to her... which he had continued to refuse. Jethor was in endless pain, but he would not yield. The servants of the Lich King were known for their iron wills.

Then, she would cut through the partially-melted chain mail, caring not for the skin she cut through underneath. Each scream he gave out only seemed to make the poker push in just a little deeper. After all, undead had no blood to spill- there was no need to worry about making too much of a mess. A latticework of cuts would adorn his torso by the time she was done, and once the chain had been carved up according to her desires, the Sister would offer him another mercy.

She began to rip the chunks of chain mail off, carrying flesh with it. Jethor only lasted three chunks being torn off before he was begging for mercy. The death knight had never dealt with this brand of cruelty before, and he couldn’t stand the continuing pain as the semi-melted armor would slowly begin to fuse with his skin.

“I’ll tell you anything you want! I’ll confess! Please, please, just- make it stop! I need mercy! Mercy!” A tortured groan escaped the undead man and he slumped in his bonds.

The Sister gave him a smile. The holy flame stopped emanating from her hands, and she stepped back. “Tell me everything.”

-------

He spared no details. Even death knights could be taught to fear, with the proper motivations. All the movements of the Scourge he knew of, why Naxxramas had appeared above Stratholme, even the cultist spy they’d managed to place within Tyr’s Hand. Jethor was a useful tool

But still, only a tool- and tools were made to be cast aside when rendered useless.

Once he had told her all, the Sister of Mercy took his face in hand, lifting it up to lock the soulless pits of her mask with his eyes.

“I know of all your sins, now... you have spared nothing. And now... I will offer you cleansing.”

She resumed ripping the chain mail - and attached skin - from him, and the death knight resumed howling in pain as his torso was mutilated again and again. She would offer no pause as she just began to “cleanse” him.

Jethor’s screams echoed through the room, and could even be heard through the thick wooden door by the guards outside. The noise annoyed the Sister visibly, her mouth twisting into a sneer as she continued her work.

Eventually, of course, the death knight’s cries grew quieter, and his body became weak. He trembled within his bindings. The Light shouldn’t have been capable of this. The servants of the Light were weak, pathetic. They weren’t capable of harm, much less this. A hoarse, harsh whisper came from him as confusion wracked his mind.

“How? H- how are you even capable, how did you--”

“How did I learn, hm? Is that what you are asking, undead filth? How did I learn to hate, to kill... to flay the tortured and twisted flesh from the bones of my enemy without an ounce of pity? Is that what you are asking?” WIth each sentence, Merellia jammed the poker further and further into the rotted and scarred mass of flesh that was once recognizable as his torso.

She didn’t need to heat her tools up in the hot coals any more. No, the poker burned scorching hot with the fires of nothing more than holy rage as it seared through him. The magic spread far beyond the poker, though,

“You taught me, Jethor Cruelheart.” A few moments of silence on her part elapsed before she spoke again, and she leaned in close to him. “Every mutilated corpse you have left that was once a servant of the Light, every defiled grave, they all call out for retribution. And before--”

A knock on the door broke her sentence, and a moment later, an armored man poked his head inside the room. “Sister- your mercies are required with another prisoner.”

She stepped away from Jethor, who was still groaning and twisting within his bonds. The inquisitor had left the scorching hot pokers embedded within him. “I have learned all I can from this... filth. He has given me his confessions. Lock the door and leave him in here, and let the wracking pains consume him.”

Jethor screamed, trying to twist, to break free from his bindings. He couldn’t let that happen, no, he was already feeling the beginnings of them just from being imprisoned here.

“Such is my mercy,” said the Sister, and then the heavy wooden door slammed shut behind her.

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thereluctantinquisitor · 7 years

Note

I get the sense that Hanin is pretty protective over Riven and Varlen, perhaps a fic where Varlen needs to protect Hanin? I definitely think Varlen is capable of protecting Hanin (what with how badass Varlen is), and I'd love to see what Hanin thinks of being the one who needs protecting. ^^

Well this one has been sitting in my askbox for a while, and I finally got around to filling it! :D

Hanin Lavellan and Varlen Lavellan (with mentions of Inquisitor Riven Lavellan (@chaitea09). Approx 2800 words, most under the cut.

Contains violence, because ambushes are rough.

It was the shouting that woke him.

Varlen erupted from his bedroll, a flailing mess of limbs,his hair blinding him, tangling around his neck, getting in his mouth. Ittasted terrible. Spluttering, sightless,groping for his weapons, he half-ran-half-tripped his way out of the tent, barelymanaging to regain his footing as the camp unfurled before him in a blurry haze.He blinked rapidly, shaking his head, panting simply from the act of escapinghis bed. A shameful thing, one might think.

Only everyone wasin a similar bedraggled state.

Eyes darting around, Varlen found his sister Riven first.They locked gazes and shared a moment of pure confusion. The shouting wasgrowing steadily nearer. Some of the recruits rushed about the small camp, hoppingas they tried to tug on boots, cursing as they fumbled leather vests intoposition. They would do little good in a proper fight, but that was all anyonereally had time for. Mouth dry with dread, Varlen cast his gaze to the trees. What had happened to the scouts?

“Over there,” shouted a voice from behind him. Above him? “They’re coming!”

Lyrene, perched in a tree, cried out, giving away herposition but also drawing Hanin’s attention. She was pointing, her gaze hard,bow clutched tight in one hand. He followed the line of her finger into themurky dark. Squinting, greatsword at the ready, clad in nothing more protectivethan an askew leather vest, Hanin edged forward. The grass was cold against hisbare feet, loose pebbles shifting as he stepped.

“Show yourself,” he demanded over the sound of the campstumbling to life. Nothing in his voice gave away the low hum of anticipationthat pulsed in time with his heart. “Now.”

In truth, Hanin hadn’t really expected a response. But he definitely hadn’t expected a massivefigure to suddenly explode from the trees, hurtling towards him like a bearroused from hibernation by an arrow in the rear. Skipping back a few steps, Hanin just managed to raise his blade in timeto deflect a powerful swing of a short-sword, the metal edges crashing togetherthen sliding apart with the familiar hiss of steel on steel.

Grunting in shock, Hanin continued his backward trajectory,lacking the comparable force of his large assailant’s running start. Insituations such as that, his focus had to be on his footing. Or, moreimportantly, not losing it. However,as he reeled, more figures burst from the bushes like bolts from a crossbow,hurtling into the haphazard camp. Bellowing. Furious. Hanin grit his teeth so tightly he thought they mightcrack in his mouth.

Well… that was just damnperfect.

Varlen parried desperately, the force of the impact sendingvibrations all the way down his arms, jarring his bones, threatening hisfingers with numbness. A nervous sweat already beading on his brow, he duckedand spun, moving within the bandit’s – he assumedthey were bandits – reach. He came up in a rush, daggers slashing up the man’sfront, then cracked a pommel of his dagger against the side of his stubbledjaw. His opponent’s head snapped to the side, spittle flying, and Varlen finishedwith a downward blow to the back of his neck, sending the man sprawlingface-first into the dirt with little more than a bemused grunt.

But there were more.

Creators, there alwaysmore.

Some soldiers were faring better than others, but none weredoing overly well. After all, whatever warning they should have had neverarrived, and as such those fighting for the Inquisition were not men and woman properlyprepared for combat. But fight they did, through gritted teeth, with sweatingpalms, in shirts and cotton trousers. Many were bleeding from minor cuts andgashes their armour would have rendered harmless, had they been wearing it. Varlenhoped the scouts had just been distracted. It was better than the thought ofthem being ambushed and killed. This wasn’t even meant to be a trouble area –where had they all come from?!

Panting, Varlen was about to hurl himself at another banditclambering from the treeline when a familiar voice cried out. Deep. Sudden. Pained.

Breath catching, Varlen whirled around.

There were reasons why Hanin preferred armour. Good, solidplate. It was reliable. It could take one hell of a beating before it buckledor gave way. It gave him confidence when he wore it, like a shell between his fleshand the rest of the world. His armour was protection, as sure as his blade was sharp.

But, of course, he wasn’t wearing his armour.

It had happened too quickly. A single distraction was all ittook. A glance in the wrong direction at the wrong time. Hanin had heard ashout of pain – one from nearby – and discerned it as familiar amid thecacophony of battle. He had shoved his opponent, boot to gut, away from him andlooked as the man staggered and wheezed. Ralon was down, sprawled on theground, bleeding from a gash across the forehead, but Connors had already movedto cover him with her massive shield, its hardened steel matching her eyes. Good, Hanin thought quickly. They were starting to finally—

Movement out of the corner of his eye ripped him back to thepresent. He spun, whipping his blade around, but was just a fraction too slow.The bear-like bandit’s shoulder rammed him square in the chest. The force of itwas like being battered by a boulder and Hanin, for lack of a better term, flew. In that brief moment of suspensionbefore he made the ground’s abrupt acquaintance, Hanin found himself with a world of timeon his hands. Time to reflect. Stupid.That had been stupid. He shouldn’t have let himself get distracted. He wouldn’t have, before. But now…

He hit the ground hard.Air exploded from his lungs sure as a thunderclap, but that was hardly theworst of it. Oh no. For a fewlingering moments, Hanin felt nothing. A blissful, empty, breathless nothing. Hisheart hammered against his ribcage, as though demanding freedom from whatwas to come.

Then the pain arrived.

Oh, it had been awhile.

Despite having very little air at his disposal, a ragged,breathless scream tore itself from his throat. Hanin curled in on himself, armswrapping around his torso, twitching, retching, fighting back the tears thathad immediately sprung to his eyes. Shit,he thought, grimacing, nauseous, helpless. Shit,shit, shit…!

What else could he do? The old wound – one that had once lefthim teetering on the edge of death itself – was something he kept locked away,safe behind a wall of sturdy plate. It wasn’t an issue. It wasn’t a weakness. Yet, there he lay, crumpled on the ground, hischest constricted, alight with pain that threatened to stop his heart. Or atleast, so it felt.

But that was how ithad always felt…

Desperate, Hanin threw an arm out into the settling dust,groping blindly for his sword. He had lost it somewhere between where his feethad left the ground and where the rest of him had landed in an ungraceful heap.The movement alone was enough to make his vision swim, the world distorting aroundhim as though observed through the curve of a drinking glass. Hewas rewarded for his feeble efforts by a weathered boot slamming into his head,snapping it sideways. Hanin crumpled, vision blurring dangerously, painexploding at his temple. A weak groan limped from the back of his throat beforehe could swallow it back down. He lay in the dirt, the sounds of battledistorted in his ears. His hands curled inwards, fingers twitching as ifdesperate to somehow claw out the pain that had filled his chest and now hishead. All the while, his mind begged him. Pleadedwith him.

Get up.

He had to get up. Had to fight.Had to…

Varlen screamed in fury at he met the downward swing of whathad to be the largest human he had ever laid eyes on. His arms screamed too,but Varlen ignored the sensation as best he could, even though he was quiteconfident a good portion of his skeleton had been turned to dust upon impact.Every instinct in his body demanded that he run - that he was outmatched, andCreators, he certainly was. But instead Varlen snarled, livid, and shoved witheverything he had, his crossed daggers heaving against the short sword he had barelymanaged to stop mid-swing.

The bandit, wild-haired and more solid than a lump of unworkedstone, actually stumbled back. Just a few steps, but enough to give Varlen somebreathing room. Room to think. Puffing, he swallowed dryly and planted his feet, glaring witheverything he had, and slowly came to realise how difficult it was to feel intimidating whenhis opponent towered above him.

To his rear, Varlen heard Hanin gasp in a ragged breath –heard the pain that laced the sound. He had never seen Hanin go down from a hitlike that, but he had. He’d gone down hard. The why of it didn’t really matter. All Varlen knew wasthat his clanmate had been hurt, and the one who hurt him was keen to finishthe job.

Not a chance,Varlen thought bitterly, raising his daggers in front of him as the banditrecovered and growled. The light of the campfire flashed off the polishedmetal.

No. They had lost enough. All of them. The clan. Riven.Hanin. Himself.

A snarl curled his upper lip.

Varlen was tired oflosing.

Hanin hacked out a cough then grimaced, his fingernails biting bloody crescents into his palms. Fenedhis, he couldbarely breathe. Could barely see. Heknew he was winded, but it was that damn injury of his that left him crumpledlike a stringless puppet on the ground. Useless. As good as dead. Counting theseconds before the killing blow.

Then Varlen hadappeared.

As if out of nowhere, Hanin had been spared the headsman’s axe.Quite literally, judging from the trajectory of the bandit’s downward swing.Heart hammering, Hanin swallowed back bile, trying to keep an eye on Varlen ashe squared off against his hulking opponent but struggling to maintain any kindof focus. Steel and shouting resonated around the camp. Somewhere he heard the soundof ice forming, hardening, then splintering. Riven, their Inquisitor, doingwhat she did best. Wheezing, shaking, Hanin forced himself groggily to hisknees, sweat pouring down his brow and dripping from the tip of his nose. Sweat or tears? He didn’t know. It didn’tmatter. He couldn’t think. The wholeworld seemed muted. Swaying. The campfire’s light was like a miniature sun,blazing at the corner of his vision, the light bleeding further than it should,blinding him.

He watched numbly as Varlen dodged a swing, his feet kickingup the dust as he swept to the left and raked his blade across the bandit’sside. He slashed only the fabric, a cursory cut, but it was enough to make the huge manflinch away in surprise. It was as though he had expected Varlen to just standstill and parry. What I would have done,Hanin thought weakly, arms wrapped around his chest in a futile effort to keepthe pain contained. To make it stop. Every breath was like forcing shatteredglass into his chest. He bled it beneath his skin.

The bandit roared, hacking wildly, no finesse, no form, justpure unadulterated anger fuelling his motions. That could be good, but could alsobe very bad. The man left himself open, but he was also violently unpredictable.If Varlen read a single thing wrong, he would end up on the receiving end ofthat flashing blade. Teeth clenched, Hanin forced air into his lungs, buteverything was just… slow. Tired. Wounded.

Have to get up. Have tohelp him. Have to…

Hanin almost missed it. As if on some divine cue, the banditraised his arm for a crushing overhead blow – one that would be utterly devastating…

… and Varlen killed him.

Varlen made a distressed noise as he ripped his dagger outfrom beneath the bandit’s chin. He had slammed it there in a mindless rush,sinking the blade half-way to the hilt, before coming to a bone-jarring stop. Eyesbulging, body shuddering, the man fell, thumping to the dirt. It was how Varlenimagined a giant would fall if he had ever felt the suicidal urge to pick a fightwith one.

Ragged gasps dragged air in and out of Varlen’s lungs, hisarms and legs burning from the ridiculous dance he had been forced to performsimply to deny the bandit his killing blow. Trembling, Varlen quickly scanned thearea, determined all the remaining bandits were engaged by their own soldiers, then stumbled his way to Hanin’s side.

“Hanin,” he breathed, dropping to the ground, reaching outto grasp him by the shoulders. The warrior had managed to work his way into akneeling position, but his eyes were barely focused. Dreamy, yet frustrated. Naturally. “Hey, you all right? Can youhear me?”

“Mmm,” Hanin mumbled, blinking slowly. His gaze limpedacross to fix on Varlen, but it was as though the man’s thoughts were movingthrough syrup. “V… arlen?”

“Yeah, that’s me all right.”

Varlen stooped, sliding his hand around Hanin’s waist, manoeuvringthe warrior’s arm behind his neck and across his shoulders. “C’mon, we need tomove.” They might not be in danger now,but they could easily draw unwanted attention out in the open like that. Grittinghis teeth, Varlen stood, legs quivering with the effort. “C-Creators,” hegasped, eyes wide, sweat already beading on his brow. “You’re so… damn… heavy… UGH!” With a final mighty grunt,Varlen managed to stand, locking his knees as though lifting a championshipweight in front of the entire populace of Orlais. But gods he was dying from the effort! He didn’t understand - Haninwasn’t even in armour.

Did he eat rocks? Lead?Steel?

Utterly breathless, Varlen began hobbling towards thenearest tent – he didn’t care whose it was. It was only a handful of feet awaybut it felt like a marathon with Hanin’s dead-weight hanging from Varlen’sside. More than once, Varlen teetered dangerously, his stomach swooping indread, but just managed to stophimself from collapsing to the ground in a tangled heap. However, by the timehe reached the tent’s half-open flap, Varlen resembled a withered husk of a man,trembling like a new-born animal that had just been dumped onto the savanna.

“Oh… m-my… s-s-shit…!”Varlen lowered Hanin to the ground then collapsed on hands and knees, heavingin air like a man who had been starved of it for years. Centuries. Hanin was conscious, but the extent of thatconsciousness was debatable. Eyes half open, gaze unfocused, he lay whereVarlen had unceremoniously unloaded him. The only sign of outward recognition werethe twinges of pain that accompanied each of his shallow breaths. Broken ribs? Varlen thought, brow furling,blinking sweat from his eyes. With shaking fingers, he pushed aside the leathervest and raised Hanin’s shirt to assess the damage.

There was nothing broken – not that Varlen could tell – but whathe saw still lodged a decent sized stone in the back of his throat. Two deep,knotted, silvery scars ran side-by-side down almost the entirety of Hanin’storso. At the centre, near his solar plexus, blossomed an angry purple bruise, darkeningby the second. Apart from that, he seemedto still be intact. But those scars…

Varlen cringed in silent sympathy, then lowered Hanin’sshirt, shuffling upwards to check his head. He was bleeding there, too. On his righttemple the skin had split. Red ran in rivulets down his his cheek, down hisneck, staining the collar of his shirt. His expression remained pained, butvague. Concussion, probably, Varlenthought with a twinge of anxiety. Shit.

Outside, the fighting was winding down. There was lessshouting. Less curses. More terse grunting from soldiers who just wanted theiropponent to fall down and die already.

“I’m going to find a healer,” Varlen said sharply to Hanin.He reached out, gripping the man by the shoulders, squeezing hard in an attemptto gain a piece of his foggy attention. “Don’t sleep, okay?”

Hanin didn’t reply. He blinked, but that blink lingered inthe closed position far longer than Varlen was comfortable with. Teethclenched, Varlen shook Hanin, startling the man’s eyes back open.

“Stay awake,understand?” Varlen hesitated, then added. “That’s an order!”

“Yes… s-sir…”

Wow, he really was out of it.

Nodding, Varlen let go and stumbled to his feet. He made forthe exit, glancing back warily, hating having to leave Hanin, currently uselessas a newborn kitten, unattended for even a second. But some things simply couldn’t be helped.

Bursting back out into the campfire light,Varlen charged into what remained of the battle, searching frantically for a shiningbald head among the sea of hair and helmets. Come on, Solas… where are you when I actually want to talk to you…

Back inside the tent, Hanin forced himself belligerently to stay awake,not quite sure why, but knowing he had to do it. He swayed, tipped, then jerked back to reality, head spinning, body now completely numb to… well… everything.

Stay awake, he thought. Something warm ran down the side of his head. Just… stay awake.

After all… it had been an order.

#dragon age fanfiction #hanin lavellan #varlen lavellan #riven lavellan #cw: violence #reluctant writes #reluctant replies #Hanin has a weak spot #that he made his strongest spot with armour #but sometimes not everything goes according to plan...#>:)#have some hero Varlen #because no one messes with his clanmates but HIM #youaremorecampaign

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