the scent of old paper

Welcome to my writing blog. I am aware that I'm not an amazing writer. I only write for myself. All content here can be removed or changed whenever I feel like it.

[inkstainedhan]

[[ your love keeps my heart cold ]]

It was fitting, she thought, that these were still days largely trapped in darkness. Darkness, at the risk of sounding cliché (or worse, like a youngling first dabbling at prose), was ever a breeding ground for suffering and misery. How appropriate for it to dwell so strongly around her on this anniversary, casting frozen ground into ever more freezing temperatures. Sometimes she was glad to have learnt to tolerate the cold, though she supposed that predicament had led directly to this one. Ugh. At least that had been her choice in the end. This had been the opposite.

It shouldn't have been hard to extricate himself from their bodies, but as usual, they had insisted on remaining tangled around him until they had long since become still. Worse, their tears had been plentiful enough to freeze into strong bonds of ice as well - yet another problem to deal with. Mastery of ice meant nothing if one intended to keep the ice intact when leaving. He'd have to teleport, but that could again be a challenge. Teleportation generally required verbal components.

She’d stay a while, then. A resolute decision, yes, and one she'd be keeping to herself. There wasn't anyone to come across this, which she supposed was a positive. Well. There was, in a sense, but even trapped she could ensure that. She wasn't incompetent. The past century had made certain of that - though this had been a failing on her part. It shouldn’t have happened. She’d take the lesson on board and stop it from happening again. 

The first glittering signs of purple-blue-green on the horizon brought with them faint light, the day only following in its lazy manner some hours on, and yet he stayed in the darkness of his own eyes long enough for the sun's rays to die behind the horizon and for midnight to again paint the sky in starlight. And for the cycle to repeat some number of times, as if he too had faded like the bodies that clung close to him. He dwelled in thoughts and memory, and if grief could be found there too then - well, there were none to spy it aside from he.

Perhaps she would have remained there if the pull of her duties hadn't strengthened; if the bite of the curse hadn't begun to burn. She looked not upon them when he left. If it were up to her - which, of course, it was - she would never look upon them again.

(He knew that for a lie when he first thought it. Sometimes, the lies were worth believing.)

At least there were others to replace the sensations. Warm hands, searing bodies - and never did they come with the utter torment of tragic emotion. Not for him. These luxuries, they were to enjoy in their moments. They existed for him to bathe in, resplendent; to drown in their twin pleasures and pains at the hands of those who craved him for their own sordid reasons, then to resurface into the world sated of such mortal, material desires. If only briefly.

Really, they’d done her a favour. She wouldn’t thank them for it. 

(Later, much later, with centuries passed and millennia weighing heavy, the dagger twisted where they had thrust it.)

[inkstainedhan]

The Two Princes

[[ cyne has a chat with the high priestess. and shows off his stuff ]]

In retrospect, it probably hadn’t been so bad for Pin to have forced him to stop and say a proper farewell. At the very least, it’d given him a moment to calm down and think about where he was teleporting to - he’d originally planned to go directly to the High Priestess’s office, but the brief interruption had changed that. Not that he’d ever tell Pin that she’d been helpful by trying to annoy him. Instead, he had arrived in the temple’s royal suites and terrified a poor maid who’d been dusting the place. After he’d finished apologising, he’d sent her to alert the Priestess to his presence with a short letter asking for a meeting later that evening. The delay would, in theory, let him figure out what he needed to ask.

Barely ten minutes later, as he lounged on a plush sofa with pages of hastily written notes before him, he received a response. He ignored the formalities, scanning for the time. “Seven in the evening... an hour,” he murmured, watching the room’s clock slowly tick past six. “Plenty of time to write.”

One of the perks of being a nobleman was the impeccable education. He’d grown up among the finest minds and libraries in the lands, and had taken full advantage, meaning that he wasn’t unfamiliar with the stories of prior Champions. They weren’t common, and now that he reviewed his memories, they generally didn’t lead to anything good. But usually, hadn’t they been chosen individually? It wasn’t hard to remember legends of previous heroes, stories of how their god bestowed them with championship as a reward for great deeds in service to their deity. Hell, as a child he’d loved the story of an ancient champion of Nethys, who’d channelled the arcane god’s destructive power into literally tearing the nation of Magyka Majoris from the earth and turning it into a mass of floating islands to defeat a colossal aberration that had dominated the minds of its people. It was no wonder nobody knew how to react when Ashlyn’s group of wanderers showed off their tattoos. This was.. unheard of. It had to be.

Yet that cleric had seemed to know otherwise. He’d recognised her symbol, that of Torag, but her style of clothing wasn’t too far changed from what his clergy still wore today, and there wasn’t a true way of telling how old the spirit was. Ghosts were notoriously bad at remembering years in his experience. Sighing, he pulled up his sleeve and removed the leather bracer that covered his mark. He certainly didn’t feel as heroic as the legends had always painted champions. And if there had ever been a champion of an Eldest before, he’d never heard of them. Hopefully Lady Tinuval could elucidate. Shooting another look at the clock, he slid the bracer back on and stood up, wincing at the pain that shot through his chest as he did so. He hoped he’d at least helped Kraia by absorbing part of that hit, but the sudden pain had nearly knocked him over when it’d happened. He’d at least been able to bandage the wound before it bled too much, but... perhaps he should ask Lady Tinuval to assist with that matter, too. It’d be better than leaving the wound to scar for his sister to then panic over. Gods forbid he have scars. He smirked at the memory of Alysia first catching him lazing around instead of heading to the infirmary. She’d been more upset over the marks than anything else. Anyway. It was nearing seven already. He glanced once more at the notes he’d written, knowing he couldn’t bring them, and teleported.

The High Priestess’s office was always stunning to behold. The floating silver orbs were mesmerising if one looked at them for too long, and the mixture of marble, glass, silver and gold made the entire room feel almost heavenly... which was the entire point, really. He’d asked her once about the orbs. She’d explained that each held something of each god worshipped at the temple, whether it be a holy symbol or something more, and had demonstrated by calling down one containing an ornate miniature harp bearing Shelyn’s symbol. Apparently, they represented the temple’s unity and allegiance to each god. The High Priestess herself was a typical elf - tall, slender and incredibly beautiful, her pale hair cascading down the back of the white and gold robes she always wore. Her sharp purple eyes caught his arrival immediately, and she rose from her chair to bow deeply. Mentally sighing at the formalities, he gave her a shallow bow in return, before indicating she was to sit as he took the room’s other chair, hiding the wince. Or so he thought, as she raised a brow at him.

“It is an honour to meet with you, my lord. Does something ail you? You seem pained.” Her voice was cool, crisp and carried a genuine undertone of concern. She was always so observant. Bloody clerics. He nodded, smiling sheepishly.

“You have a good eye. I had hoped to ask later, but yes. I was assisting Princess Ashlyn in her assault on Fort Kildaine earlier today and received a slight injury. Would you mind?” As she rounded the desk, he undid his shirt and dispelled the shadowy bandages he’d created to reveal the deep slash across his chest, watching to see how she reacted. Her eyes widened in concern, snapping from his chest to meet his in a stern glare.

“Your highness, I understand that it was a battlefield, but you of all people should know better than to leave such a wound virtually untreated.” she chided gently, resting her hands above the wound as they began to glow gold with healing power. He grimaced, feeling the magic rush through his body. “It would be shameful for our heir apparent to pass from sheer stubborn dislike of hospitals.”

He grinned ruefully as she withdrew, taking the opportunity to fix his clothing. “Thank you, but the circumstances were such that I felt it more important to seek your counsel first.” Predicting a retort, he rested his arm on the table almost casually and cut her off with a question, carefully studying her reaction. “What do you know of this emergence of champions?”

He was glad he’d watched for it - her reaction was slight, but immediate, glancing between the leather bracer and him with a calculating expression. Closing her eyes for a moment, the High Priestess leaned back in her chair. “...Gods typically choose champions when they have performed near-legendary feats, and it is unspeakably rare for multiple to be chosen at once. From my understanding, Princess Ashlyn and her associates were marked before, not after, their slaying of the Ilendran corruption. Even had they begged their gods for power, for multiple champions to be chosen is almost completely unheard of.”

“When the princess succeeded in taking the fort, her companions uncovered a ghostly cleric of Torag who spoke of it being a sign of the end times. When you say ‘almost’... the only apocalypse-level event I can recall easily is the Worldrend.” A chill ran through him as he considered the implications of that, causing him to lose concentration for a moment, missing her reaction. Her voice snapped him back to reality.

“Yes. That is the only recorded occurrence has been confirmed to contain a more numerous amount of the champions as we know them today. Of course, divine power was carefully given in those days, and common parlance speaks of every caster involved as a champion of their god. However, the day’s scriptures speak of specific favoured in addition to these, marked with tattoos that seemed to spread across their entire bodies as channels for divine power. Being so long ago, we have little solid information. I had assigned a research group to the champions after Princess Ashlyn’s appearance, but I believe you may wish to study the information yourself.” She looked meaningfully at his still-covered arm. He gave her a tired smile, pulling it back to himself.

“Thank you, it’s very much appreciated. Still, if this signifies an apocalypse of some sort, have the Celesthem oracles foreseen any signs? Neither my sister nor any of the cursed that I’ve been travelling with have received any visions of such a thing.”

“I will consult with them, but none of my recent conversations with them have gleaned anything of the sort. If I might be so plain, which of the gods has blessed--” He held up a hand, stopping her, and removed the bracer, worry gracing his brow. After allowing her to gaze at it for a moment, recognition and curiosity sparked in her expression, he leaned forward and took her hand before she could react.

Switching to Celestial, his golden eyes glowed softly as his crown’s illusion deactivated. “High Priestess Aetha Tinuval, and any who may spy on this meeting. By my right as the Crown Prince of this land, I command thy silence on mine status as Champion, mine religion, and mine person’s relationship to any future events connected to the Champions. Thou may speak of these only to me, and to those whom I give thee leave. If thy fail to heed these words, whether it be thine intent or not, thou shalt be found Guilty of High Treason by the holy blood that runs between through mine veins. In the name of Aletheia, I command this be done.” A flash of gold surrounded the two, sealing the command, and he dropped her hand. “...My apologies, but absolute secrecy in this matter is paramount.”

The High Priestess nodded contemplatively, seeming to spend a moment of time considering her next words. “I understand, my lord. I shall not fail you.” She gestured at his wrist, still exposed. “This is the symbol of the Lost Prince, is it not? An Eldest, of the First World?” He nodded, allowing her to continue. “I have not, personally, ever heard of an individual being named champion of the fey. This is especially odd, considering that you yourself are not fey - yet - and that you spend the majority of your time on the Material Plane.”

“Yet?”

“...Past champions have had their bodies altered to better suit their gods. I recall one scroll recovered from the Underdark that spoke of a drow serving Lord Kostchtchie who swelled in size, becoming more akin to a dark giant than a drow, and developed armour of ice as he cut swathes through the abominations lurking beneath Iskaldhal. It is not implausible that the Lost Prince might alter you to better fit your role.”

Sliding the bracer back on, Cyne frowned deeply. That wasn’t good. Being an outsider was a hard requirement to taking the crown of Aletheia, and were he no longer compatible.. it would fall to Alysia. Which, again, he would not allow to happen. “I’m very thankful for your information and time, my lady. I have much to think on. How soon will I be able to study that aforementioned research?” 

Instead of an immediate reply, she retrieved a map from beneath her desk, spreading it over the table and indicating a room. “It is currently here. Would you be able to teleport there when you wish to study it, or should we have it relocated to your quarters?”

“There is fine, thank you. I believe, then, that this meeting is concluded. I will let you know if I discover anything of interest; in turn, please do the same for me.”

“Of course, my lord. Fare thee well.”

“Good evening, High Priestess.” With that, he teleported directly back to his room, and, checking for any maids that were present, stepped into his demiplane. He needed to pray. He desperately needed to pray.

[moramew]

A small list of random ass sites I’ve found useful when writing:

Fragrantica: perfume enthusiast site that has a long list of scents. v helpful when you’re writing your guilty pleasure abo fics

Just One Cookbook: recipe site that centers on Japanese cuisine. Lots of different recipes to browse, plenty of inspiration so you’re not just “ramen and sushi” 

This comparing heights page: gives you a visual on height differences between characters

A page on the colors of bruises+healing stages: well just that. there you go. describe your bruises properly

McCormick Science Institute: yes this is a real thing. the site shows off research on spices and gives the history on them. be historically accurate or just indulge in mindless fascination. boost your restaurant au with it

A Glossary of Astronomy Terms: to pepper in that sweet terminology for your astrophysics major college au needs

[moramew]

Adding to this since I’m working on a shifter au one-shot:

Canine Body Language

Feline Body Language

[moramew]

More:

Cocktail Flow: a site with a variety of cocktails that’s pretty easy to navigate and offers photos of the drinks. You can sort by themes, strengths, type and base. My only real annoyance with this site is that the drinks are sometimes sorted into ~masculine~ and ~feminine~ but ehhhh. It’s great otherwise.

Tie-A-Tie: a site centered around ties, obviously. I stumbled upon it while researching tie fabrics but there’s a lot more to look at. It offers insight into dress code for events, tells you how to tie your ties, and has a section on the often forgotten about tie accessories

[moramew]

Even more:

Types of High Heels: A page describing twenty five different types of high heels. It gives a description and pictures. Shake it up from just “stilettos and kitten heels”

Random Job Generator: Exactly as it says. The site offer more generators like characters, plots, or town names.

Glossary of Hosiery Terms: Figure out what is what on a pair of stockings.

Men’s Dress Shoe Guide: A quick guide describing the eight most common types of men’s dress shoes. Pics included.

Types of Women’s Coats: Descriptions and pics of various different types of coats.

[8writingblock8-blog]

WRITING REFERENCES

[inkstainedhan]

lost or not

conceal, don’t feel, don’t it show

(then sneak away and let it go)

It wasn’t easy for him to show emotion this strongly. Usually, he kept everything under tight control, letting all of the anger, fear, sadness and stress be pushed back and ignored in favour of dealing with more important things, such as the regular quarrels between Yuethin’tar and Ilendras, or Amarin’s latest import tax increases, or inspections on the Mages Guild by the Keepers of Divinity, or... er, really anything involving the Keepers or Mages. Damn Keepers couldn’t keep their noses out of anything magical, and the Mages would let their experiments get out of hand and risk starting fights (or exploding the entire city) if not watched over. 

That was the usual, though. This... wasn’t.

Barring a small meltdown that he was fairly certain Azyel had seen, he’d managed to keep everything locked away through the funerals and ceremonies. He’d even been able to look his grandfather in the eyes and show him the ‘appropriate respect and honour deserved by the Emperor’ as he was officially crowned Heir and given the Veritas Crown. He’d told no-one what he’d done, and by now, he was good enough at hiding it that nobody suspected anything. Grandfather had talked with him for hours after the ceremony, just in case something else happened, and... he’d had to designate an heir. Now he really couldn’t screw up. Alycia was a kind leader to her realm, but she’d be eaten alive as an Empress.

The ensuing months had been filled with further ceremony, with enough teleporting and conversing to make anyone feel ill. He’d finally been able to get away, after quietly convincing one of the Shadows to send him an ‘important message’. At least Asterion-- sorry, Grandfather-- had been impressed with his dedication to a cause.

He’d slipped into the Underdark in silence, seamlessly melding with the shadows, and had made his way to the one escape he knew would be.. relatively safe. Shadows had turned to brilliant lights, and he’d carefully made his way through the strange new world until he found the spot he’d made his own, dark stains and shadows marring the area in contrast to the rest.

Then, alone at last, he’d let go. All that self-hatred over what he’d become, all the fears of ruling, of how people would react, of the lack of freedom. The stress that’d immediately come with his new position... the dark, empty feelings that followed behind. And, most overwhelmingly, the loneliness. He’d not been the first in this position, but he was certainly one of the most hated and distrusted. Entirely because of what he was. He just wasn’t good enough.

It had been hours, if he had to guess. The time in this world was never normal, but usually when the light had changed this much, it’d been some amount of time. Groaning, he sat up, wincing at the protest his body gave, and shifted to the shadows by the nearby river. The water was purple today, a vibrant, shimmering purple that would almost certainly taste of some random sweet the local fey had discovered on the Material Plane. Ignoring the slight temptation to dip his hand in, he forced himself to stand up, using the violet surface as a mirror.

“...shit,” he mumbled, running a hand through messy black locks. “Gonna take a while for this to repair...” It wasn’t the first time this had happened. Usually, when he could escape and let everything go, his blank-minded fury would leave the earth scarred and dark. For the shadows to slice him, things had gotten out of hand. Or he’d been attacked, and given the lack of any blood other than his own (or any other indication that another had been present), he doubted that. Sighing heavily, he shifted back to his hideaway, letting himself fall onto a reasonably soft mattress of hay-like material he’d created a while ago and lying there for a few minutes in silence, unmoving, before remembering something.

If he was going to use this place, he needed to at least show some respect to its overseer. That had been the agreement they’d come to, after all, all those years ago. Sitting up again, the wounds already beginning to seal themselves shut, he found a quill and began to write a memory.

The day my cousin and uncle died, I led Death to their very doors in blindness and idiocy, seeking my own success and instead bringing only misery and loneliness in my wake...

It took a long time for him to write, the ink blurred in multiple spots where tears had unknowingly fallen and stained the page. He stared at it for a moment, before conjuring a spark of fire and turning it into ash. It was time to leave. There’d be no sign he’d been there soon enough - the stones and shadows would return to their usual state, and the tome on the recent improvements on planar travel that he’d taken from the Arcanium and left behind would no doubt disappear the moment he stopped looking.

As he followed his familiar (yet always new) route back through the First World, carefully greeting the fey that walked those paths as he went, he mentally went over his plans for what to do now. The Shadows tended to have assignments for him, after all, regardless of his status.

[inkstainedhan]

the pains of an emperor

Oh, what he’d do for a courtroom not full of the typical buffoonery and pretentiousness masking the political aspirations of the nobles gathered there. 

This day was like every other day whilst court was in session - veiled threats and manipulation hidden under innocuous - and often idiotic - guise. The northern provinces were becoming more volatile, and the western were still dealing with the aftermath of the storms that had swept through and devastated the region. The southern were clamouring for expansion of trade, and the eastern were annoyed with this: the border issues they faced wouldn’t be helped by increasing trade exports through Terenholt, and docking the ships anywhere else would be extremely costly in the long run, apparently. The zealots in the Keepers had their own issues, too: the mages were growing stronger, some of the storied Champions had appeared, and a string of supposed demonic activity in the central provinces had them on edge. Not to mention the damned Medimian Empire were gearing up for something big. His Oracle had whispered of the tragedies ahead, and the Keepers had confirmed it with their sensors. The alliance between Aletheia and its neighbouring countries was apparently not enough to quell the warmongering sinners. He’d need to mobilise forces in the border regions within the following weeks.

One particularly bad actress caught his attention through her irritating screeching. “My, I do hope His Imperial Highness returns to Aletheia! The midwinter festivities are so beautiful, and I heard Livia of Ordan’s daughter was excited to skate with him upon the lake once more!” He immediately tuned out the latest gossip about his heir’s possible future wife, and let his own mind linger on the topic for a moment.

Crown Prince Cyne of Aletheia would certainly be a prize to any woman, yet he seemed to be happy leaving a trail of longing admirers instead of picking one to settle with. He’d heard from his brother about the attention the prince had been giving an adventurer, of all things, and how he’d seemed utterly engrossed in a wealthy tradeswoman at the Undrian Ball. It was hardly acceptable for him to continue these dalliances, yet the boy got away with it - as he got away with most things - by being so completely unacceptable by rite of his birthrace that the Lords and Ladies seemed to ignore his other faults. Such as working as an assassin intertwined within a secretive spy network, abandoning his lands for aimless wandering or ‘adventuring’, favouring underhanded resolutions and relying on others to help solve his problems instead of taking a leading role himself. His son would have had none of these faults. How he wished that fate hadn’t lead to that slaughter. How he wished his son still lived.

Still, what was done was done. Sarenrae’s light would guide them, as it always did. The screeching woman had certainly been a reminder of that: the Crown Prince couldn’t avoid his duties forever, marriage (or at least production of an heir) being one of them. He’d summon the boy at dusk. It was about time for him to gain more experience in the court, and for the aspiring brides to meet him. If he dared attempt to refuse, the Emperor would send the damn Court Mages after him. 

He paused, considering that decision. He’d heard that the prince was at least managing to travel with the lost princess, their apparently eternal lady, the Champion of Sarenrae. If the goddess herself had blessed this woman, it might be that the prince was of more use there. On second thought, it would be better to discuss this with his advisers. Recalling the prince might be necessary soon, but ascertaining his current position and plans would be important, too.

For now, though, he had to worry about the current court session. There was always something for him to create rulings on or judge for the people. It seemed today’s important events would be surrounding the restoration efforts on the western coast. Perhaps he should send the Keepers there to assist if anyone continued to complain about the time taken.

[inkstainedhan]

thoughts about liese

this isn’t anything to do with my campaign, this is just some stuff I’ve been thinking about regarding elysandrae celadrion

It’s kind of heartbreaking to consider the situation Liese has been in for the past ~3 years of her life. She’s gotten to grow stronger, yes, and attain some of her dreams that way, but... well... she’s been stuck on a ship where she doesn’t really have any friends. So, who exactly has she been able to show off that progress to, before Jericho and her became a thing at least? Alea was also a late addition. 

Early-game, she had Piquel, Graves and Khyrilda to talk to. Piquel died, replaced with the standoffish Tarigh, who later left. Khyrilda retreated to her room and has steadily become less sensible, more evil. Remember early-game? They shared books and were both the sane members of the party. Liese remembers that. 

That’s not a thing any more.

And oh, Graves. He was... I think Jazzy had him at NG as well to begin with? It was some variant of good at least. He very quickly grew close to Foo and Liese found it harder to like him as he got more energetic and chaotic, but they at least had common ground and she could get along with him and the others fairly well.

Until the incident in the elven city, that was. He’s responsible for the slow destruction of her father’s race and, in turn, her own. And for that, she can never forgive him. Besides, he left the party after that. He had to.

So, for a while there, there was a period when she didn’t have Jericho or Alea. She wasn’t exactly going to have meaningful conversations with Clancy or Foo, Pennyswaggle’s always sneaking around and Kalameet was a) new to the party and b) not into arcane study.

I mean, I guess she had Holst in her head, but that’s not really the same thing.

Picture this, if you will. This woman who’s been trying so hard to learn and grow and escape everything she didn’t want to be, to find people she could talk with on an even ground, stuck in that fantastic situation :l

Picture her spending days shut in her room, sneaking out at night to watch the stars, talking pretty much exclusively to Allure as she doesn’t think anyone else would care.

Picture her trying to practice and learn new spells. Casting ‘chain lightning’ between targets in her room, creating walls of force... making talking illusions of other people like her. Using Summon Monster to have new faces to talk to for a bit. Spending countless hours slaving over magic items for herself and the party, probably in silence. 

Picture her elation upon figuring out new spells, only to immediately realise she has nobody to share that glee with. Think on how lonely that must have been. Think on how she so easily fell for Holst’s manipulations early on, and how much it must have hurt to eventually see through those. Think about how she probably ended up talking to him because at least he knew the kind of things she wanted to talk about.

No wonder she’s latched onto Jericho so much, he’s the only actual friend Liese has actively developed. It’s why I’m kind of worried about what’s going to happen to her mental state if he dies in the coming stuff.

Man, I just have a lot of feelings about how Liese has grown as a person and how much of that comes from her learning enough about the world to become far more bitter to it all. She’s a good person at the core, so no matter what happens to her, she’s still going to try and fight for that little bit of hope, but it must suck so much to be her.

It’s kind of why I had her slip into that self-hatred for a moment in the recent text RP with James; she’s gotta have a fair amount of internalised negativity and anxiety over everything that’s happened that she could’ve stopped (such as the elf thing). Also I love that the one time she tries to find out something for a truly selfish reason, just to satisfy her curiosity and put the topic to rest... it backfires and just makes things worse for her. And now she’s got to worry about what’s going to even happen to Holst in the end.

She’s just fucking tragic to think about and I want to give her a hug and put her in a better party where she can compare spellbooks and study arcane theory and not have to worry about the end of the world. 

...though given that I’m literally putting her through torture and control in my world I’m hardly any better X] Is ok, I fix. Mainly because if I’m keeping power levels continuous then it’d make 0 sense for her to still be under that control, so she’s writing herself out of the narrative (somewhat) and can instead show up as an informant later on.

God I can’t wait to play Luna. She’s going to be less tolerant of bullshit, I feel x]

[inkstainedhan]

deific arcanima

It had been a relatively calm day in the Temple of Celesthem. Like clockwork, the clergy and laity had gone about their assigned schedules, living their typical pious lives uninterrupted. To most of the Temple's inhabitants, the peace would persist through the rest of the day, into the night, to repeat again for the rest of their time there.

Not to Liese. Her schedule dictated it was time for her bimonthly checkup, and she was becoming absolutely fed up with those. Since she'd helped Azyel leave and had stayed away for a time herself, she'd fallen under much scrutiny. If it were only as easy as leaving as he had, if only she'd actually thought before acting. Unconsciously, she lay a hand on her wrist, where the results of her disobedience still lay hidden. Damn her idiocy in listening to that alchemist! All she'd wanted was someone to study with, and he'd seemed so interested in her. At least Jericho was safe with the others, as strange as that felt to say. Even with all her strength and magic (and she was fairly certain she by far outclassed even the strongest person in this building), she could do nothing against this. Not yet, at least. She'd make sure that changed.

Knowing that lateness would not be tolerated, Liese teleported to the room she'd grown to despise, making sure to stay invisible. Teleportation wasn't so bad in the hospital, but the Temple's guards had chastised her for practicing the arcane in the main building before, and she wasn't going to try and make their jobs harder. Or get herself arrested. She dreaded to think what the result of _that_ would be. Checking for others upon arrival, and finding the area quite deserted (one of the advantages to the schedule being that certain areas would always be clear at specific times - she suspected this was partially why the schedule was enforced so heavily), she dropped the invisibility and knocked. A cool, clear voice rang out, one Liese knew well by now. Whilst she was certain there were others present, it was only ever the priestess who spoke to her.

"Two minutes early. Well done. Step inside and change into the robes. As per usual, your effects will be returned after the testing." The door slid open before Liese could reach out, the air inside making her shiver. It was always far, far colder in here than the rest of the Temple, even on the hottest days. She wasn't entirely sure how that was possible, given the bright whiteness that greeted her as she walked in, barely noticing the door slide shut behind her. It was silent here, too. No hum of chatter in the background, no mechanical clicking or rustling of paper. She could barely hear her own breathing, let alone anyone else's. Changing into the robes took but a moment. It would've been foolish to bring much other than clothing, given that it'd just be taken. Even her spellbook was just a backup. Like _hell_ she'd let that go. Even so, it still hurt to place it into the basket with her usual dress. Slipping on the robes and tying the belt firmly around her, she turned to face the second door, waiting for the next instruction. What would they have her do today? Both wrists tingled in painful anticipation. Like every other time, she ignored it. Better to not grant her more ammunition. As she waited, she turned her thoughts to her most recent studies, determined to not allow the silence or light to affect her. It seemed that the priestess was willing to have her wait for what felt like hours, this time, though, and the oppressive light began to grate on her nerves. Just as Liese began to consider the benefits of leaving without completing the tests, the door opened, revealing the laboratory she was all too familiar with. The Priestess's own, of course, with its owner waiting for her in the doorway. Seeing her in the labcoat immediately had Liese worried. The last time she'd seen the priestess wearing it, she'd felt drained all month, and Allure (who was currently back in Nirvana seeking help for her mistress) had barely been able to stand going near her for the first few weeks. The priestess smiled entirely too peacefully, and gestured to the... Liese couldn't call it anything other than a slab. Well, she could, but she'd rather not send herself into a tizzy, not here. As it was, she had to keep her emotions on total lockdown. She nodded stoically, and obliged, barely reacting when the priestess muttered the words of an arcane spell to keep Liese still, nor as a blindfold was placed over her eyes.

"You've been good today, Liese. For that, I'll--" The priestess's ever-calm voice was cut off by... what almost sounded like a fireball going off. Or some other sort of explosion. Even with all her linguistical understanding, she couldn't recognise the words yelled after - multiple voices, too different for her to keep track of, followed by a sharp burst of pain and a sensation of... bliss.

She awoke in her own bed, in the demiplane she'd set up for herself, Allure curled up by her feet. Had that been a dream? The new marks on her arms seemed to indicate otherwise. Hell, she even felt different. Lighter. Waving a hand gingerly to where she could sense her servant was, she directed it to bring her a mirror as she sat up, tugging at the collar of her nightgown, noticing her spellbooks - both decoy and real - were in their usual positions, undisturbed. Taking the mirror, she examined herself. Ah. That was new. Her eyes... thankfully, she could hide this, hide all of it. Though, if she hadn't been told to return, if the priestess had been cut off - she supposed she could take that as an end to her testing? It'd be far easier to work on countermeasures at least, then.

[inkstainedhan]

fault and responsibility

 [[ Everybody makes mistakes. It’s taking responsibility for them that matters. A look into the past of a certain man. ]]

The mission had been going far better than anticipated by any of them. It’d sounded slightly worrying on paper - infiltrate the group of assassins known as the Voidwalkers, settle one of the group into a high-ranking position, and begin intercepting the more.. dangerous assignments before any harm could come to certain significant figures. Retrieving some of the more significant journals from the assassins’ library would also be quite important - information always was - but that wasn’t the part that had them worried.

Joining the group had been the easiest part. They’d used their intelligence to intercept and kill one of the organisation’s targets, a small-town religious leader who’d been luring people into cults. When the assassins had shown up to find their mark dead and Malketh guarding the body, it’d not taken much sweet talking for them to be recruited. It hadn’t even needed to be them that did the sweet-talking. The Voidwalkers seemed to want new blood, especially new blood that could be so efficient.

The oaths of joining had been easily tricked, too, after they’d seen what happened if you lied. Rinmi, the least cunning of his group, had intentionally not tried to fool their tests. It was a good thing she’d not had family - there was no easy excuse for her death. Thankfully, the subtle use of illusory magic had saved the others from any binding oaths, and from any untimely demises. From there, it’d been years of work. A trail of innocents wanted dead by the greedy lay behind their ever-thinning number, but it was nearly over. Malketh had reached the position of Caller, the elite circle that received near-direct instruction, with one final test lying between them and the information they’d been bid to retrieve from the library. It wasn’t even a hard task. A final assassination of a small family unit. Take out the child and his father - removing the woman would be unnecessary.

He’d been volunteered for it by Malketh, to prove both of their trustworthiness. Declining it was not an option. Not when they’d gone so far already. His mastery of the darkness allowed him to manage it virtually alone, and entirely undetected. The small mansion wasn’t well guarded, and the boy - who, really, looked only slightly older than him - had left his window open. He’d dosed the sleeping figure with poison and allowed the shadows to hasten it, before repeating the process with the father. Placing the remnants in the food would hide any of his involvement. The chef would be accused. He only hesitated once, at the windowsill, when the woman shifted - leaving her amongst dead family seemed.. cruel. But she at least deserved to seek justice for her husband and child, however misplaced it ended up being - perhaps they’d even mistake it for illness. The poison he’d used was, after all, fast-acting and left little trace.

Mission complete, he’d returned to the Voidwalkers. The information was trivial to secure, and they’d left Malketh installed when they departed - their own deaths were faked in the next large assignment. An easy task, when you’d gone by a fake name and race for the past few years. Alone, he travelled back to his hideaway to find a raven waiting for him bearing a letter. It had to be fairly recent - the bird would’ve left otherwise. His cursory checks for poison or curses revealed none. Assuming it’d be a standard letter from his family - perhaps his sister was troubled by whispers again, or his mother needed him for something - he opened it. He’d later wish he’d at least read it whilst sitting down, as the implication of the words within had slammed into him, and he’d collapsed in a dead faint.

‘Your uncle and cousin are dead. Your grandfather requests our presence immediately. The succession must be decided.”

It wasn’t even a month later that the Voidwalkers seemed to disappear from the criminal underworld. From the Callers to the recently inducted, the Voidwalkers were slowly found dead as whispers of a serial killer ran rampant in the cities. It was such a shame, too, that the Shadows he’d been with on the initial mission had fallen on subsequent ones.

Nobody could ever know but him. He’d sealed his own damn fate. He envied his aunt - she’d at least been able to take up a knife and save herself the trouble of living in her nightmares before anyone had been able to get to her. The rest of this mess was his responsibility to take care of.

This was one secret he’d take to the grave.

[inkstainedhan]

victory in loss

[[ they won, but they lost. the game of chess continues. ]]

“They still live.” If one had to guess, the master was disappointed. It had to be a guess, given that he rarely dropped his casual demeanour for anyone. His voice was low and silken, the kind grandmothers would trust absolutely - in different circumstances, he’d likely make a fortune as a tradesman. Even his body language was absolutely casual. He laid upon the onyx throne as if he were a schoolboy, legs crossed over the arm. It was no wonder that he’d rose into prominence so quickly, with confidence like that - and, no doubt, hidden powers. What those glimmering eyes had to have seen...!

“Not all.” His partner in conversation was just as unreadable - yet far more formal. Such elegance came with age, apparently, for all of the immortals seemed to carry themselves as if they were inherently superior. Perhaps they were, but not to the master, who raised an eyebrow.

“None were captured, so it must be presumed that they live. Divine magic favours them.” The servants glanced at each other. All in the halls had heard about the missions. Magic and contracts would force their silence; there was no need to fear the spread of whispers. This would at least provide news for the betting pool, run in the depths of the kitchens. 

“One fell in the first, two in the second. The watchers inform us that the first has been restored as a different race. The other group has the services of their cleric, who restored three correctly.”

“Which fell of each?”

“Of the first, the gunslinger. The dragon caught them by surprise, but was forced to retreat due to the arrival of the shadewalker and the heir, and the vengeance of the rest. Of the second, the warrior and sorcerer. They were overwhelmed and separated, a tactic the first was less exposed to due to thei--”

The master cut him off with a wave. “I am aware of the advantages and disadvantages of each, thank you. What captives were taken?” Another glance between servants. The master wasn’t specifying which side again. They’d noticed he tended to do that when he wanted more information. Maybe it was to see what the speaker found more important, or maybe it was just to put pressure on them. Nobody wished to suffer his displeasure, after all. The other man bowed slightly, undeterred.

“Whilst the dead were not able to be seized, the.. contract you arranged succeeded in intent. She has taken her payment and provided us with a suitable captive - the druid. She was able to trick him in the forest. What would you have us do with him?” The man held out a mirror - the prisoner seemed to be in good health, at least. The master smiled.

“A druid? Send him to the alchemist, and inform his party that he rots in the bowels of Fort Kildaine - they will head there and no doubt encounter the others. The alchemist has been seeking to incorporate natural poisons, and will appreciate the... newcomer.”

“What of our other--”

Whatever he would ask was silenced by the slam of the great doors being thrown open. At the sight of the new group, the servants dutifully filed out. Those wanted for dinner had already been selected and prepared, after all.

[inkstainedhan]

the ritual

as discovered by the celesthem priestess of sarenrae, personalised for Princess Ashlyn Alarian of the Aletheian Empire

Memoria Vitalis

Within pages of ancient texts, the beginnings of a ritual to permanently erase memory were found. Translated and improved, this formerly Dark ritual has been purified into one the Sun can shine down and approve on.

Schools: Enchantment (compulsion) and Divination

The ritual retains the core of the amnesia-inducing ritual, that being a spell weaved into it that adjusts the memory of the target. In place of destruction, however, divination has been written into the runes, modifying the target’s mind to look back into their own past and unlock the secrets hidden within.

Casting Time: 12 hours

The original ritual was 6 hours, allowing for all memories to be locked away within the target, out of reach. Doubling the time allows for the target to break down these barriers with magical assistance, recover their memories, and restore them to their correct locations.

Components: Verbal, somatic, foci (aspects of the gods involved, focusing urn worth at least 2000gp, runic inscriptions) and secondary casters (as appropriate)

The urn, basic foci and runic inscription shall be provided by us, in service to our nation. Each secondary caster will be adorned in the wear of their god, representing the one they champion.

Range: Close (25 ft. + 5 ft./character level of the primary caster); Target: one living creature; Duration: instantaneous; see text

Saving Throw: Will negates (harmless); Spell Resistance: yes

Backlash: Unknown; speculated to cause minor memory issues in primary caster.

Failure: Unknown; speculated to cause amnesia in primary caster.

Whatever the effects on the target’s memory, they will be completely irreversible by any means for 2d6 days. It is possible that this is due to the time it will take for the memories to settle - in this time, more memories may resurface, possibly in a shocking or upsetting manner, so observation of the target in a safe environment is recommended.

Casting Details:

The ritual itself must be cast at dawn, beneath the open sky, on the material plane, at a location that has been designated as a place of worship for more than a year. It requires that the target be placed in the centre of a runic circle of protection and healing, with each secondary caster fanned out around them. The focusing urn must be placed in line with the target, under the hands of the primary caster, who stands outside of the circle. Each secondary caster must kneel, facing the centre, with their God-given implements in front of them. They must pray to their gods for assistance, bearing their holy symbols forward to the air. The primary caster will, meanwhile, weave their magic through the circle in dance and call on Lady Sarenrae directly, openly welcoming the sun's embrace. Upon their return to the urn, the ritual will come into active effect – as this ritual is thus far experimental, it's unclear what will happen from there.

[inkstainedhan]

For what was once thought, there now is.

For what now is, there soon shall not be.

For what is not, there are dreams of what will be.

For where there remain dreams, lie remnants of hope.

Where lieth hope, lieth the key...

To victory.

[inkstainedhan]

plans over wine

Accepting the proffered glass, her dark lips curved into a satisfied smirk as she listened to his little speech. The red liquid had clearly been aged well, its tang unlike the newer kinds. She interrupted in a pause between his torrent of words. “Elven?” she asked, not unkindly. He looked at her askance, taking a sip of his own glass before answering.

“You think so lowly of my choices? First worlder fey, kept well for centuries.” He smiled back at her through the air of satisfaction that seemed to have settled between them. “Their magic tends to add that extra edge, particularly when aged. The elves have their own magic, but theirs is a sweeter flavour, more suited for summer nights than autumn eves. In winter, I shall bring you that produced by aasimar, or perhaps tiefling. Both give a pleasing warmth.”

“Oh?” She raised a perfectly shaped brow. In fact, looking at her, one would quite easily be able to describe her as ‘perfect’ - that is, if one’s description of perfection included a wardrobe darker than a gothic lolita’s and enough jewellery to make a dwarf drop to his knees and weep over the costs involved.  “Does that perhaps tie in with our plans?”

His head dipped low in agreement, though she kept her eyes on his smile. It didn’t seem to change. “Of course. In keeping with that, I hear the young heir has escaped his keepers once again. He’s travelling with the misguided ones who interfered in Ilendras, it seems.” She frowned, adopting a contemplative expression.

That particular group of adventurers had been a thorn in their side since their first appearance in Amarin. They’d not managed anything too disruptive until they’d exposed Elias in Ilendras and stopped his pathetic ‘rescue attempt’, but even so, that wasn’t her agent to care about. The announcement of Alarian as the Lost Princess, though, had caused enough political upheaval to upgrade them from ‘minor disturbance’ to ‘annoying’, and between the events at the ball and the heir’s insistence to remain with the group, she found herself growing quite irritated at them. Perhaps...

“...It might befit us to solve both problems at once,” suggested her partner. Her sharp look could have cut through diamonds, but his grin disarmed her swiftly. “The adventurers are currently residing within Celesthem. The heir, the feral and a small force of hopeful citizens remain on their wagons, circling nearby. According to our sources close to her, Lady Alysia has already enlisted the other adventurers to retrieve the Lord... though they seem to be on course for the first group’s future home.” 

Placing down the glass, she crossed her arms. Making decisions so hurriedly was, again, irritating, but this was quite an intriguing situation. Acting too quickly was to be avoided, but too late, and they’d have missed their chance. “Interfering at the Temple would be unwise, but they appear to have left themselves exposed. Send a small force after the pursuing group, and another after the wagons.”

“My lady?” For the first time that night, she allowed a hint of irritation to glance across her face at his questioning of her. Most people, when faced with her orders, would fall over themselves to adhere, lest risk her fury. Not her current drinking partner. He simply looked at her, unperturbed, his cool gaze demanding answers.

She let out a sharp sigh. “They are equally competent, and if they are to fall, it may discourage the others. Or it may dissuade them from their current course. Just as importantly, it is imperative that they do not succeed in forcing the Lord to return home. He is far easier to deal with away from his home.” Fixing him with another dagger-sharp glare, she added, “I expect that you shan’t be too busy with your own matters to fail me here, ser.”

More solemnly than before, he nodded, his dark armour clanking softly as he stood and bowed to her. “My duties, of course, come first, but I shan’t fail in my vows, my lady. I shall depart come midnight. But first..?”

“Your payment?”

The dull thud of heavy jewellery on the wooden floor was unmistakable, neatly followed by the soft sounds of fabric rustling, and a soft, gentle sigh, far more intimate than the previously formal atmosphere would indicate.

It was always an honour to be allowed to drink from such a powerful woman.

[inkstainedhan]

the other party: identity

some musings on who they are, as written by sonja ilsyth

Notes on my companions:

Taenion Naralthar is a snow elf of 147 years old. Snow elves are a rare variant on the elves most are familiar with, found in the northern reaches of Istralar. Taenion’s tribe, though he’s said little of them, seem to be located in the northern reaches of Iskaldhal. He apparently left his tribe shortly before he reached adulthood to function as a link to the outside world, but he’s always been vague on the specifics of his true purpose. He’s an expert with natural magic, particularly that related to ice and water, and prefers to stay out of close combat if possible. He and Tyrik have a particularly close bond due to their longer partnership - both were also members of a previous adventuring party that fell apart after the deaths of all members but them. Bringing this up to Taenion is a fantastically horrendous idea. Taenion also seems to have an incident in his past involving the drow, as mentioning the historical enemies of his kin is one of the fastest ways to infuriate him. Personality-wise, Tae is wise and logical, with practiced dexterity and an intelligence beyond his years. He acts somewhat like a mother stereotypically does, restraining us from doing anything too ridiculous. He loves warm and mildly spicy food and drink, but detests anything too hot, and describes cold food as ‘bearable, but not pleasant’. He’s fine with nearly any level of cold, but becomes uncomfortable in the warmth, a fact Esran likes to play with. He likes to wear full-length robes not unlike those of a wizard, which often causes him to be accused of wizardry - he shows hints of mischeviousness when he transforms into a bird (or similar) to prove that he is, in fact, a druid. He seems to enjoy being alone, and will often wander away from the group if he’s certain that we’ll be fine. Tyrik has threatened to put a monitoring collar on him. This is likely a good idea.

Tyrik Reiduln is a stout dwarf of 68 years old, hailing from the central region of Iskaldhal. Iskaldhan mythology, and indeed most Dwarven myth, claims that this region is where the dwarves first broke free of the earth, marking those from near the crater as the oldest families and tribes of all dwarvenkind. Like Taenion, Tyrik is rather vague when talking about his home. He instead likes to ramble on about differences in crafting styles, the power of Torag, exact specifications of metals and similar minutae. As mentioned, he was previously a member of another adventuring party - he was the one to tell us of them, and let us know about their untimely deaths. He and Taenion are similarly wise, but Tyrik is far more built around strength than dexterity, and he’s less focused on book-smarts. If Taenion is the group’s mother, he’s the group’s father, preferring to teach and chastise after the fact, stepping in when necessary and restraining Tae when the elf is being too restrictive. He loves any kind of alcohol and welcomes warm, spicy meals, showing a characteristic distaste for anything too leafy. He seems to be happy at any temperature, and feels more at home when beneath the surface, but dislikes being at sea, as there’s no connection to the earth. He tends to wear full suits of armour, or at least proper clerical robes and medium plate, wielding axes or hammers as suits the occasion. As one of Torag’s faithful, he can always be found with a holy symbol of some sort, and his clothing tends to be at least trimmed in Torag’s colours. His favourite haunts are pubs and bars, and he delights in taking Esran and Kesia out for drinking nights. For reasons unknown, he despises small dogs. Esran insists that this is proof that Tyrik, and by extension all dwarves, are goblins in disguise.

Kesia Raahiri is a 21 year old suli woman, originally from the western reaches of Takawaoku. Her culture dictates that all young adults must prove themselves to be worthy of continuing on the tribe, and with her genie heritage awakening, she left home to find glorious wealth and power to bring back one day, and found herself loving the adventurer lifestyle so much that she now just sends gemstones and trophies back occasionally. Her hometown is apparently a small place, a little human settlement that regularly trades with the nearby gnomish towns. When her heritage first emerged, it was these gnomes that helped her family realise what was happening, as they’d kept far better records. Her mother was the one to teach her how to fight, and she makes a habit of yelling battlecries taught to her by said mother in the larger fights. And in the smaller ones, and when we’re on stealthy missions. I have silenced her in the past for this. She’s very strong and decently charismatic, but seriously lacks both smarts and common sense. Particularly the former. She loves overspiced food and drink, alcohol in general, anything meaty and anything similar to what she remembers from her youth - in addition to a general love for food. As our group’s main fighter, she’s usually in full armour with a weapon at the ready - which is, most of the time, a longsword, but she does like to switch on occasion. She and Esran are quite close, with the two having a near sibling relationship thanks to their outsider blood. I also consider her to be a close friend. Kesia likes, above all things, being able to take down her enemies in an impressive manner, whether that manner be humiliation, attacks, or simply drinking them under the table, and she boasts an impressively high fortitude for drinking to prove that last point. She detests having to be overly ‘girly’, citing it as something she’s never had to do, and protested wearing a ballgown for two solid weeks before I was able to convince her otherwise. Overall, she has a fairly sunny disposition unless you anger her or hurt one of her friends, at which point she’ll grow nearly as angry as a raging barbarian.

Esran, no last name given, is a 72 year old ifrit who has fully embraced his fiery nature, quite literally. He’s a sorcerer whose bloodline truly stems from his outsider background and he has no qualms about proving that, throwing flame about as easily as Tyrik might throw a snowball. His past, however, is shrouded in mystery - about all he’s let slip is that he spent most of his childhood in the Sunari Wilderness. His skin bears a myriad of faint scars that seem to hint at a rough past, but this isn’t surprising - the Wilderness has never been known for its lawful nature, and Esran seems to enjoy provoking anyone he can’t get to sleep with him into a fight. His charisma is on par with mine, and as such, we’re a deadly force when combined. He also manages to move with artful grace and dexterity - something honed, allegedly, by his sexual prowess. Unsurprisingly, he’s not the most perceptive of individuals, but can still pull some gems of knowledge when needed. As a mage, he focuses on a mixture of damage-dealing and controlling the battlefield, working with Taenion (and myself, of course) to ensnare our foes in plantlife that then bursts into flame, creating easy targets for Tyrik and Kesia. The battlefield is one of the only places we ever see him taking things seriously, however - he’s usually very happy-go-lucky, and he likes to amuse himself by goading Tyrik and Kesia into drinking contests, or by playing various games with us, one of his favourites being Truth or Dare. He’s effectively our group’s troublemaker. He’s another fan of spices, also loving dry food, teas, and coffee. He’s actually surprisingly good at cooking, which is a shame as Taenion refuses to touch half of what he makes (and the remaining half is only after myself and Tyrik have both tried and given the thumbs up to Esran’s latest creation) due to his strange cuisines. Esran’s usually clothed in the most revealing outfits he can manage without coming off as a stripper, which tends to involve robes ‘accidentally’ left untied, or unbuttoned shirts. He likes to leave his hair slicked back, but it’s naturally fairly spiky and tries to mimic flames, flicks of actual flame included. Of our group, he’s the most outwardly bizarre looking. He calls it a blessing, as it means ‘the ladies are always curious!’, but.. well, it’s drawn enough attention that it could quite easily be a curse, too.

Finally, myself. Sonja Ilsyth, 19 years old, native of Valathe. I’m from the south-western area of the Empire, specifically a small coastal town. I enjoyed a comfortable life as the only daughter of my home’s mayor until a freak tidal wave struck whilst I was studying elsewhere, rendering me homeless. My powers of enchantment grew quickly after that, and I used them to find shelter, housing and friendships as I developed my skills and eventually left to adventure. Taenion insists that my powers are unnatural, and that I should keep quiet about them, so I usually pass myself off as a bard or sorceress. As previously mentioned, I’m extremely charismatic, and thus this usually goes well. Compared to the party, I’m another dextrous and intelligent member, though I like to be closer to the action. I focus on manipulation, interrogation, hidden strikes and subterfuge over Kesia’s style of loud frontal attacks, and it’s gotten me far. My tastes are far milder than my companions’, but I’ll try whatever’s given to me so long as at least one other sane person has vouched for it. I tend to wear tasteful robes and light armouring underneath - the mixture of beauty with defence is one that’s worked for a long time. Just as Tyrik never is seen without his Torag symbol, I also bear an amulet few see me without - a simple silver amulet that I’ve had enchanted with a few protections. It was given to me by a dear friend long before I met my current friends, and has rested around my neck ever since. Just as Esran enjoys his games of seduction, so do I, though mine often end in frustration for my object of affection as I rarely feel like carrying out my teasing to the end. He and I aren’t together - Tyrik and Taenion are the only two vaguely in a couple, and even then, it’s unclear - but we’ve spent many a night in each other’s company, occasionally involving Kesia as well. Our mix of fire seems to match well.

[inkstainedhan]

a flash of silver

Research was something she was good at. Given time, she’d be able to compile books worth of information and summarise the relevant knowledge for easy consumption, no matter the topic.

This time, she even got to do it without the distractions her friends provided. Peace, quiet, and access to a near-unparalleled library of relevant research and knowledge. She’d been loving the time spent here. The only issue was that her topic was rather broad, and narrowing it down was challenging - she understood why nobody had made much headway on it, now. Some of these books had even been sealed in ways that nobody here would have been able to break through. They were lucky to have her.

Her current book, though... the conclusions it led her to were worrying. This could hurt people. No - it would hurt people. Biting her lip, she grabbed the edge of the page. She’d just tear it out and burn it later. Whilst the information could help her research, the risk...

She hadn’t been paying attention to her surroundings, she realised, as a silver flash hit her from behind.

She awoke at dawn, the book still resting in her lap. She must’ve fallen asleep.. ah, the page. Rereading it, she frowned. This information wasn’t harmful. In fact, with all its relevance to her topic, it should be kept safe. She began copying it down, annotating the parts she thought needed adjusting.

The shadows smiled, their work done. The scholar continued her studies.

[inkstainedhan]

the other party: divinity and druidry

Ever since the ball, the group of five had been the subjects of whispers, less-than-subtle stares and unwanted admirers, and Taenion wanted none of it. 

This city already unnerved him. His kind weren’t exactly common even in the northern reaches of Iskaldhal, preferring to remain in close-knit tribal communities to protect themselves, and these city-dwellers didn’t hesitate to remind him of that. He’d been accused of being a sylph or a vampire, or perhaps some magical abomination from their mountains. He’d almost slapped that one in a brief fit of indignation: Valathe’s mountains were hardly worthy of even being called mountains, and yet this upstart wished to accuse him of both being from there and being some sort of abomination? Hmph. They should be glad that he was above their filthy street brawls.

(Kesia had taken offence on his behalf more than once, threatening the brutes in her guttural native tongue. The one time that hadn’t worked, Sonja had glared one of them down and forced him to walk away. He’d never admit it aloud, but Taenion was thankfully for the girls’ overprotective nature, even if it did tend to get them into trouble.)

The ball itself had, at least, been entertaining, if not worrying. Lady Alysia had warned them of possible threats, and they’d kept an eye out. Esran’s distraction with the adventurous halfling had allowed Kesia and Tyrik to knock out and pull away a would-be assassin before he’d acted, Sonja had entered a staring contest - and won - with a vampire who’d been keen on claiming her powers for his clan, and he himself had proven vital in capturing some foolish assassins within the vines climbing up the castle’s walls. Of course, they’d also helped the other adventurers protect Lord Cyne, and his comrades had taken to interrogating the perpetrator rather enthusiastically. In front of the weak-hearted nobles. He’d had words with them all about appropriateness later on, of course - what use was his research into cultural behaviour differences if it was ignored? - but had largely been pushed aside in favour of caring for Esran’s sickness.

Of course, Esran had had to get himself separated from the group. The ifrit’s reckless nature and lack of self-respect was infamous in their party, and whilst Taenion had done an admirable job of hiding the concern during the ball, he’d given the ifrit a long lecture about being careful and identifying poisons afterwards. Tyrik had stood by him on this, the two presenting a unified front for once - one that was almost immediately ignored by Esran leaving for some time with that halfling. The audacity of that boy. Tyrik had forced Taenion to sit down and drink a mug of ‘one hundred percent Dwarven ale from back home, spiced and heated to perfection’ to prevent the snow elf from sending his companion after Esran to ‘keep an eye on him’. It had worked, if only because Kesia had switched the brews with a decidedly too spicy brew from her home, only complaining about how bland the Dwarven one was after he’d taken the first sip. He had not needed, nor wanted, to know how it felt to breathe fire, yet he was near certain he now possessed this knowledge. It was most certainly not wanted.

Thankfully, it’d been a few days since that incident, and neither the suli nor the dwarf had tried to get him to drink anything strange since. Instead, Sonja had been leading them about the city to meet old acquaintances of hers and show them the sights of Undria. Currently, they were being accompanied by Lady Alysia, only adding to the stares and whispers, as they walked through the city’s religious district. Sonja and Alysia had always seemed to get along well, from their first meeting after the group had felled the sea serpents to the current day, and now both seemed to be locked into a religious debate on the sources of various powers. Tyrik had already dived in with his own thoughts on the matter, the cleric never being able to ignore a chance to speak on the greatness of Torag. Esran and Kesia had fallen behind slightly, arguing between themselves on... surely he’d misheard.

He spun around to give each of them a scathing look, chastising them in the group’s preferred tongue - a regional variant of Dwarven, one commonly heard in all reaches of Iskaldhal with various levels of comprehensibility. They’d taught it to Kesia and Esran. Sonja, being the group’s best linguist, had long since learnt it when they’d met. “You two have far better topics to discuss than the preferred amount of flesh upon someone’s behind, especially in earshot of a Lady. Handle yourselves.” His sharp comment silenced the religious discussion, and caught the attention of those nearby - perhaps using an unfamiliar language in a city’s centre had been unwise. He ignored the flush of heat that reddened the tips of his ears in favour of continuing to glare at his two foolish companions, who grinned at each other before each darting forward to surround him. Tyrik, ahead of them, let out a laugh and asked Lady Alysia something about her foresight, smoothly resuming that conversation and not-so-subtly letting Taenion know he’d be on his own with the two imbeciles for now.

Kesia’s - or perhaps Esran’s, he really couldn’t tell at that moment - hand squeezed his backside firmly, bringing his attention back to the two flanking him. She laughed at his displeased reaction, teasing gently. “C’mon, Tae, it’s an important topic! There’s an optimal level of booty and we’ve gotta decide what it is.” Esran followed up with a wink, flicking Taenion’s chest gently - both of his hands were visible, he’d been right in guessing it was Kesia who was being forward - and his own comment.

“For instance, Tyrik’s buttocks are muscular and handsome, but there’s not quite enough to make them exciting, whereas Kesia’s is supple enough that there’s plenty to hold onto.” Thankfully, the conversation wasn’t being held in Aletheia’s native tongue, and Taenion couldn’t see any looks of comprehension or disgust on the faces of those they passed. Esran was mercifully holding back from projecting images or drawing diagrams in the air, likely not wanting to test Taenion’s patience too much.

Kesia nodded sagely. “Yeah, but my butt’s also a little too big for most people’s comfort, especially midgets like Tyrik or that Kraia chick you slept with. You need that perfect balance of--”

“I do not see how this relates to me, why you are discussing this within earshot of a noblewoman, nor why you choose to discuss this in a religious sector.” he interrupted, unable to bear the woman’s touch any longer. “Unhand me, please. I do not wish to make a scene.” He saw the victorious looks pass between the two as they released him, and sent them disgusted ones in return, striding forward to get away from them only to see that in his absence, the others had gotten into a discussion with a wandering zealot wearing a similar amulet to Sonja’s own. Not more of this. The religious debates they’d held around campfires were bad enough. Deciding that he’d dealt with quite enough of the party’s bickering and debating for one day, Taenion closed his eyes for a moment and focused, shifting into the form of a small bird. His friends hadn’t noticed, distracted with their two conversations, but it wouldn’t be the first time Nature had taken him away from them, and so they wouldn’t worry. After all, they knew where he’d go. He’d been enamoured with Undria’s nature district since their first pass through it, and immediately set course for it. None would take note of a simple bird resting in a tree.

As he’d predicted, it was a few hours later that his friends came searching for him, having finished their travels. Alysia was no longer with them, he noted - they’d likely accompanied her back to the castle. He flew up above them, listening to their conversation for a few moments.

“...wasn’t our fault her brother wandered off with the other adventurers. She sounded kinda pissed at him.” Kesia laughed, waving her hands in the air. “Least she’s got us to find out where he’s got to!” Esran nodded in agreement, his golden eyes scanning the trees for any sight of Taenion - or so Taenion assumed, at least.

Tyrik grunted in response, shifting the axe on his shoulders. “We ken where they’re heading, we dinnae need to find them. I’m curious meself about that vision. Ye pick up on it, Sonja?” A vision? Perhaps he’d made a mistake in leaving. The oracles of his homeland oft needed assistance during their fits of Sight. Tyrik had been there, at least. Sonja nodded as she glanced around, auburn hair glinting in evening’s light.

“Whatever it was, it wasn’t to do with us. Something to do with the dwarves of this land. She glanced at you, Tyrik, then towards the mountains in the distance. Given her need to depart...” she trailed off, each of them connecting the dots. 

Esran frowned, glancing towards the mountains marring the horizon. “More drow activity, ya think? A few of them were involved at the ball..” Drow. Were he not a bird, his glare would have surely mutilated Esran. That a drow assassin had escaped them had infuriated him. If their next mission were to involve eradicating the beasts, he’d be pleased. Bird form or not, though, he’d been noticed.

“Tae, ye can get down here now. Ye’re not subtle.” Tyrik called out, beckoning him down with a stubby-armed Dwarven wave. He sneered mentally, but landed and transformed back gracefully, levelling a haughty glare at all of them.

“I appear to have missed something significant,” he said, rather imperiously. Kesia’s eye-roll at his manner didn’t go unnoticed, and the suli became subject to his glare in turn. “Something involving Lord Cyne, a fit of Sight, dwarves and filth. I suggest we adjourn to our quarters so we may discuss things in private and can decide a course of action for our party.”

Tyrik grabbed his arm and muttered, “Calm yerself, Tae. Save yer cold fury for later,” gently leading the snow elf in the direction of their quarters with a meaningful look to the rest of the group. Sonja hooked her arms through Kesia and Esran’s, forcing them to match her step and staying just behind, as Tyrik kept up a litany of mutterings that slowly bled into Taenion’s form of Elvish.

It was a nice thought, but Taenion wouldn’t be distracted from the mentions of filth that easily. At their temporary home, Sonja told them what she’d discovered of the current situation in Aletheia, of how the other adventurers had already stopped a cel of drow activity in Undria proper. Tyrik took over to fill Taenion in on what Alysia had asked them to do: find her brother and make sure he was alright. Cyne had disappeared in the middle of the night. No signs of a struggle, and the other adventuring party - who he’d travelled with in the past - had departed earlier that day, but... he was her brother, and a little more importantly, the Heir to the entire bloody Empire, in Tyrik’s words. They’d agreed to track him down and make sure he was alright. Taenion asked after the vision, noting that aside from Sonja’s words at the beginning, nobody had commented on it. With commentary from Esran and Sonja - Kesia remaining silent, not caring for magic in any of its forms - Tyrik filled him in on how Alysia had near collapsed in the street, words in Celestial spilling out incomprehensibly and uncontrollably. They’d gotten her away from public earshot quickly, but she’d been understandably disturbed when she’d come out of the fit, and had insisted they keep what they heard to themselves, refusing to elaborate on anything. She’d been quickly escorted back to the castle shortly after, as in Tyrik’s expert opinion, she desperately needed rest.

Their observations on what they’d heard concerned him, but the prior request - to find the Heir - was indeed more important, and he assured Tyrik of this. Not that there’d been much doubt, however. Taenion and Tyrik were the most logical of the group, just as Sonja and Esran were the most charismatic, and Kesia the most likely to run in and hit things.

They decided to make for Solariste first, to depart at morning’s light. If anything, the town of light would at least have seen the other party’s infamous way of travel pass through, and they could decide their direction from there.

That night, Taenion’s dreams were plagued with shadows. Tyrik, his party, his home - fleshwarped monstrosities and feral drow tore at each of them, their disgusting laughter ringing in his ears as familiar bodies fell to the floor broken, bent, their screams cut off by the talons that hooked through their throats... and he was torn out of the nightmares by Tyrik. The dwarf’s arms had wrapped around his midriff, and he appeared to have been maneuvered into a nest of furs on the floor. “..?” His voice felt hoarse, overused. Tyrik gave him a gruff smile.

“Ye woke me up, ya bastard. Temperature’s dropped a good chunk, too. Calm yerself and let’s get some good rest, aye?” Embarrassed, Taenion nodded, wrapping furs around the both of them and laying back down. He’d be gone by morning, as per usual, but the dwarf’s presence would at least keep away the night’s horrors. 

Neither man noticed Sonja at the door, her expression relaxing upon seeing them intertwined. She closed it gently, turning to the two behind her. “It was Taenion this time. Let’s let them be.” she murmured. They nodded, understanding.

After all, they’d all been told what had happened to the northern duo’s previous companions. This wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last.

And come morning light, when they departed, there would be no teasing, nor any comment that they’d seen or heard anything. Instead, Kesia beared the brunt of morning banter, accused of moaning in her sleep - the subsequent argument serving to thoroughly fluster both her and the uptight Taenion, to the amusement of the other three. They departed shortly after, continuing to bicker over pointless topics, just as a good adventuring party did.

END

[inkstainedhan]

secrets and gifts

A small bird flittered around outside the window, hopping from branch to branch, pecking at leaves seemingly aimlessly, unaware of the predator that watched it until a bolt of twisted energy sapped its life, its corpse falling into the dirt. Celuriel smiled, the expression not reaching her eyes. Her aim was getting better. 

The time spent waiting for the adventurers to return wasn’t as agonisingly boring to her as the others seemed to find it. Being locked up in a tower with little to do had been most of her life, after all. This wasn’t very different. This time, however, it was a lot noisier. The spirits whispering around her, she was used to. The strangers they travelled with, she was not. She’d been accosted by a couple of their females, her hair toyed with and her clothing neatened up. They’d tried to paint her nails. She’d asked them not to. They’d insisted.

They had left her alone after tasting her claws. She had told them to stop first. They deserved it. The screaming and fleeing wasn’t surprising, she’d hit them, but the consequent lecture from Cyne had been unexpected and.. somewhat hurtful, actually. Her mother had just yelled at her, her sister had condescended towards her. The young lord had walked in after the screaming, sat her down and talked to her about why it’d happened, what had gone wrong.. had basically given her an almost fatherly lecture. She’d left that discussion feeling slightly uncomfortable. Thankfully, that hadn’t happened again, and she’d been able to mostly get away with sitting on her own, lost in thoughts and dreams, listening to messages given exclusively to her, embracing her role as an oracle. 

The adventurers were not in trouble, she was sure, else she’d insist someone go and help them. It annoyed her that they’d picked a temple to heal the lost princess, a place she couldn’t go lest risk destruction. She hadn’t yet figured out how to possess a corpse without them noticing the difference, and they very clearly didn’t trust her yet. She’d keep them safe, anyway. Fate had a path they needed to walk, and she would ensure they remained on it. Her liege hadn’t entrusted her with these powers, these whispers, for her to waste them on futile destruction. She threw another blast of negative energy, claiming another bird’s life without so much as a thought. Death was a beautiful gift to give to those with little point for life, but her adventurers needed to cling to their precious lifeblood to complete their fated travels. 

A snap rang out. The lord. Images came unbidden - his body, broken under the weight of a chandelier, torn asunder by abyssal creatures on a far-off plane, shredded by the orc’s greatsword, bare of all wounds but a slice on his wrist dealt by his own hand. His handsome face, pale in death. Blue from lack of oxygen. Charred black and lifeless by hellfire. Skeletal, reanimated, vampiric. A million fates, each as possible as the last.

He is necessary.

She knew not how she reached his door whilst the images plagued her vision. Her liege was likely responsible. Their contract allowed for it. She’d not ask. The opened door revealed an entirely alive and whole Lord, her sharp eyes picking up the source of the noise instantly. A snapped nib, nothing to panic over. The emotions around him, however, were harsh. Sorrow, frustration, bitterness, apprehension, desperation, love, and the faintest hint of hope, all drowned out by overwhelming disgust and hatred for himself. Nothing too far from his usual repertoire, just stronger, more intense. He’d been thinking. As he met her gaze, she sensed the shifts. Apprehension, curiosity, wariness, suspicion. 

Her eyes betrayed her fear of him, even as she responded to her name. The young Lord, were he to disagree with her purpose, could be her largest challenge - could end her here. He was dangerous, but he was necessary, just as the adventurers and their pet drow-orc were. Just as Aniks was.

It seemed the Lord could sense her own apprehension far better than she’d expected - or perhaps she was allowing too much to show. Either way, he wanted to talk to her. Wanted her to explain - to share her secrets, for him to keep close to his breast. She sought permission as she sat, hair falling before her eyes to keep the flash of ruby from sparking alarm. No pain followed, nor bitter yelling. Only sharp approval. If anything, that had her more concerned. This was to be part of the plan.

Shyly meeting his gaze, she began, voice as soft and unsure as always. “...you are aware of my gift. how much do you know of.. and understand of... oracles?”

His sister was one, he explained. Gifted by her goddess, yet cursed just the same. The visions, he said, were the worst part of growing up with her. Celuriel understood. They always came unbidden, showering prophecy both true and false. She told him of hers, how death had twisted her gifts. How they arrived not like raindrops, but like a tsunami, flooding her mind - and how her undead powers fuelled this further, a prediction her sister had made. One that had encouraged her sister’s experiment, the one that had slain her. 

Strangely, despite his nature, she found herself imparting more secrets than intended to the Lord, secure in the knowledge that he would, in fact, keep them. They had agreed to it. It had been sealed that way. In turn, he shared some of his own, even allowing her to see why fate cared for him. The mark wasn’t expected, and she’d looked at him with open curiosity - why Him? He’d weaved her a story of expectation, of loss, of secrecy and despair. She pressed the story into the annals of her mind, locked behind the safety of their verbal contract.

Neither was comfortable with the other, but both understood Hell and despair. It made sense that they found some comfort being able to speak somewhat openly. The conversation ended just as abruptly as it had started, both aware of the invaders above. He’d waved it off - “They can’t get on board, Pin’s made this thing fairly secure.” - and she’d lost her sight to visions of blood, bodies, gore and blades until he’d dragged her to the door for them to discover that one was true.

Kazric was far more trouble than he was worth, but at least she could tell he wasn’t harmed, and Cyne’s spell cleared up the redness before it could send her into a frenzy of despair. The half-orc was still different, somehow.

An agreement later, and she found out why, lips taking both prana and thought. Undeath had its advantages, and she left him sleeping - the Lord skulking - to ponder what she’d learnt. She’d share it with the Lord, as he’d share what he learnt. That was a Sight she already knew to be true.

She simply had to wait for him to grow tired of listening to the half-orc’s mutterings and retire to his bed. And so, she waited.

[inkstainedhan]

heartbreak

(( note - this is an older piece expanding on lyadri’s backstory. it’s not the first time I’ve shared it with anyone, I just wanted to put it on here. ))

It started off like any other day.

The sun's rays gently woke the lovers, dancing over their eyes and providing gentle reminder that it was time to rise. Lyadrí rested her head against her husband's bare chest for a long moment, basking in his warm embrace, before sighing to herself and sitting up. Yet again, she'd woken first. How would he ever manage time without her? Still, today was her day to look after Ilurae, and he had his Captain's duties. She looked down at him, studying his face - tousled dark blonde hair that seemed to fly everywhere in his sleep, warm blue eyes that spoke of the sky and before she'd even realised what was happening, his lips were on hers. She could feel his smile, and matched it with her own, leaning in and feeling his arms wrap around her - gods, he made her feel small. It took the birdsong outside to break their kiss, reminding them of the time, the two lovers flushed and happy in each other's arms. She gently pulled back, unwilling to look away, and broke the silence.

"Good morning, dearest of heart. Were your dreams pleasant?"  

Ryseon grinned back at her. "You were there, and remain here - is this a dream? If so, then I'm still in the most pleasant dream of my life." He'd always enjoyed watching her pale cheeks flush with warmth. She flicked his shoulder. "Ah! You wound me!"

"Perhaps, but now you are certain that we're in reality. And you, my beloved, have duties today, else you could stay here in Elysium." She sounded almost wistful, but knew he'd need to go - and more importantly, that she'd need to stay, else she'd be by his side. As they had been, before Ilurae. He took her hands in his, sensing her thoughts. He'd always been perceptive.  

"And you have our daughter to look after, angel. I won't be gone for more than a day, I promise. We're not making any pushes unless necessary. You know I'll be fine. If we run into trouble, I'll get us out, just like I always have." Ryseon leant forward once again, placing a feather-light kiss on her forehead. "Don't worry, Ilye."

Lyadrí sighed. "I'm never going to stop worrying about you, Erys. If I were better, I'd be able to help from here, but..."

"You've still come far, Ilye. Most mages at your age haven't done nearly as much as you have." Ryseon said gently, cutting her off. "You're going to be able to help from anywhere, one day – you'll probably be strong enough to take back Zeranith on your own, by then."

"I'd never do it on my own, because I wouldn't do it without you by my side."

Whatever he'd begun to reply was interrupted by a crashing noise from the other room. The two elves glanced at each other, and ran for the door, to be greeted with the sight of their daughter playing with the shards of a broken vase. A vase that had previously been high up on a shelf. With no way up to it. Ryseon looked at Lyadrí.

"I believe she's inherited your talents, dear."

Lyadrí closed her eyes for a moment, releasing a deep breath. "We are going to need to secure any fragile objects. And invest in waterproofing. Possibly fireproofing."

"...you were that bad, huh?"

Choosing to avoid the discussion for the moment, she strode forward and crouched next to the 6-year-old, checking her for any cuts or scrapes. Thankfully, none appeared. "Sweetheart, breaking things is bad. If you had wanted to play with the vase, you should have come to your father or myself." Ilurae pouted, clear turquoise eyes – a perfect blend of Lyadrí's green and Ryseon's blue – innocently looking up at her mother. "Mama was sleepy!" she whined plaintively, dropping the shard of china she'd been holding only for Lyadrí to whisk the pieces away with a wave. "Mamaaa..!"

"You have awoken me many times, darling. You may continue to do so." A chuckle came from behind them as both mother and daughter were pulled into a gentle hug, each letting out a noise of surprise.

"As adorable as this is, I have to head to the squadron. The sun's rising ever higher, and I can't keep them waiting forever." Ryseon said, squeezing them both lightly before standing back up. Ilurae immediately ran to him, latching onto his leg, pleading:

"Dada, play later? I wanna play swords!" He laughed an agreement and beckoned Lyadrí closer, ruffling Ilurae's hair. The couple hugged, lips meeting for a minute too long (Ilurae made a noise of complaint, letting go of her father and running to hide underneath a pillow), hands resting on certain assets, eventually pulling away.

"I meant what I said earlier, Erys. Please be careful. And... tell the others I said hello. I miss being with them, too."

"I will, angel. I'll let the others know, as well. Perhaps we can have some of them over soon, have a catch up."

"Let's. Erys?"

"Ilye?"

"I love you."

"I love you, too. Eternally and endlessly."

"Be safe.."

"Always. See you later?" "Of course. I'll wait here for you."

"Then I shall look forward to returning."

And he left, armour gleaming, cape blowing in the warm breeze of a summer's morning. The day was beautiful. Lyadrí watched him climb onto his horse and ride into the distance, waving until he was out of sight, Ilurae frantically trying to imitate her mama.

He didn't return that day, and she assumed it was some small setback, reassuring Ilurae that Dada was probably just stuck dealing with another silly situation.

Nor did he return the next. She told Ilurae that it must be like the time his horse had been kidnapped by another squadron by mistake.

The third day passed, and ended. She avoided Ilurae's questions.

A knock at her door, in the middle of the night, had her there in an instant, expecting – hoping – to be able to berate her lover for leaving her for so long without warning, only to be greeted by two solemn men in armour. They came bearing their condolences, their apologies, a chest, and a letter. There was no body for her to bury. They hadn't been able to recover it, only some of his belongings – the ones he refused to leave at home. A locket of them both, a drawing Ilurae had made him, his cape – stained with what she could only assume was his own blood.

Her Erys, her husband, was dead.

The letter was from their higher-ups. She was most qualified to take his position, but they understood she'd need time to grieve. Take however long you want, it said. The Captaincy will be yours when you're able to take it.

Ilurae had never seen her mother cry before that day, and after the week had passed, never would again. It took a few days for it to sink in to the child that her Dada wasn't coming back – would never come back again. The funeral was three days after Lyadrí had been told. It was a large affair. Ryseon had been charismatic and friendly, and many wanted to say goodbye. A week after Ryseon's death, Lyadrí accepted the Captaincy, to the concern of both those above and underneath her. She could handle it, she said. But balancing raising a child – one with occasional magical tendencies, at that – alongside her military duties, in addition to her now-hidden grief, wasn't easy. The only help she accepted was for Ilurae, and most of her friends worried in silence, hoping she'd recover over the next few years. It was six years later that she realised, in the midst of combat, that she was burning out. And it'd gotten them in trouble – she'd made a mistake. Tracks, at the edge of her vision.

"Sidhis, move!" She'd gotten him to scout ahead, not watching their position carefully enough nor thinking ahead – and now they were going to be ambushed, and he'd be hit. He had a wife, they had children – she couldn't let this happen, couldn't let her mistake ruin someone else's life. In desperation, she yelled her summoning command, bringing a pony into existence just in time for a hail of arrows to slam into it. Saving him. He turned to thank her, and she saw his eyes widen as pain blossomed through her chest, looking down to see the point of a blade exiting her stomach. Her vision faded to nothing as the sword was wrenched back, sending a wave of pain through her.

Her last thought was of Ilurae, alone, neither of her parents there to guide her – she'd wanted to spare her daughter that fate.

'I'm sorry.'

...

She hadn't expected to wake up, so it was a surprise when she did. She couldn't tell how long it had been, but she was at home, the familiar trinkets scattered all around her room, her bed far too large for just one person. The sun streamed through her window, as it always had on bright days - just the same as the morning she'd seen her lover last. She sat up and gasped sharply – pain. A look told her that her failure hadn't just been a nightmare. Bandages had been wrapped around her midsection. Somehow, they'd saved her. She waited quietly for someone to enter, contemplating what had happened in silence. It wasn't long - a servant walked in, took one look at her sitting up in bed and fled for the medics. She didn't even need to ask before they began to fill her in on all she'd missed. They told her she'd saved Sidhis, and alerted her squadron to the danger with her yell. They'd been able to save her, but it'd been close – she'd lost a lot of blood. Honestly, one confided in her, they'd thought she was dead upon arrival. She'd been so pale. The wound had been healed to the best of their ability, but such a lethal strike would always leave a mark. However, they'd done the best they could, and she would live. She wouldn't even feel any lingering pain. But even with the exceptional care they'd given her, she'd been unconscious for weeks. Her daughter had visited every day, and was being well taken care of, but they were sure she'd be glad to see her mother awake – she'd been so scared of being left alone, the poor child. Lyadrí could feel their gazes, heavy with a mix of judgement and pity. She'd heard those she disliked talking about how she'd clearly gone mad with grief. She wished she could say they were completely wrong, but she'd failed, and she'd nearly left her daughter motherless. However, she still refused to speak until Ilurae came in to see her, and even then, it was mainly to whisper apologies and love to the terrified twelve-year-old. Ilurae's first reaction, of course, was to hug her mother (carefully).

"Mama? Please don't get hurt again."

"I wasn't thinking, sweetest. I'll be more careful." And she gently pulled her daughter close, feeling Ilurae's tears spill against her chest. She closed her eyes. This was her child, and she was the cause of the tears. She'd make sure that wouldn't happen again.

As soon as she was allowed to, she tried to resign from the military. It was her fault, after all. She was a mage, why did she think she belonged on the front line? But she was refused – an ambush was out of her control, and besides, she had never failed them before. They weren't about to let such a promising captain leave over something so simple. She'd not expected that, but thinking quickly, she took leave for the first time since Ryseon's death instead. She didn't feel ready to get back into combat, not with the lingering pains in her chest. The next two years were far different to what she was used to, but in a better way than normal. Two years of spending time with her daughter, teaching her cantrips and control, telling her stories of her father and grandparents. They visited friends a lot, occasionally visiting Ryseon's remaining family to try and skate around the gaping hole his death had left, making sure to take a moment to visit his grave every summer on the anniversary of the day they'd learnt he was gone. Anything to remember him. She took Ilurae to train with those actually talented with martial weapons – various friends showing the young girl how to shoot with bows, and use their elven blades. Lyadrí found amusement in simply shooting a crossbow bolt at the target: "They're far more practical." After the two years, however, Lyadrí decided to return to her position. She had many more years she could spend away from the front line, or from the war in general, but she'd seen the soldiers. She'd seen the wounded, heard stories. They could always use a battlemage, one who could manage tactics and fighting. She knew Ilurae would protest, but she was more knowledgeable than before, more wary. She could manage this.

So, she asked to return, to the displeasure of the friends she'd spoken with about the topic. They were worried for her, she'd already changed so much because of the war. They asked about Ilurae; she deflected the questions. They encouraged her to travel instead. To learn more magic. To help the innocents who had no army behind them, even if they weren't, well, Elven. She could learn so many things. Why did she want to return to the army over that?

She ignored all of them, deciding to be confident in herself and not let Ryseon down.

Her leaders were gentle with their rejection. "We have spoken with your companions, and we believe it would serve you well to experience culture outside Elvandír. Your position is being taken care of. You will maintain your rank as Captain, but we are denying your request to return to the frontlines. Most soldiers travel before dying, Captain An'thimael. Experience the outside world, then return and bring your powers to our men." The General was calm, polite and yet firm with her – he was far older, of course, and she wasn't the first to attempt to devote her life to the cause.

"...Sir, I'm afraid I don't understand. What--" She almost didn't believe she'd been denied, keeping her face as neutral as possible. To be told that she needed to wander was unfathomable. Ilurae – she couldn't just leave her.

"Captain, you are young. Whilst experienced, you've not learnt much of the world. If we are to remain an informed nation, we must have some travel out and learn. As you seek knowledge of the arcane and are a trustworthy and upstanding member of the community, you are a perfect asset for this. Treat it as leave, if you will, but travel. Learn all you can, and keep us proud."

"…Yes, sir." She left the hall in silent fury, understanding their logic yet despising it. Leaving... She'd miss precious years of Ilurae's life, but if it was for her nation, there wasn't much choice in the matter. Three months later, she'd packed her bags, said her goodbyes. Ilurae would take care of Ryseon's mementos, and her friends would in turn care for Ilurae. She didn't want to risk losing the last remnants of her husband, nor did she want to even think about losing the only family she had left. They promised to keep in touch. She informed them that if they failed to, she would return as soon as possible to see what was wrong. Ilurae had giggled at that.  

And so Captain Lyadrí An'thimael left her home for the first time, scarred, a touch cynical, resistant to change both out of lingering resentment and of sheer habit, determined to do all she could to prove herself superior - and ever-loyal to Elvandír.