i've hit a block due to lack of inspiration, feeling of repetition, and a bit of discouragement too. telling myself that it's okay if everything's just a rough draft & that i should focus just on getting something posted has sorta helped. it's carried me through most of the prompts. but i dunno.
i'd like to complete the challenge, i just dont think i'll get it done before the end of the month
The clatter of sword-on-sword rang out alongside the nocturnal creatures’ songs. Calculated footsteps fell upon grass and dirt with thumps ranging in volume and intensity. The pair of horned warriors were locked in a dance: One of precision, strength, and mettle.
The younger of the tieflings, Reverence, observed his opponent with narrowed eyes. The suggestion of this spar was to determine where Zevlor was at, both mentally and physically. While the older tiefling had displayed a great show of might back within the Mindflayer colony, his display could have very well been caused by a mere rush of adrenaline. Zevlor was still visibly discouraged by all the events within the shadow-cursed lands.
Taking the broken paladin within their ranks seemed only the right move.
Was Reverence’s invitation brought on by some sort of projection? Guilt? He was uncertain—though he knew he saw aspects of himself within the other man.
Reverence was pivoting then to narrowly avoid a swing. Zevlor fought still with a fire, not unlike that which Reverence observed in the colony. In truth, Reverence allowed him to push, to unleash any pent-up frustration. In the back of his mind lingered a fear of that horrid urge for bloodshed. Should he give genuine pushback, he risked seriously injuring Zevlor. Or worse.
The scarlet tail trailed around Zevlor’s frame as he struck another blow. Reverence blocked it quickly, having to bring his free hand to the dulled side of his blade. But upon the other’s withdrawl, Reverence noticed it: A wince. It was so swift that he thought perhaps it was a trick of the shadows.
But no; he’d seen the brief flash of Zevlor’s fangs, the scrunch of his nose and brows. The reflexive jerk of his arm toward his gut.
Immediately Reverence lowered his blade. “What is it?” He asked lowly, words laced thick with his accent.
For a moment, Zevlor looked as though he was about to brush off the concern, to say that he was fine and that they could continue. But through his labored panting came a sigh of defeat. His head hung lower, shoulders fell, and his tail lost its perk. “Muscle cramp. I think.”
Reverence sheathed his sword then. He wasn’t certain he believed that, but Zevlor was in pain either way. He guided them both to a fallen log near the riverbank and gestured for him to sit. As he did, a pained grunt forced its way from Zevlor’s throat.
Reverence’s attention fell to where Zevlor rested his hand. It clutched at the right side of his torso, fabric crinkling beneath his claws. Then finally Reverence saw it: Dark, wet crimson seeping through the linen of Zevlor’s shirt.
“Cramps are not known to bleed,” remarked the younger tiefling evenly. “Was it your intention to conceal this wound? For how long? When did this happen?”
Under Reverence’s interrogation, Zevlor almost shrank in on himself. “I—you have given me much of your supplies already. Truly, I thought this would take care of itself.”
Reverence was reaching beneath the neck his own shirt. “We are both men made on fields of battle and blood. You know as well as I that something such as this,” he gestured to Zevlor’s torso, “requires time and rest, or magic, to heal.” He tugged at the gilded chain around his neck, revealing the circular pendant engraved with a faded depiction of a rising sun. He looked to Zevlor expectantly.
The older man relented. The laces at his neckline became undone, and Reverence aided him in ridding the shirt. And certain enough, around Zevlor’s ribcage were bandages that had definitely not been changed in some time.
The obvious question lied in wait upon Reverence’s forked tongue: Was this some sort of self-inflicted punishment? Neglected because Zevlor thought he deserved it?
He did not ask this. Instead, Reverence deftly unwrapped the gauze and discarded it. His thumb idly swiped the metal of his pendant; and with a prayer to the Morning Lord, he pressed a palm upon Zevlor’s wound, and slowly the flesh knit back together with a rosy-golden glow.
The light left no reflection within Zevlor’s exhausted eyes.
Prompts used: Secrets
Fandom: Star Wars: The Old Republic
Word count: 254
CW: NA
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His name upon familiar lips carried across the expanse of the inevitable battlefield. It stopped Theron completely in his tracks. Then finally, after weeks—months—without seeing the Alliance Commander, his tired eyes became alive again as they fell upon his partner. Beyond the breeze of snow, dashing now through an arch of ruined stone, raced his lover.
Lover.
Could they still be considered such? He had shattered Altrethir’s trust and abandoned him. No, worse still: Theron had set him up to die. All for the cause. All part of the long-term plan to stop just another madman from getting his hands on just another world-ending weapon. Nearly every waking hour, Theron would try to defend his actions, try to convince himself that the ends would justify the means. But heartbreak, shame and guilt haunted him all the same.
There was a strong desire to throw everything away, to meet the Twi’lek halfway and hope he would forgive him. But that wasn’t reality.
Instead, he stared, mouth opened slightly and wide-eyed. The others in the shuttle were reaching for their weapons but Theron’s hands remained at his sides. The Chiss—Valss—moved past him in such a swift blur that Theron had little time to process what’d happened. He was calling after Valss then. Not in concern, but in warning: He would not survive a battle against the Commander.
The shuttle doors were closing. Theron watched the sharp streak of scarlet materialize from Altrethir’s hand before hearing the mechanical thud of the metal doors.
Prompts used: Caught in a Net
Fandom: Star Wars: The Old Republic
Word count: 375
CW: Sleep paralysis
The Barsen’thor sucked in a sharp gasp of air. Pressure pushed upon his skull, around his eyes, as his chest expanded quickly with each shallow breath he could manage. Fingers clutched taught at the fabric of his pillow. A bead of sweat rolled down his brow and he blinked to protect his eye.
Fen could not move. Could hardly breathe.
From the shadows swayed dark, smokey tendrils. They made no immediate movement; only shifted, as though they were long leafy plants along the seabed, moving gracefully with the tide. But they loomed ominously. He felt dread, a cold and empty feeling settling in his stomach, a taste of nothing yet everything upon his tongue. He could not feel his hands, his feet. His body felt both hot and cold at once.
Try as he might to call for his partner, his voice would not project.
Was Zenith still with him? The Jedi’s thoughts were too erratic, too clouded by the overwhelming sensation of panic, that he could not detect the other’s presence, nor could he feel the weight of his body pressed into the mattress behind him.
The thing that lurked before him had him ensnared. Trapped in its clutches, whether this all be in his head or physically present, it had wrapped around him a net of agony and despair.
As though a breeze had passed through, the smoke began to dissipate—until reforming itself closer to the Jedi. Reaching for him. He swore he heard another’s breath, whispering within his head.
And he saw a familiar crown of horns begin to materialize from the shadows.
Behind it, a pair of scarlet eyes. . .
Then there was light. Warm, like a campfire, and comforting.
Fen found himself rolling onto his back and met with the face of his lover.
Zenith appeared alert as he searched Fen’s expression, brows drawn together in focus and concern. His lekku slid and fell before his shoulders, across his chest, as he brought a hand to Fen’s forehead to check his temperature. The Jedi could barely feel his limbs still. He tried, and managed, to finally break the paralysis and weakly brought a trembling hand to rest upon Zenith’s forearm.
“There you are,” Zenith remarked evenly. “Welcome back.”
Suddenly Fen was yanking his arm back and out of the crevice with a startled cry, accompanied by the clattering of his staff upon the rocky ground. The tiny arachnid was cast off to the side as he flung his hand, grasping at the wrist with his other, and staring wide-eyed to the eight-legged horror. He could still feel phantom appendages skittering and crawling across his exposed flesh, his knuckles, between his fingers. But the initial startle wasn’t what spooked him the most: It was the implication of who could be watching.
A voice gentle and calming came from behind then. “Are you hurt?” asked Wyll.
Fen wasn’t too quick to answer. “No. Perhaps my pride, more than anything else.”
The drow warily eyed that spider. Why hadn’t it scuttled away yet, gone back into the cracks of the basement walls? The longer it lingered, the more uneased he felt. Yet he could not bring himself to stomp its life out.
Would it make a difference? To Lolth, he was nothing: A deserter of his House that he wasn’t even certain still stood. To Lolth, he was nothing—but to his enemies, he was a remnant of his House—and Lolth favored those who finished what they started. This was her law over the drow of Menzoberranzan.
A warm hand was closing around his, and Fen’s attention was redirected to Wyll again. The gesture grounded him, and Fen realized his hands had been shaking. Shit.
“It’s all right,” Wyll eased quietly. “We all have our demons. And we don’t need to linger here; we can catch up to the others.”
Cool air swept across Fen’s hands again as Wyll moved to collect the wizard’s staff. “I could have—”
“You could have.” Wyll cut him off with a faint smile. “But it’s also all right to accept help, and a poor teammate I’d be if I did not offer any.” The man gave a small jerk of his head in gesture toward the rest of their party. “Shall we?”
Still Fen’s gaze held that of the spider’s. His lips pressed firm, jaw set tight, as he felt a chill run down his back. “Kill it,” he said, nearly a whisper. “I cannot bring myself to do it.”
Hesitantly, Wyll left his companion’s side to approach the doomed creature. He aligned his rapier to the fist-sized spider—and then the thing took off, into the cracks of the wall. “Ah, damn. I’m sorry,” Wyll said sheepishly. “I’ll take care of any more that pop up, though. Not to worry.”
Fen tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut. Truly, what were the odds this thing had been used to spy on him? Uncertain; for he was raised to anticipate foes lurking anywhere and everywhere. And seeing other drow—corpses they might have been—in the area increased his paranoia tenfold.
“Let’s go,” Fen said, defeated.
The drow made use of his staff akin to a walking stick until finally the two were reunited with the other half of their team. They continued through the alchemist’s basement, and though the potions, ingredients and notes were all of interest to Fen, he couldn’t shake that feeling of being watched. He had a suspicion that he’d continue to feel those eyes for many, many days.
Prompts used: Self-Inflicted Injury; Dissociation
Fandom: Star Wars: The Old Republic
Word count: 476
CW: Razor injury; Blood
Slowly the razor dragged across the flat of Theron’s cheekbone, toward his ear, shaving the sideburns that had grown long from months without care. Upon his personal starship, he had nothing but the faint trickling of the faucet and the soft hum of the engine to keep him company. He tried to listen to that and only that. But his thoughts always grew louder.
His preferred five o’clock shadow had grown and turned into the actual beginnings of a beard. But he left it alone, instead turning his attention just to his hair. Tufts of dark brown fell onto his hand, into the sink. The prickling scrape of razor on scalp became just as ambient as the engine’s hum, the trickling water. As he sculpted and experimented, he realized he barely recognized the man staring back at him in the mirror.
He’d lost so much sleep in the days leading up to the staged betrayal on Umbara, and his appearance now paid the price for that. Theron remembered how his lover even called him out on his exhausted state. How could he not have? His partner knew, even without any use of the Force, that something was wrong. Dark circles lied beneath his sunken eyes, skin pulled taught around the hallows of his cheeks, lips cracked and lacking their reddish hue. He looked like shit.
He felt like shit—no, he felt stinging.
“Fuck.” The razor clattered against the sink as blood seeped down the thin cut on the side of his head. That’s what he deserved for not paying attention, he supposed. He rubbed his eyes, then grabbed a small bottle of disinfectant and applied the liquid to the cut. The sting flared—and he hissed through his teeth.
When finally the pain subsided, he continued.
Theron felt his way along the back of his head. The razor swept with more care than before, but even still, he felt his attention faltering. His gaze became unfocused. His shoulders felt heavy, arms beginning to burn from keeping them raised at different angles. But he pushed on, until a stripe of hair remained just at the top of his head.
He ran a hand along the back of his scalp, feeling the little pinpricks of stubble that remained. He could work in a fade, make it look less half-assed.
But he wanted to just keep it as is. He was in no mood for any actual styling.
Copero was still several cycles away, anyway. There was time for that later.
Theron cleaned up the stray bits of hair from his face, ears and neck then walked sluggishly into his sleeping quarters. The metal frame that held his mattress creaked when he all but fell into bed. He threw an arm across his face. Rubbed his eyes again. Gave in to a shaky sigh.
Prompts used: Iron Rod
Fandom: Castlevania: Nocturne
Word count: 533
CW: Internalized homophobia; religious trauma
Upon the hilltop stood the chapel, a slender silhouette now, against the sky painted in twilight’s reds and golds. The sun cast a warm glow from behind the building, illuminating just its edges and contours. The sight reminded Mizrak of how some artists depicted the Virgin Mary or Christ Himself: with a gilded halo resting just behind their heads. A symbol of holiness. Purity.
His footsteps fell one after the other against the road of pebbles and cobblestone, keeping his sights set forward. Avoiding any eye contact with the few remaining people in the market square.
And then, at last, solitude.
His typical routine would have had him gathering his rosary and kneeling before the hanged sculpture of Christ in prayer. Today, to his dismay, was not one of typical routine.
The shame and guilt of sin weighed heavily upon his shoulders. He had fallen into bed with a vampire—a male vampire—and felt nothing but a burning desire to return. Throughout his life, so often he would pray for forgiveness whenever his eyes and heart lusted after another man. He had confessed to having these unnatural thoughts of impurity. Knelt for hours before Christ in prayer and meditation, praying his heart would change. It never did.
He had come to unpleasant terms that perhaps it never will. The man so devoted to his faith could only hope that, on the day he was judged for his sins, God would show him mercy. He would, Mizrak thought, as God is full of grace. Yet there was darkness—a doubt that lingered, festered and boiled. A doubt that Mizrak could not shake nor would he ever admit to.
The lantern’s candles flickered along the hallway walls as he found his way into the courtyard. Training dummies were left set up from the monks’ morning practice. Good; one less thing he needed to do.
He drew his sword from the sheathe at his hip, the metal ringing out softly, and held it steady with two hands. Attention focused on the middle dummy. Soft patters of his approaching footsteps upon grass. Lips pressed firmly into a thin line.
The muscles in his arms twitched as he built up anticipation to strike.
Another step. A pivot—and a single precise swing.
The blade cleaved a deep, clean cut across the imperfect wood. Mizrak readjusted his position and lunged again for a swipe across its back. His footwork was sloppy, he noticed, and the realization only further frustrated him. He was distracted, he knew and loathed, and no matter how frustrated he was with himself, he couldn’t bring his full attention to the situation right in front of him.
His eyes kept glancing toward a familiar shaded wall.
A sudden flare of warmth in his gut, his face, and he shouted as he struck the dummy across the neck—
—Only to hit the solid iron rod at its core. The reverberation of metal on metal caused his hands to seize, arms wobbling slightly. He stepped back. Breathed, panted. Shook his hand to be rid of the weird, tingling sensation the impact had caused.
“Damn you,” cursed the monk. And he himself was uncertain to whom he referred.
Prompts used: Lost Faith
Fandom: Star Wars: The Old Republic; Medieval-Fantasy AU
Word count: 1,394
CW: NA
For once—and not a moment too soon Theron’s smokepowder bomb finally succeeded. There were still tweaks to be made but improvements were the last thing on his mind in the current situation. Swiftly he guided the hooded figure through the loose crowds of Aethel, removing the gag from their mouth as they weaved through and remained low. The elven citizens’ attention was drawn elsewhere, thankfully, allowing Theron and his companion to slip through mostly unnoticed.
Just before reaching the forest’s edge, Theron pulled them behind a tree to free Altrethir of his binds. He gathered the rope, and they pushed on. Though he wasn’t tiring, he could tell the other man was. “Just a little further,” Theron eased. “Promise.”
The trees soon shielded the two from the town, Theron angling his head different ways to peer for any gaps in their concealment. But he determined they were far enough in. Finally, beside a calm stream lined with rocks, he guided Altrethir to sit. Theron pulled back his cloak and—
“Oh, hells,” Theron gasped. Back in town, he wasn’t able to see Altrethir’s face from the tent’s entrance, only the back of his head. Now, to Theron’s horror, his friend’s skin had been littered in cuts and bruises. Theron was familiar with his wounds; they looked to be from some sort of blunt-force trauma. He connected two and two and felt his hatred for the royals become revalidated all over again. He was furious, enraged.
But the time for those emotions would come later.
Altrethir’s breaths were short and shallow from their sprinting, from exhaustion. Theron knew he was sleep-deprived and now in an incredible amount of pain. He knelt and didn’t waste another moment. Tearing a strip of cloth from his cloak, he soaked it in the stream and carefully cleaned the blood from Altrethir’s face. “I’m glad you’re alive,” Theron said, trying to reach his friend and trying to redirect his own thoughts in the same vein.
Gently he swiped Altrethir’s stained cheek. Theron couldn’t meet his eyes in his fruitless attempts. The elf’s stare was distant, one that was foreign to Theron. Altrethir’s eyes were always so focused. This was uncanny.
Theron’s heart sank but he didn’t comment. He returned his attention to tending to Altrethir’s wounds, keeping an ear open for any Odessen soldiers who might’ve followed them. “I’m sorry, Alt,” Theron murmured. “About all of this. I—I had no idea. . .” he trailed off, stopping himself just short of a lie.
He had some idea, but never once thought it would come to this: The destruction of one of Altrethir’s towns in his home country. There were early red flags that had glared at Theron in the forms of reports and paperwork. He didn’t believe it—no, worse. He’d blown it off, and it had cost them.
Had cost Altrethir the loss of one of his few friends. Cost him the Athenaeum, a place once a sanctuary for the elf. Would cost him the lives of many of his people, likely.
They had to stop this before it escalated any further.
“The king’s not gonna get away with this,” Theron said after a moment’s pause. Gingerly, with his free hand, he cupped the side of Altrethir’s face, thumbing blood from his cheek. And Altrethir flinched, eyelids fluttering briefly.
Theron’s mouth felt dry and once more he felt his heart weigh heavy. He waited, watched, until Altrethir gave into an unsteady sigh. Only then was he able to meet Theron’s eyes. The moment was short-lived; Altrethir’s head fell slightly forward, strands of raven hair falling past his shoulders, as his eyes slipped shut. Before Theron could worry that he’d fallen unconscious, the elf spoke. “Ryndell has no hope of driving away Odessen forces,” he admitted, voice hoarse and lacking its typical smoothness. “Even if Captain Koth gets safely to the Council, even if they believe him, it will not be enough.”
“Let’s warn the rest of the towns,” Theron was quick to suggest. “Tell them to take refuge at the capital, build defenses there and push back.”
Altrethir’s hands twitched and shook. Even his knuckles were battered and bruised, Theron noted angrily. The king really wanted to break him. Why? For what purpose? Torture for information, or just for cruel amusement?
Theron set down the rag and carefully slid a hand atop Altrethir’s. He squeezed, gentle, in hopes that his touch would bring his friend back to reality. Tear him out of whatever dark, hopeless pit the king had cast him into.
“You and I are a team,” Theron said, “and I want to help you and your people. I can’t do it without you, Alt.” His second hand came to rest upon the first. “You’re strong. So fucking strong. Your strength is what made them cowards,” he nodded in the direction of the town, toward the port, where the Odessen navy lied. “We can’t let them think they’ve won.”
Theron observed Altrethir’s expression. Watched for any muscles that twitched, any creases that formed. He was met only with that cold, endless stare—a stare that looked past him, perhaps through him, but never into him.
“It will not be enough,” Altrethir repeated weakly.
Then the sorcerer was pushing himself to his feet, grabbing his staff and using it as a walking stick. When Theron tried to help, he was swatted away. “Where are we going?” he sputtered.
Altrethir paused. He turned, ears drooped but expression turned stern. “Was Malcom truthful?”
The question was like a splash of cold water. Theron stopped dead in his tracks. His shock must have been visible, because Altrethir only continued to press.
“Answer me: Was Malcom correct in accusing you of falsely befriending me just for information?”
“It’s not like that, Alt—”
“The question is simple,” the elf bit out. “Were we ever friends?”
“Of course we were. We are. And I meant everything,” Theron said without missing a beat. “All our conversations, everything I told you about Master Zho, about the royals—I meant all of it. I confided in you because we are friends.”
“Do you deny Malcom’s claim, though? Theron—that is what I’m asking. Tell me. And do not lie to me.”
Theron’s shoulders sank. His jaw clenched and unclenched, and now he was the one having difficulty looking at the other man. A defeated sigh passed his lips. “No. I don’t. The king demanded I keep tabs on you ever since you won the competition. I didn’t have a choice.”
Theron was met with silence, damning silence. He longed for a reply—whether that be an insult, reassurance, or whatever else. Something, anything. But he was given nothing for many long moments as Altrethir processed the information.
No reply ever came. The sorcerer turned again, tugging his cloak around his shoulders.
“Wait,” Theron called, “you need to rest.”
“I can manage,” Altrethir said but did not stop, did not turn. “Return to the king, Theron.”
“What? Alt, please, I’m—I’m sorry. Let me make this right. Slow down, rest, and we’ll warn—”
A thud came from Altrethir’s staff as he slammed the end into the ground. Crackling patterns of ice began to sprout from where it’d hit, slowly branching out into a circle around the elf. “Perhaps I was unclear,” he said coldly. “You are not to accompany me any longer. If you truly mean what you say, then you ought to sabotage the war effort from within.” Altrethir angled just his head to cast a glare toward Theron. His lips were pressed thin, brows scrunched in anger.
Theron felt the sudden reality of everything hit him. He wanted to scream. Wanted to keep pleading Altrethir to stay. Wanted to run back to Malcom and blame him for everything.
He did none of that. Instead, he merely stood as the paralysis washed over him.
The conjured frost upon the ground began to shrink back. Without another word, Altrethir continued on his way, walking with a slight limp in his gait through the blackened forest. When the elf had become nothing more than a shadowy figure amidst the trees, Theron’s knees threatened to buckle, and he was suddenly stumbling back. He caught himself on a rock. Steadied himself. Slapped his hands over his eyes as the first of many tears fell.
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