Warnings: none? please ask me to tag something if I’ve missed it!
Summary: Erwin chats with his bonded, Jace
The Black Templar took in a deep, steadying breath before he reached out and knocked on the front door of his bonded's house, trying to calm what felt like battle nerves. Which was foolish, as he wasn't in any physical danger. "Jace, are you there?"
"Come on in, I'm in the living room." Jace called out after what felt like a painful eternity to Erwin.
"Very well." He opened the door and carefully stepped in, closing it behind himself. Jace's home smelled of mulled spices and slowly-roasting meats. He took a steadying breath as he removed his boots, setting them near the shoe rack and making his way over to the aforementioned room.
"You said that you wished to speak with me about something?" Erwin prompted, maintaining a calm expression on his face, despite the fact that he was... Somewhat nervous as to the fact that the mortal whom he had very recently bonded to had been rather... Frustratingly vague in text what it was that they wanted to speak with him about.
"Yes, you told me three weeks ago that you and I are bonded - and it means that our lives are tied together in some way? I did ask you to give me some time to process this and to do some research about these bonds. I am grateful for the time and the resources that you pointed me towards." Jace answers, smiling gently up at him from where they were sitting on the couch, having just set down a paintbrush "I've learned quite a bit about the different sorts of bonds that can manifest. Do you know the type of bond we have? Or is it more undefined then that? This is one of the things that has been.. Vague, at least from what those of us who are bonded have been able to discern and have talked online about, at any rate. Please sit."
Erwin obeyed the order, sitting on the plush carpet as he wasn't sure if his bulk would damage their furniture. "If you want our bond to be evaluated, I can make an appointment with one of the Librarians - Astartes Librarians have-" heretical witchcraft, dangerous psionic powers, no. No. He can't say any of that, as he is trying to make a good impression on his bonded, so Erwin spoke with a careful diplomacy that was difficult for the Black Templar "An ability that allows them to perceive the bond directly. I'm not sure if both of us need to be present, or if only one of us needs to be present for the assessment. I am newly arrived to Terra, and am learning quite a few things, so the time to process has been a boon to myself as well."
Like how apparently many of his brothers refused this gift from the emperor until they were bound so tightly to a mortal where they physically could not live without them. Erwin thought that foolish, as this was clearly a gift from The God Emperor for his service, to be able to devote himself to one of them in such a way. "And I do believe that simply because out bond is or at least is currently in one way, it does not need to stay in that way. if we wished to change it... It.. From what I have been able to understand, is a method for us to be drawn together, to learn each other and to grow in strength together as we decide how we wish to move forward together. At least, this is how it has been explained to me, although I could be misunderstanding something. I have learned a tremendous amount of things in a very short span of time."
Jace's eyes light up at that and they nod "Excellent! So, something that I wanted to tell you up front is that I have two romantic partners, who I don't plan on leaving, despite the mystical bond that the two of us have been given. We are in an open, poly relationship, and if you and I are compatible and interested in that way, I'd be happy to introduce you to them as another potential partner. But... If you're not sure you can share me with others, then this isn't going to work out. I... I hope I'm not coming across as harsh, but I want to be open and honest with you. From what I've read, a lot of astartes with bonds can get... Really possessive. Which I am very much not into."
Erwin blinks rapidly, trying to parse through some of the language. "I... Ah. I am still learning this language, what is a poly relationship? The only terms with poly in them that I know of involve polymers, which can be used in a number of ways but don't generally refer to people directly?" He tilts his head a little in earnest confusion.
Jace relaxes just a fraction before tensing a little "Oh! Poly in this term is short for polyamorous. It means that I am in a romantic relationship with more than one person. I'm in a romantic relationship with three other people - the others are off at work at the moment." Jace explained patiently.
Erwin tilted his head a little and answered "I am glad that you have romantic love and support." Why. Why would this bother him? He cared for Jace dearly, but the idea of doing... Romantic things with any baseline made him nervous - between the size and strength differences, he was concerned about logistical issues. He knew that there were some cousins... And brothers... Who enjoyed chasing or being chased by mortals but it just seemed so... Messy to him. "I am currently uninterested in any romantic or sexual relationships at the moment. If that changes, I will notify you and we can revisit this conversation then? Although that may not necessarily mean that I will gain romantic or sexual interests in you... And I truly hope that this does not come off as rude or overly-blunt. You are being forthright and clear-worded, so I am doing my best to do the same."
Jace relaxed a little, a breath of relief leaving him. "I am glad to hear that, and that sounds entirely fair to me. And... I would like to see what our bond says. Is there a process for us to go through in order to get scanned, or do we go to one of the bases?"
"Those with the ability to assess bonds are few and very busy, so I would request an appointment, and then we would go on the appointed day and time. Do you have a time of the day and week that would work best for you?" Erwin answers, clasping his hands in his lap as he spoke, one hand on his wrist-mounted vox, ready to begin the process. "It would also be the time that we would register the bond with the alliance - they track these things."
"Huh, there was mention of that online, good to know that's confirmed. As for time... Any day monday through friday after 2pm, and on the weekends from 10am to 4pm." Jace answers "... Do you want to spend some time getting to know one another, or are you going to be busy doing... Other things?"
"Do you have a preference? I can keep myself busy with scrimshawing, after sending off the bonding assessment request form, but I wouldn't mind getting to know you better as well." Erwin answered. He'd been counseled by the chaplain he'd spoken on base to not try to push things too much too quickly, so he was trying not to be too much for them all at once.
He hoped that he was succeeding.
"Sure thing! Something that my moms always told me was a good way to get to know someone was to play a game with them that they didn't know. Have you ever played Fluxx?" Jace asked curiously, beaming and standing up, heading over to a decently sized cabinet "When my partners come home, I'll see if they'll want to play Betrayal at House on The Hill with us. They're crucial parts of my inner circle, and I want to see how you and them get along, but they are at work at the moment."
"I am unfamiliar with either game, but am willing to learn." Erwin answers with a nod, curious.
Sorry I haven’t posted anything in over a month, I’ve been slightly distracted.
I really like the thought of when Hornet was born she just popped out of the egg a glow stick lmao. Because her father is a higher being, and is kinda moon, she glows really brightly until her shell hardens, so the weavers and her mom are just a little blind for a bit. Like shes the lone star that survived, and her siblings the dear night sky. This isn’t canon, but the idea is fun. I wanna draw a stupid little comic of her coming out of her egg, but that’s later lol.
Anyway, I’ll post the drawings I did for airtight here later, I only did like half the drawings I did last time, but that’s still like ten lol. Hope you all like this! :)
Warnings: none? please ask me to tag something if I’ve missed it!
Summary: Erwin chats with his bonded, Jace
The Black Templar took in a deep, steadying breath before he reached out and knocked on the front door of his bonded's house, trying to calm what felt like battle nerves. Which was foolish, as he wasn't in any physical danger. "Jace, are you there?"
"Come on in, I'm in the living room." Jace called out after what felt like a painful eternity to Erwin.
"Very well." He opened the door and carefully stepped in, closing it behind himself. Jace's home smelled of mulled spices and slowly-roasting meats. He took a steadying breath as he removed his boots, setting them near the shoe rack and making his way over to the aforementioned room.
"You said that you wished to speak with me about something?" Erwin prompted, maintaining a calm expression on his face, despite the fact that he was... Somewhat nervous as to the fact that the mortal whom he had very recently bonded to had been rather... Frustratingly vague in text what it was that they wanted to speak with him about.
"Yes, you told me three weeks ago that you and I are bonded - and it means that our lives are tied together in some way? I did ask you to give me some time to process this and to do some research about these bonds. I am grateful for the time and the resources that you pointed me towards." Jace answers, smiling gently up at him from where they were sitting on the couch, having just set down a paintbrush "I've learned quite a bit about the different sorts of bonds that can manifest. Do you know the type of bond we have? Or is it more undefined then that? This is one of the things that has been.. Vague, at least from what those of us who are bonded have been able to discern and have talked online about, at any rate. Please sit."
Erwin obeyed the order, sitting on the plush carpet as he wasn't sure if his bulk would damage their furniture. "If you want our bond to be evaluated, I can make an appointment with one of the Librarians - Astartes Librarians have-" heretical witchcraft, dangerous psionic powers, no. No. He can't say any of that, as he is trying to make a good impression on his bonded, so Erwin spoke with a careful diplomacy that was difficult for the Black Templar "An ability that allows them to perceive the bond directly. I'm not sure if both of us need to be present, or if only one of us needs to be present for the assessment. I am newly arrived to Terra, and am learning quite a few things, so the time to process has been a boon to myself as well."
Like how apparently many of his brothers refused this gift from the emperor until they were bound so tightly to a mortal where they physically could not live without them. Erwin thought that foolish, as this was clearly a gift from The God Emperor for his service, to be able to devote himself to one of them in such a way. "And I do believe that simply because out bond is or at least is currently in one way, it does not need to stay in that way. if we wished to change it... It.. From what I have been able to understand, is a method for us to be drawn together, to learn each other and to grow in strength together as we decide how we wish to move forward together. At least, this is how it has been explained to me, although I could be misunderstanding something. I have learned a tremendous amount of things in a very short span of time."
Jace's eyes light up at that and they nod "Excellent! So, something that I wanted to tell you up front is that I have two romantic partners, who I don't plan on leaving, despite the mystical bond that the two of us have been given. We are in an open, poly relationship, and if you and I are compatible and interested in that way, I'd be happy to introduce you to them as another potential partner. But... If you're not sure you can share me with others, then this isn't going to work out. I... I hope I'm not coming across as harsh, but I want to be open and honest with you. From what I've read, a lot of astartes with bonds can get... Really possessive. Which I am very much not into."
Erwin blinks rapidly, trying to parse through some of the language. "I... Ah. I am still learning this language, what is a poly relationship? The only terms with poly in them that I know of involve polymers, which can be used in a number of ways but don't generally refer to people directly?" He tilts his head a little in earnest confusion.
Jace relaxes just a fraction before tensing a little "Oh! Poly in this term is short for polyamorous. It means that I am in a romantic relationship with more than one person. I'm in a romantic relationship with three other people - the others are off at work at the moment." Jace explained patiently.
Erwin tilted his head a little and answered "I am glad that you have romantic love and support." Why. Why would this bother him? He cared for Jace dearly, but the idea of doing... Romantic things with any baseline made him nervous - between the size and strength differences, he was concerned about logistical issues. He knew that there were some cousins... And brothers... Who enjoyed chasing or being chased by mortals but it just seemed so... Messy to him. "I am currently uninterested in any romantic or sexual relationships at the moment. If that changes, I will notify you and we can revisit this conversation then? Although that may not necessarily mean that I will gain romantic or sexual interests in you... And I truly hope that this does not come off as rude or overly-blunt. You are being forthright and clear-worded, so I am doing my best to do the same."
Jace relaxed a little, a breath of relief leaving him. "I am glad to hear that, and that sounds entirely fair to me. And... I would like to see what our bond says. Is there a process for us to go through in order to get scanned, or do we go to one of the bases?"
"Those with the ability to assess bonds are few and very busy, so I would request an appointment, and then we would go on the appointed day and time. Do you have a time of the day and week that would work best for you?" Erwin answers, clasping his hands in his lap as he spoke, one hand on his wrist-mounted vox, ready to begin the process. "It would also be the time that we would register the bond with the alliance - they track these things."
"Huh, there was mention of that online, good to know that's confirmed. As for time... Any day monday through friday after 2pm, and on the weekends from 10am to 4pm." Jace answers "... Do you want to spend some time getting to know one another, or are you going to be busy doing... Other things?"
"Do you have a preference? I can keep myself busy with scrimshawing, after sending off the bonding assessment request form, but I wouldn't mind getting to know you better as well." Erwin answered. He'd been counseled by the chaplain he'd spoken on base to not try to push things too much too quickly, so he was trying not to be too much for them all at once.
He hoped that he was succeeding.
"Sure thing! Something that my moms always told me was a good way to get to know someone was to play a game with them that they didn't know. Have you ever played Fluxx?" Jace asked curiously, beaming and standing up, heading over to a decently sized cabinet "When my partners come home, I'll see if they'll want to play Betrayal at House on The Hill with us. They're crucial parts of my inner circle, and I want to see how you and them get along, but they are at work at the moment."
"I am unfamiliar with either game, but am willing to learn." Erwin answers with a nod, curious.
Warnings: none? please ask me to tag something if I’ve missed it!
Summary: Erwin chats with his bonded, Jace
The Black Templar took in a deep, steadying breath before he reached out and knocked on the front door of his bonded's house, trying to calm what felt like battle nerves. Which was foolish, as he wasn't in any physical danger. "Jace, are you there?"
"Come on in, I'm in the living room." Jace called out after what felt like a painful eternity to Erwin.
"Very well." He opened the door and carefully stepped in, closing it behind himself. Jace's home smelled of mulled spices and slowly-roasting meats. He took a steadying breath as he removed his boots, setting them near the shoe rack and making his way over to the aforementioned room.
"You said that you wished to speak with me about something?" Erwin prompted, maintaining a calm expression on his face, despite the fact that he was... Somewhat nervous as to the fact that the mortal whom he had very recently bonded to had been rather... Frustratingly vague in text what it was that they wanted to speak with him about.
"Yes, you told me three weeks ago that you and I are bonded - and it means that our lives are tied together in some way? I did ask you to give me some time to process this and to do some research about these bonds. I am grateful for the time and the resources that you pointed me towards." Jace answers, smiling gently up at him from where they were sitting on the couch, having just set down a paintbrush "I've learned quite a bit about the different sorts of bonds that can manifest. Do you know the type of bond we have? Or is it more undefined then that? This is one of the things that has been.. Vague, at least from what those of us who are bonded have been able to discern and have talked online about, at any rate. Please sit."
Erwin obeyed the order, sitting on the plush carpet as he wasn't sure if his bulk would damage their furniture. "If you want our bond to be evaluated, I can make an appointment with one of the Librarians - Astartes Librarians have-" heretical witchcraft, dangerous psionic powers, no. No. He can't say any of that, as he is trying to make a good impression on his bonded, so Erwin spoke with a careful diplomacy that was difficult for the Black Templar "An ability that allows them to perceive the bond directly. I'm not sure if both of us need to be present, or if only one of us needs to be present for the assessment. I am newly arrived to Terra, and am learning quite a few things, so the time to process has been a boon to myself as well."
Like how apparently many of his brothers refused this gift from the emperor until they were bound so tightly to a mortal where they physically could not live without them. Erwin thought that foolish, as this was clearly a gift from The God Emperor for his service, to be able to devote himself to one of them in such a way. "And I do believe that simply because out bond is or at least is currently in one way, it does not need to stay in that way. if we wished to change it... It.. From what I have been able to understand, is a method for us to be drawn together, to learn each other and to grow in strength together as we decide how we wish to move forward together. At least, this is how it has been explained to me, although I could be misunderstanding something. I have learned a tremendous amount of things in a very short span of time."
Jace's eyes light up at that and they nod "Excellent! So, something that I wanted to tell you up front is that I have two romantic partners, who I don't plan on leaving, despite the mystical bond that the two of us have been given. We are in an open, poly relationship, and if you and I are compatible and interested in that way, I'd be happy to introduce you to them as another potential partner. But... If you're not sure you can share me with others, then this isn't going to work out. I... I hope I'm not coming across as harsh, but I want to be open and honest with you. From what I've read, a lot of astartes with bonds can get... Really possessive. Which I am very much not into."
Erwin blinks rapidly, trying to parse through some of the language. "I... Ah. I am still learning this language, what is a poly relationship? The only terms with poly in them that I know of involve polymers, which can be used in a number of ways but don't generally refer to people directly?" He tilts his head a little in earnest confusion.
Jace relaxes just a fraction before tensing a little "Oh! Poly in this term is short for polyamorous. It means that I am in a romantic relationship with more than one person. I'm in a romantic relationship with three other people - the others are off at work at the moment." Jace explained patiently.
Erwin tilted his head a little and answered "I am glad that you have romantic love and support." Why. Why would this bother him? He cared for Jace dearly, but the idea of doing... Romantic things with any baseline made him nervous - between the size and strength differences, he was concerned about logistical issues. He knew that there were some cousins... And brothers... Who enjoyed chasing or being chased by mortals but it just seemed so... Messy to him. "I am currently uninterested in any romantic or sexual relationships at the moment. If that changes, I will notify you and we can revisit this conversation then? Although that may not necessarily mean that I will gain romantic or sexual interests in you... And I truly hope that this does not come off as rude or overly-blunt. You are being forthright and clear-worded, so I am doing my best to do the same."
Jace relaxed a little, a breath of relief leaving him. "I am glad to hear that, and that sounds entirely fair to me. And... I would like to see what our bond says. Is there a process for us to go through in order to get scanned, or do we go to one of the bases?"
"Those with the ability to assess bonds are few and very busy, so I would request an appointment, and then we would go on the appointed day and time. Do you have a time of the day and week that would work best for you?" Erwin answers, clasping his hands in his lap as he spoke, one hand on his wrist-mounted vox, ready to begin the process. "It would also be the time that we would register the bond with the alliance - they track these things."
"Huh, there was mention of that online, good to know that's confirmed. As for time... Any day monday through friday after 2pm, and on the weekends from 10am to 4pm." Jace answers "... Do you want to spend some time getting to know one another, or are you going to be busy doing... Other things?"
"Do you have a preference? I can keep myself busy with scrimshawing, after sending off the bonding assessment request form, but I wouldn't mind getting to know you better as well." Erwin answered. He'd been counseled by the chaplain he'd spoken on base to not try to push things too much too quickly, so he was trying not to be too much for them all at once.
He hoped that he was succeeding.
"Sure thing! Something that my moms always told me was a good way to get to know someone was to play a game with them that they didn't know. Have you ever played Fluxx?" Jace asked curiously, beaming and standing up, heading over to a decently sized cabinet "When my partners come home, I'll see if they'll want to play Betrayal at House on The Hill with us. They're crucial parts of my inner circle, and I want to see how you and them get along, but they are at work at the moment."
"I am unfamiliar with either game, but am willing to learn." Erwin answers with a nod, curious.
Élodie pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the upstairs window, eyes tracing the line where vineyard rows met the dark horizon. The vines were endless, choking, a prison disguised as plenty.
Below, she could hear Gabriel’s voice, low and strained, as he argued with Father about barrels and contracts. The words were muffled, but the tone was unmistakable: Gabriel was being buried alive by ink and duty. Élodie’s nails dug into the windowsill. That would not be her fate.
She closed her eyes, imagining instead a road—stone-paved, sunlit, stretching toward a distant city. Markets filled with voices she did not know, ships cresting over rivers, strangers who asked no questions about vineyards or missing sisters.
But when sleep finally claimed her at the window’s edge, her dream betrayed her. She saw Juliette walking among the vines, always one row ahead, her hair catching the light before fading back into shadow. Élodie called, shouted, even ran—but her feet sank into the soil, dragging her down while Juliette moved farther and farther away.
And then came the hand. Not Juliette’s—never Juliette’s. A hand too long, too shadowed, beckoning from the end of the row. It promised distance, escape, freedom—but also something Élodie dared not name.
She woke with her heart hammering, fingers clenched so tightly against the sill that splinters dug into her skin. Beyond the glass, the vineyard stretched under a pale dawn, endless and suffocating.
She whispered, voice low but fierce, “I will leave this place. One day. I will.”
Morning mist clung low between the vineyard rows, silver in the first light. From the balcony, Clara watched servants already at work, shoulders bent as they moved baskets of grapes still cold with dew. The air smelled of crushed skins, damp earth, and smoke from the cookfires.
Julien was already below, speaking with the steward in clipped tones. His voice carried upward, steady and commanding, but there was a strain behind it—like wine drawn too thin. Clara’s eyes lingered on the angle of his shoulders, the way his hand flexed against the ledger he carried even when no one was near enough to see.
She shivered. Julien’s secrets pressed as heavily as her own. She could feel them in the way he sometimes grew still, listening to something not in the room; in the way his gaze clouded, not with distraction but with presence. He hides something. Another something, another pull. But she could not yet guess from where, or from whom.
Downstairs, Gabriel dragged himself through the motions of breakfast. His eyes were ringed with sleeplessness, his fork moving without appetite. Élodie, opposite him, toyed with her bread, gaze fixed stubbornly on the window as though daring the road outside to appear and carry her away.
“Gabriel,” Julien said as he entered, dropping the ledger heavily onto the table, “we must speak with the broker from Avignon today. His patience wears thin. If the barrels are not ready, he will look elsewhere.”
Gabriel’s shoulders hunched. “Yes, Father.” His voice was faint, strangled.
Julien’s eyes narrowed. “Speak with strength. A man cannot inherit with a whisper.”
The words struck like iron. Clara saw Gabriel’s jaw tighten, his hands clench around his fork until it bent. Élodie looked away, her expression unreadable.
The silence that followed was long, heavy. Even the servants moved more slowly, as though the very house listened.
Outside, the grove stirred. A faint shift in the leaves, no stronger than a sigh. Clara felt it before she heard it—the something unnamed humming inside her chest, answering. Her pulse jumped, betraying her.
Julien’s gaze flicked toward her, sharp, almost accusing. For an instant, Clara thought he knew—but then his eyes softened, distant, shadowed by something else. And so, beneath the clatter of dishes and the drone of vineyard talk, the unseen weave tightened— crossing, binding, dragging each of them toward inevitability.
The vineyards slept under a cool dusk, shadows stretching long between the rows. Crickets thrummed softly, their rhythm masking the softer, stranger hum beneath—the one Clara could not escape.
She left the house quietly, apron still tied, hands trembling as though she carried some invisible burden. The grove waited just beyond the furthest vines, its dark canopy swaying gently though the air was still.
Every step closer, her heart tightened. Not from fear. Not entirely.
You should not be here.The thought was her own—and not. It wound through her mind like smoke, both warning and invitation.
At the edge of the grove, she hesitated. Her fingers brushed the rough bark of an oak, grounding herself. But when her palm left the trunk, she felt it: a faint heat in the air, like the exhalation of some hidden furnace.
Malchior’s presence pressed there, vast but restrained. Watching. Not demanding, but waiting.
“Why me?” Clara whispered into the silence. “Why… us?”
The leaves stirred as though in answer, though no wind touched her cheek.
Back at the house, Julien sat alone by the ledger, the firelight painting his face in uneasy gold. He had dismissed Gabriel early from his duties, citing fatigue, but the truth was his own distraction gnawed at him.
The numbers swam before his eyes. He set down the quill and pressed a hand to his temple. The hum again—low, cold, insistent—threading through him like an undertow.
Not Malchior’s warmth. Something else.
Julien. The voice came not in sound, but as a weight against his thoughts. You must not falter. Your anger makes you brittle. Your grief makes you reckless. Anchor yourself.
He swallowed, throat dry. “Althan…” The name escaped before he could stop it.
The hearth flickered. Shadows lengthened in unnatural rhythm. Julien’s hand curled into a fist, but the tremor in his fingers betrayed him.
Your family must endure. Even rage can be shaped into steel, if tempered. Do not break before the Bond is drawn tight.
Julien’s breath shuddered. His wife’s voice drifted faintly through the stone walls—Clara speaking in the grove. He could not hear the words, but he felt the pull of her absence. Two threads, tugging them both, each toward a different giant cloaked in shadow.
He pressed his palm flat against the table, grounding himself. “For her. For the children. Not for you.”
But the cold presence lingered, patient, unyielding.
The vineyard held its breath that night. In the grove, Clara listened for words that never came, only the watchful silence of Malchior. In the house, Julien fought to master the weight of Althan’s unseen hand.
The siblings dreamed uneasy, each pulled in their own way—Gabriel toward duty he could not yet bear, Élodie toward escape she could not yet name.
And above them all, the threads tightened.
The dawn was pale, mist curling low across the vineyard rows. Gabriel rose before the others, tugging on his work shirt with hands still stiff from the previous day’s labor. He had begun to notice how the mornings felt heavier than they used to—each sunrise less like a promise, more like a demand.
His father’s voice echoed already in his memory: You are the eldest. The vineyard will be yours one day. Learn it. Own it.
And now, with Juliette gone, the words had sharpened into something crueler. Protect them. Provide for them. Do not fail again.
He stepped into the vines, the earth damp beneath his boots. The smell of crushed grapes clung to the morning air. Workers glanced toward him, some nodding in respect, others in sympathy. He hated it. He was only nineteen, and yet their eyes pressed responsibility onto him as though he were already a man carved in stone.
Gabriel bent to inspect a cluster of grapes, his hands trembling. Too green still. The harvest would be late. He should have noticed sooner. He should have—
A hand landed on his shoulder. Julien. His father’s eyes were sharp, weary, but proud in a way that cut deeper than anger.
“You must look not only at the grapes, Gabriel, but at the pattern of the vines. Step back. See the shape of things.”
Gabriel straightened, swallowing hard. “Yes, Father.”
“Your sister’s absence—” Julien stopped, his jaw tightening. He could not say her name. “—means you must step forward. There is no room for weakness.”
The words sank like stones into Gabriel’s chest. He nodded, though his throat burned. No room for weakness. No room for grief. Only endurance.
That night, as Gabriel sat by the kitchen table, Clara touched his shoulder gently. Her hands lingered, soft and warm.
“You don’t need to carry it all at once,” she whispered.
But her eyes betrayed the same truth Julien had spoken: he would carry it. Whether he wished to or not.
And in the grove beyond the vineyard, Malchior watched the young man with cold curiosity. A new Bond shimmered faintly, not yet woven but waiting—responsibility, pride, fear. A ripe cord for the warp to pluck in time.
Élodie sat perched on the low stone wall that bordered the southern edge of the vineyard, her skirts brushing against the rough moss as she dangled one booted foot idly. Beyond the rows of vines stretched the hills, pale in the morning light, and beyond those hills—freedom. Or so she imagined.
Every day, it grew harder to breathe beneath the weight of the house. Her mother’s fretting, her father’s expectations, Gabriel’s brooding silence—all of it pressed on her like the walls of a cage. Worse still was the shadow of Juliette’s absence, which seemed to haunt every corner. Where her older sister had once laughed, the house now echoed with unspoken dread.
She’s gone. Stolen. Lost. But in Élodie’s mind, another voice whispered: And you are still here. Waiting. Wasting.
She clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms. No. She would not wait.
At lunch, while Gabriel dutifully reported the state of the vines to Julien, Élodie let her eyes wander toward the windows. The grove swayed faintly in the distance, a dark and beckoning mystery. She thought of the strange armored figures her parents whispered about—the watchers who claimed to guard them. She hated them, feared them, but part of her longed to confront them. To demand answers.
Instead, she bit back her words and let the frustration fester.
That evening, when the house finally settled into uneasy quiet, Élodie crept from her room. She moved barefoot down the hallway, careful to avoid the creaking floorboards she had mapped out since childhood. A small satchel swung from her shoulder, hidden beneath her shawl.
She did not mean to flee—not yet. But she meant to see. To step beyond the hedges, beyond the line her parents drew. To find the truth for herself.
The night air was cool, heavy with the scent of grapes and damp earth. She slipped past the vineyard rows, heart hammering, until the grove loomed before her like a dark cathedral.
Something shifted inside the shadows. Not a sound. Not a shape. Just the weight of being seen.
Élodie froze, breath sharp in her throat. Every instinct screamed to turn back. But her fists clenched again.
“No,” she whispered fiercely. “I’m not afraid of you.”
The grove did not answer. But the silence itself felt alive, humming faintly with an unseen pulse.
She took one step closer.
Back at the house, Clara startled awake, her chest tight, as if one of the unseen threads had just quivered violently. She rose from bed, staring toward the window, where the grove’s outline loomed dark against the starlit sky.
“Élodie…” she murmured, though she did not know why the name came to her lips.
And in the hills beyond, Althan stirred faintly in Julien’s mind, murmuring words he could not quite hear.
Élodie crept through the shadowed vineyard, the satchel heavy against her side. Inside were coins, papers, and a few small keepsakes: essentials, or at least what she judged essential for a life beyond the walls that had begun to feel like a cage. She was going to be free of this- she loves her family- but the Astartes manipulations were pushing her away.
The moon carved silver paths across the vines. Every step she took, the leaves whispered—some sigh, some warning, some promise. She imagined the watchers could see her: Malchior, Althan, even some unknown presence she could not name. Yet none moved to stop her.
A faint shift in the darkness drew her attention. Two armored figures—tall, silent, their shapes impossibly still—watched from the grove’s edge. Malchior’s shadow seemed to pause, patient, almost casual. Althan’s presence pressed lightly against her father’s memory, distant, restrained.
She froze, heart hammering. And then, inexplicably, they moved no closer. They allowed her passage.
“Are you sure you want to leave your home, Little Elodie?” Malchior asks her.
She glares at him and tilts her chin up, “yes, I cannot stay here any longer.”
“Isn’t it usually for ladies of your class to marry before leaving your home?” Althan states, inquisitively.
“I don’t want any of those simpering, tongue-wagging, vipers.” Elodie hisses. “I do not want to be trapped in a marriage of convenience where I am trapped at the whims of a man.”
“Very well, you will always be welcomed home. Although you break your parents- and brother’s hearts with leaving them.” Althan points out.
Élodie swallowed, daring to take another step. The chill of night pressed against her cheeks, the scent of crushed grapes fading behind her. With each step, the vineyard and the house receded, shrinking beneath her awareness, leaving only the road, the hills, and her resolve.
By dawn, she had vanished beyond the last hedge, her small figure swallowed by the gray light of early morning. The vineyard stood quiet, still, the echoes of her departure carried faintly in the wind—a ripple in the threads, noted but untouched by the watchers.
Gabriel rose with the dawn, hands trembling slightly as he adjusted the ledger on the table. The house felt emptier than before—Élodie’s absence left a hollow in the routine, one more person removed from the orbit of responsibility pressing down on him.
Julien’s voice came from the study, clipped, businesslike. “The broker will arrive within the hour. You will attend, Gabriel. Every detail counts.”
“Yes, Father,” Gabriel said, though the words tasted bitter. The ledger’s ink seemed thicker this morning, the numbers sluggish and resistant.
He moved through the vineyard, inspecting rows of grapes, barrels, and tools. Every worker’s glance felt like a reminder: the vineyard would be his. Every misstep, every hesitation, would fall on him.
Clara approached quietly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Gabriel,” she said softly. “Do not carry it all at once. Step by step. The vineyard… and our family… can survive your strength, but not your fear.”
He nodded. Fear lingered, sharp and metallic, but he swallowed it down. Duty pressed harder than dread.
Julien appeared then, ledger in hand, presence sharp, distant. Gabriel noted how his father’s jaw tensed, how his eyes occasionally drifted to some unseen corner of the room—a pulse of something beyond human comprehension. Gabriel did not ask, though he suspected; he had learned long ago that questions often brought more weight than answers.
The vineyard stretched beyond them, orderly, eternal, but beneath the sunlit rows, the threads of the warp trembled faintly. Each vine, each barrel, each ledger entry a potential knot in the pattern of power, inheritance, and unseen influence.
Gabriel clenched his fists around the quill. One day, the vineyard would be his. One day, he would bend the weight to his will. For now, all he could do was measure each step, each breath, and endure.
The sun was low, gold and harsh against the rows of ripening grapes. Gabriel strode between the vines, checking the leaves, the fruit, and the trellises. Everything seemed in order at first glance—but a whisper of unease tugged at his senses, something subtle in the air.
A sharp cry rang from the northern edge of the vineyard. A laborer, young and pale, stumbled forward, pointing toward a cluster of barrels stacked near the old press.
“Water! Rot! Mold!” he shouted. “If it spreads, it’ll ruin half the harvest!”
Gabriel’s pulse quickened. He ran toward the barrels, heart hammering. He knew what failure here would mean: lost contracts, disappointed brokers, a crack in the family’s reputation that Julien would never forgive.
The affected barrels were damp, the wood splitting slightly. Grapes inside were already fermenting in the wrong conditions. The air smelled sour, metallic. Gabriel knelt to inspect, running fingers along the staves.
Think. Act.
He barked orders to the workers, directing them to separate the affected barrels, cleaning and draining carefully. Sweat ran down his brow as he worked alongside them, adjusting each vat, measuring the temperature, noting where the rot had begun and where it could be contained.
Time crawled. The sun dipped lower. Gabriel’s hands were blistered, his shirt damp with sweat and grime. But the line held. The spread slowed. The remaining harvest was saved.
Julien appeared at the edge of the press, arms crossed, lips pressed thin. Gabriel met his father’s gaze, expecting censure—but instead, he found something else: acknowledgment. Respect. A hint of pride buried deep under years of expectation.
“You acted quickly,” Julien said quietly. “Decisive. That is what the vineyard demands. Well done, Gabriel.”
Gabriel exhaled, relief mingling with exhaustion. He knew this was only the beginning—there would always be crises, always more pressure—but for the first time, he felt the weight of the vineyard in his hands, and it did not crush him.
Later, when he returned to the house, Clara met him in the doorway, face softened by quiet approval. “I heard what happened,” she said. “You did well. You’re learning. And… you’re ready.”
Gabriel nodded, feeling the truth of her words. Ready—not just to inherit, but to carry the responsibility, to endure, and to lead.
In the grove beyond the vineyard, Malchior observed the movements of the household. No interference, no warning—just patience. The threads hummed faintly in response to Gabriel’s choices, the invisible weave testing, measuring, acknowledging.
And somewhere beyond that, the vineyard held its breath, ripe with potential, tension, and the quiet, inexorable pull of inheritance.
The morning mist still clung to the hills when Élodie’s boots struck the rough country road. The satchel swung at her side, weighted with coins, papers, and a few precious keepsakes she had taken in secret. Each step carried the thrill of freedom—and the tremor of fear.
The vineyard receded behind her, rows of vines stretching like iron bars into the distance. The house, the family, even the warmth of her mother’s voice—all were gone. She was alone.
Alone, yet not entirely. Somewhere behind the veil of the ordinary, she felt a faint pull, a thread brushing her awareness like a shadow at the corner of her mind. Not threatening, not yet—but persistent.
You are not lost. You are watched.
Élodie shivered, gripping the satchel tighter. The thought could have been comforting—or a warning. She did not know which.
By midday, she found a small village tucked into a shallow valley. Mud-spattered streets, smoke curling from chimneys, and merchants hawking bread and cloth. Her pulse quickened: here, she could blend. Here, she could begin.
Her first lesson came swiftly. She approached a baker, exchanging her coins for a loaf of bread, careful to watch every movement, every gesture. She noted how hands lifted, how eyes scanned for trouble, how the weight of a purse could betray inexperience.
Then she spent the afternoon observing. A man carrying crates slipped on wet cobblestones; she caught one crate just in time, earning a sharp glance and a grudging nod. A child cried over a broken cartwheel; she helped, earning a shy smile.
Each action, small though it was, became a measure of independence. Each choice—cautious, deliberate—built her confidence. She smiles- it’s hard, much harder than she thought it would be. And there are times where she is homesick- and feels so bad for abandoning her family- but she can’t stay near them any more.
But the threads tugged still. At dusk, as she rested beneath a large oak on the village outskirts, she sensed them again: distant, disciplined, patient. Malchior in the shadows, allowing her passage but noting her progress. Althan’s influence lingered faintly in the wind, like a faint echo from her father’s world.
Élodie lay back on the grass, hands folded over her satchel, and let the hum in the air sink into her awareness. She could not yet see what it meant. She could not yet feel the full weight of what followed. But she understood one thing clearly: she had begun a journey the vineyard had never allowed, one her family could not predict.
Freedom came with risk. Freedom came with knowledge. And she would learn both in time.
The sun had dipped low, leaving the village streets a wash of amber and shadow. Élodie moved cautiously, satchel secured across her chest, ears attuned to every creak, shout, and footfall.
A sudden shout drew her attention: a man running, clutching a purse, sprinting past her toward the town square. Two larger figures followed, shouting threats she could not yet decipher.
Instinct overtook hesitation. She darted into a narrow alley, pressed herself against the wall, and watched. Her heart raced as the thieves vanished around the corner. She could run—or she could act.
The decision came like breath. She crept after them, silent, observing: one thief was clumsy, the other watchful. The first stumbled over a stone, sending the purse skidding. Élodie grabbed it quickly, tucking it into her satchel before anyone could notice.
Her pulse raced—not from fear alone, but from exhilaration. She had acted, chosen, and succeeded.
A faint hum brushed her awareness, almost imperceptible, like the whisper of threads. She did not see the shadow flitting above the rooftops, nor did she know that Malchior’s presence lingered, noting her choices. She only felt a strange certainty settle in her chest: this is the path. Each step counts.
Later, Élodie found a quiet corner behind the market, counting the coins she had taken in trade, checking her papers. She practiced disguising herself—pulling her shawl low, shifting her weight, watching the movements of merchants and travelers. Each observation was a lesson. Each careful choice, a survival skill.
A small bird landed nearby, its bright eyes gleaming in the fading light. For a moment, she imagined it a messenger of the threads—the watchers, the Word Bearers, some force she could not name. Then she smiled faintly. I am not theirs. Not yet.
Night fell. She curled beneath the oak once more, the satchel a protective weight across her chest. Hunger gnawed, and exhaustion pressed against her bones. Yet she felt alive in a way she never had in the vineyard’s ordered rows: alive, capable, dangerous even in her smallness.
Somewhere in the distant hills, a shadow shifted, patient and still. Malchior observed. Althan’s echo brushed the edges of memory. And Élodie, unaware of their watchful eyes, was learning the first lessons of freedom: cunning, courage, and the thrill of choice.
The morning fog had barely lifted when a sharp commotion rose from the eastern edge of the vineyard. Gabriel, already inspecting the barrels, heard raised voices carrying over the rows. He strode toward the source, ledger tucked under one arm, heart hammering.
A small group of workers had gathered near the drying shed, arguing heatedly with a new laborer—a man brought in to assist with the harvest. Words spilled like arrows: miscounted crates, spoiled grapes, mistakes in the schedule. Tempers flared.
Gabriel stepped between them. “Enough!” His voice rang sharper than he intended, yet it carried. The bickering paused, eyes turning toward him. The vineyard, he realized, responded to authority, but only when wielded with certainty.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “I was following orders, sir. The casks—”
Gabriel raised a hand. “Orders are worthless if the work is ruined. Show me what went wrong.”
Minutes stretched as he inspected the barrels, examined the grapes, and listened to every worker’s explanation. His hands shook slightly as he adjusted casks and shifted crates, but his voice remained steady. He gave precise instructions, assigning tasks, correcting mistakes, and prioritizing recovery over blame.
By midday, the problem had been contained. Spoiled grapes were isolated, barrels realigned, and the laborers worked in measured silence, trusting the direction of their youngest overseer.
Julien appeared at the vineyard edge, observing from a distance. Gabriel’s chest tightened. He expected criticism. Instead, Julien’s eyes held something closer to approval—a quiet acknowledgment of growth.
“You handled it,” Julien said later, when the day was done, voice low but firm. “Calm, measured, decisive. That is how the vineyard endures.”
Gabriel exhaled, relief mixing with pride. For the first time, he understood that inheritance was not just a matter of names or ledgers—it was responsibility, decisiveness, and the courage to act when the threads of circumstance tested him.
Later, as the sun dipped behind the hills, Gabriel walked through the rows of grapes alone, hands brushing along the leaves. The vineyard was alive, ordered and chaotic all at once, and he was part of it now—not just a son learning from his father, but the heir shaping the land and its people in his own hands.
Above, in the grove, the shadows shifted faintly. Malchior observed, distant and patient. Threads hummed subtly, acknowledging decisions made, paths taken, and the first stirrings of Gabriel’s mastery over the inheritance he could not yet fully claim.
The road beyond the village was narrow and rocky, flanked by scrub and twisted trees. Élodie moved cautiously, satchel secured against her chest, ears straining for any sign of pursuit. The thrill of freedom had not faded, but the world beyond the vineyard was harsher than she had imagined.
A shout echoed across the valley. Two men emerged from the trees, rough-spoken, eyes gleaming with hunger and greed. One was taller, the other wiry, and both blocked her path.
“Stop there, girl,” the tall one said, voice low and dangerous. “Hand over what you’ve got. Coins. Goods. Anything worth taking.”
Élodie froze. Her mind raced. She could run, but the path behind her was narrow, the trees tight. She could fight—but she had no weapon.
And then she felt it: a faint, subtle tug in her chest, almost like a vibration in the air around her. Not fear. Not quite guidance—but something nudging her toward a choice.
She took a slow step to the side, then another, watching the men’s stance. “I… I don’t have much,” she said, voice trembling, yet loud enough to hold their attention. “But I can give you this,” she added, tossing a few coins from her satchel to the ground.
The wiry one lunged, but Élodie rolled aside, grasping her satchel and scrambling behind a boulder. The men cursed, fumbling after her, and she ran toward the trees, weaving between trunks, leaping over roots.
Her breath came in harsh bursts. Behind her, the men shouted, but she noticed something odd: they faltered as she ran, moving slower than she expected, tripping over terrain that seemed to shift under her feet. The tug in her chest pulsed again, faint but insistent, guiding her to a narrow gap in the trees.
Élodie ducked through just as the taller man caught sight of her. She pressed herself flat, chest heaving, and held perfectly still. The men’s voices faded into the distance.
When she dared to rise, she surveyed the small ravine she had stumbled into. The path ahead was unclear, tangled with roots and shadow, yet safe—at least for now. She sank to the ground, clutching her satchel, and realized she had done more than flee. She had acted. She had chosen. She had survived.
A faint breeze brushed her cheek, carrying a whisper she could not quite place. This is only the beginning.
Élodie’s lips curved into a small, defiant smile. Freedom came with danger, yes—but also with mastery over fear. She would learn to navigate the shadows, to make choices that mattered, and to survive.
Above, hidden among the distant hills, a shadow shifted. Malchior observed, patient and detached. Althan’s presence flickered faintly, tied to her father’s distant worry. Threads hummed quietly, acknowledging Élodie’s first triumph of cunning and courage.
The night pressed close, but Élodie, for the first time, felt a spark of certainty: she could walk her own path.
The dawn was crisp, a pale light stretching across the vineyard rows. Gabriel moved through the terraces with deliberate steps, ledger tucked under one arm, eyes scanning every vine, barrel, and worker. The morning air smelled of damp earth, crushed grapes, and smoke from the hearths—familiar, grounding, yet alive with possibility.
The crisis of the past week had passed, leaving in its wake more than just orderly barrels. It had left trust—careful, tentative trust—in Gabriel’s judgment. The laborers no longer hesitated when he spoke; they waited for his direction, no longer questioning his authority at every turn.
Gabriel stopped at the edge of the eastern terraces, surveying the slopes where the younger vines struggled in poor soil. He made a decision, precise and calculated: certain plots would be thinned, some barrels reserved for trial fermentations, and a handful of workers reassigned to oversee experimental pruning methods he had observed in a distant estate during his studies.
He moved among the laborers, explaining his plan clearly, correcting mistakes before they became habit, and listening to their input where it improved the yield. Every interaction was measured, every instruction deliberate. Slowly, methodically, the vineyard began to respond to his will.
Julien appeared, watching from the steps of the main house, ledger in hand but unspoken. Gabriel felt his father’s eyes—not the sharp critique of old, but something heavier: assessment, acknowledgment, and the subtle weight of expectation.
“You are learning,” Julien said finally, voice low, almost thoughtful. “Not just the work, but the land. You see the patterns. The vineyard will endure because you are beginning to understand it—not as mine, but as yours.”
Gabriel felt a warmth that had little to do with the sun. Pride, yes, but also a cautious satisfaction: he was more than a son filling the gaps left by others. He was a steward, a leader, a keeper of legacy.
The vineyard itself seemed to respond. Leaves rustled with promise, barrels gleamed under the rising sun, and the workers moved in harmony, guided by his hand. Even the grove beyond the terraces shimmered faintly in the morning light, a reminder that the threads of fate and unseen forces still hummed quietly in the air.
Gabriel paused at the edge of the terraces, hands brushing along the vines. The work would never end—never truly—but he felt, for the first time, that he could shape it, bend it, and endure it. Responsibility was no longer a weight pressing him down. It was a measure of his power, his skill, his choice.
In the distant hills, hidden from sight, faint shadows observed, noting each decision, each movement. Malchior and Althan—watchers both patient and restrained—acknowledged Gabriel’s growing mastery with silent approval. The threads hummed faintly, weaving him tighter into the vineyard’s legacy, yet leaving him room to grow, to falter, to triumph.
Gabriel exhaled, feeling the cool air fill his lungs, and for the first time in weeks, he smiled—not the cautious smile of a boy learning, but the assured smile of a young man beginning to inherit not just land, but the weight and rhythm of life itself.
Élodie trudged along the dirt path that curved toward the outskirts of the town, the satchel heavy against her side. Dust clung to her skirts, and her boots were scuffed, but she kept moving. Freedom had brought exhilaration, yes, but it had also brought hunger, fatigue, and the gnawing awareness that she was still vulnerable.
Through the trees lining the road, a small cottage emerged, smoke curling lazily from the chimney. The walls were old but sturdy, the garden untamed but alive with herbs, flowers, and vegetables. Élodie slowed, senses alertness, and approached cautiously.
A woman stepped into view, tall and elegant despite the plain, earth-toned dress she wore. Her eyes were sharp, but not unkind.
“You’re far from the vineyard, child,” she said gently, though the words carried authority. “You look like you could use food and shelter.”
Élodie froze. Something about her—an aura of quiet command, the way she seemed to see through the shadows—was both comforting and terrifying.
Mother always spoke of her, Élodie remembered, voice trembling inside her mind.
Elodie recalls what her mother told her of Evangeline as her eyes dart around. Evangeline has a Space Marine- a Bonded. For as much as she is sort of safe with this person- who is a stranger. Yet known to her- she needs to head further into the city, far away from the Vineyard- from them.
“Evangeline- was a dear friend of mine,” Her mother said as she braided Elodie’s hair with a sad look on her face.
“Why don’t we see her mama?” a young Elodie asks.
“... Because she is Known to have a Space marine, it’s not safe to be seen with such an individual.” Clara had said, there was a tension- emotions, complicated, conflicted.
Before she could ask, her mother had distracted her with something and the question slipped from her mind.
She blinks and comes back to now as she nods towards Evangeline. Now, standing in front of the cottage, Élodie understood. Evangeline was real, and more than that, she could help.
Inside the cottage, it's… oddly too big for only one person, then again, Space Marines are large, the cottage smelled of herbs, roasted root vegetables, and warm bread. Evangeline moved gracefully, preparing a meal without a word, watching Élodie with quiet curiosity.
“You travel light,” Evangeline noted, “and fast. You’ve been careful. That is good. But you’re not safe yet.”
Élodie nodded, grateful but tense. She ate, trying to let her body relax, but her mind kept drifting to the shadows—the sense that someone, or something, was always watching.When night fell, she realized she could not stay. She thanked Evangeline, heart pounding, and slipped quietly back onto the road. The cottage receded into the shadows, but her memory of Evangeline—strong, wary, and knowing—stayed with her.
Inside the cottage, the first surprise was not the food, but the shelves. Books and journals crowded every wall, their spines worn with years of use. Maps lay rolled in a basket, and bundles of herbs hung drying from the rafters. It was not the home of a simple villager, but of someone who studied, recorded, remembered.
Evangeline moved with unhurried grace, preparing a plate of roasted vegetables and bread. “Sit. Eat first,” she said. “Then we will talk.”
As Élodie obeyed, Evangeline’s gaze lingered on her with unsettling clarity. “Your mother kept you safe—too safe, perhaps. You know how to smile and hold your chin high, but not how to read the world when it turns against you.”
Élodie hesitated, then asked softly, “And you would teach me?”
“If you are willing to learn.”
That night Evangeline led her outside, where the garden merged with the darkened forest. “Lesson one,” she said, pointing to Élodie’s eyes. “Never believe what a man says before you’ve read what his eyes betray. Words can be polished like coins, but the eyes…” She mimed the hungry stare of a thief. “…the eyes show what he seeks to take.”
Over the next few days, Evangeline wove lessons into every moment. She showed Élodie how to use the weight of her elbow, the snap of her knee, even the dirt at her feet. “You will never be stronger,” she said, guiding Élodie’s stance, “but you can be faster, sharper. Strike where it counts, then vanish.”
Other lessons came in stories. While stirring a pot, Evangeline spoke of Montreal in the 1920s, where jazz spilled from doorways and girls danced with daring. Another evening, she recalled the lean Depression years, when women stretched every scrap and learned who could be trusted and who could not. She spoke of war, when soldiers marched through towns, and of the 1960s, when the young filled the streets with protest and songs of change.
“These years taught me what no vineyard ever could,” Evangeline told her. “How to bend without breaking. How to survive when the world refuses to be kind.”
Élodie listened, wide-eyed, absorbing not just techniques but an entire way of seeing—of watching the patterns in people, the small tells of danger, the fleeting chances for choice.
On the third day, Evangeline sent her to the market alone. Élodie stumbled through her first attempt at bargaining, lost a coin on the second, but on the third she returned with more than Evangeline expected. The older woman only nodded. “Quick to learn. Good. But cleverness without caution is a blade without a hilt—it will cut you as easily as them.”
When it was time to leave, Élodie lingered at the door, reluctant yet determined. Evangeline clasped her hands. “Remember: eyes, breath, silence. And when fear comes—choose. Do not freeze.”
Élodie slipped back onto the road with those words echoing in her chest. The city would be no vineyard. But now, she would not walk into it blind.
Élodie understood something important in that moment: freedom was not without danger, and even allies could carry their own weight.
The path ahead was dark, uncertain, but she walked it with a spark of defiance—and a growing sense that she would survive, no matter what shadows waited to watch. She saw the flash of blue and gold, and the stomp of their strange metal armor on the path. No- she could not stay.
“You leave.” A deep voice calls out and she freezes.
“... I cannot stay, tell her thank you for her help.” Elodie says.
“I will.” The deep voice rumbles in response.
The city stretched out like a labyrinth of stone, smoke, and whispered deals. Élodie navigated the narrow alleys with practiced caution, satchel secure at her side. She had learned to read the movements of the crowd—the quick glance, the subtle shove, the path that led to opportunity or danger.
The first lesson came quickly: trade. Coins she had saved or earned from small tasks were exchanged for bread, scraps of cloth, and advice. She learned the value of timing, the power of observation, and the leverage a well-placed question could give her.
By midday, she had earned enough to rent a small room in a boarding house on the edge of the city. It was modest: a cot, a table, a single window overlooking the winding streets. But it was hers for the night, and it was a start.
Evangeline’s teachings echoed in her mind: how to bargain without anger, how to observe without drawing attention, and how to find work—or coin—without asking for charity. Élodie applied each lesson carefully, practicing with merchants, laborers, and even street performers. She moved silently through the market, listening, noting patterns, calculating risks.
By sunset, she had secured small jobs: delivering parcels, running errands, and lending her hands where needed. Each success brought small coins, small confidence. She began to see the city as a complex organism, each person a node, each street a vein. Mastery, she realized, was not brute force—it was understanding, adaptation, and careful action.
Unlike the vineyard, where Gabriel’s authority was structured and predictable, the city demanded flexibility. Élodie learned quickly: she could not rely on order, only on her skills, her wits, and her instincts. She experimented with minor schemes—selling trinkets, offering her knowledge of local shortcuts, and even trading favors. She made mistakes, yes, but each one taught her something vital: observation, patience, and decisiveness were as valuable as coin.
She slept little and rose early, walking the streets as the city stirred. The alleys were her classroom, the market her proving ground. Each day she moved with greater assurance, learning how to earn, how to hide, and how to thrive.
Malchior and Althan were not present—not yet. Their focus remained fixed on Julien and Clara. Élodie, for the first time, was truly alone, and for the first time, her survival depended solely on herself. The threads hummed faintly at the edges of her awareness, not guiding, only noting: a distant acknowledgment, subtle and almost invisible.
By the end of the week, Élodie had secured a steady income, a modest roof, and a growing sense of confidence. The city was vast, dangerous, and unpredictable—but she had begun to master it. She had begun to carve a space in the chaos, just as Gabriel carved control over the vineyard.
Both siblings were learning their worlds, each path shaped by necessity, skill, and choice. One by order, patience, and authority; the other by cunning, observation, and survival. And though the threads of fate pulled subtly around them both, neither yet fully realized how closely their paths might converge again.
The letter lay on the kitchen table, its edges worn, the handwriting unmistakable: Élodie’s careful, looping script. Clara had found it that morning, folded beneath a small pile of coins and trinkets—the sum total of what Élodie had deemed necessary for survival.
Mother, Father… I am sorry. I had to leave. I must find my own way. Please do not look for me. I will be careful. I will learn. And I will return, if I can.
Clara’s hands trembled as she smoothed the paper. Her eyes blurred with tears, but she read the words again, trying to imprint every letter in her memory. “She’s gone,” she whispered to the empty room, voice catching. “She’s… really gone.”
Julien sat near the hearth, jaw tight, fingers drumming on the armrest. He read the letter once, twice, then folded it carefully, setting it aside. He did not speak, but his chest rose and fell with the weight of silent fury, worry, and helplessness.
Gabriel hovered near the doorway, hands clenching the banister as if it could anchor him against the storm of emotion in the room. He wanted to run, to chase, to find her—but he knew, instinctively, that he lacked the resources, the knowledge, the certainty to succeed. So he stayed, silent and simmering with guilt.
Élodie’s younger sister—though she was gone- stolen, likely dead by that World Eater-whatever that was, would have wept for her older sister leaving them without talking to them face to face about it.
Clara stood, moving toward the window, hands pressed to the glass as though she could see Élodie walking somewhere far beyond. “She’s stronger than we think,” she murmured. “But she’s still our child.”
Julien’s voice, low and rough, broke the fragile quiet. “We taught her everything we could… and yet, she ran. We cannot protect them all.”
Gabriel exhaled sharply, jaw tight. “But she’s learning. She will survive. She has to survive.”
Clara sank into a chair, wrapping her arms around herself. “It doesn’t make the waiting easier. Or the fear is smaller.”
The letter remained on the table, a quiet testament to Élodie’s independence, her courage, and the new world she had chosen to enter. It was apology, goodbye, and promise, all in one fragile sheet of paper.
Gabriel clenches his fists as he glares at the two Space Marines- from how they are reacting, they knew she had left. “Why didn’t you stop her?!”
“She didn’t want to stay.” Althan says calmly.
“She loves you- but feels trapped, stifled,” Malchior states. “We will keep an eye on her- and bring her home if it’s going too poorly.”
Gabriel glares at them and stomps off to his study. Malchior turns towards Clara- while Althan goes to Julien- the pair of astartes gently pulling the pair of older baselines away and comforting them. It is good that their bonded get along so well but they want their Bonded to spend time with them. With two children gone, it means that their specific Bonded will spend more time with them.
Outside, the vineyard basked in the morning sun, rows of vines gleaming as though nothing had changed. But inside, the family felt the emptiness, the uncertainty, and the invisible thread of separation tugging gently at their hearts.
For now, there was no action to take—only patience, worry, and the hope that Élodie’s cunning and resilience would keep her safe in the world she had chosen to enter.
The morning light crept across the vineyard rows, brushing the leaves with gold. Gabriel moved with measured purpose, ledger tucked under one arm, hands brushing along the vines as he inspected their growth. The absence of Élodie lingered, a quiet echo in every corner of the estate.
Clara and Julien were occupied—Clara with household duties and worry, Julien with distant negotiations and vineyard contracts. Their attention, inevitably, had shifted toward Gabriel. Their unspoken message was clear: the vineyard now rested more fully in his hands.
By midday, a crisis had emerged. A shipment of barrels intended for distant buyers had been delayed, miscounted, and partially damaged during transit. Workers murmured, tension spreading like wildfire. Rumors of lost contracts and angry clients rippled through the estate.
Gabriel assessed the situation, ledger open, and the problem laid bare. He barked orders clearly, assigning men to inspect each barrel, repackaging the usable ones, and documenting losses. He coordinated a swift message to the clients, offering immediate remedies and partial discounts to maintain trust.
The vineyard, chaotic though it was, responded to his decisiveness. Workers moved with purpose under his guidance, following his plan, reassured by his calm confidence. Every choice, every instruction, reinforced his authority.
Clara appeared at the edge of the field, watching quietly. “You handle it well,” she said, voice low but full of relief. “You’ve grown into this responsibility, Gabriel. I see it now—how you can carry it, even when we are… distracted by other worries.”
Gabriel nodded, gratitude tempered with determination. Élodie’s absence made the stakes heavier, the vineyard’s survival more personal. He was no longer merely a son learning under his father’s gaze—he was the steward of the family’s legacy, protector of its labor and reputation.
By sunset, the crisis was resolved. Barrels were counted and secured, client correspondence sent, and laborers satisfied. The vineyard had endured under his leadership, and in the quiet that followed, Gabriel walked the rows alone, hands trailing over leaves and ripe fruit.
He understood now: mastery was not simply doing the work—it was anticipating problems, coordinating efforts, and shouldering responsibility without hesitation. The vineyard was alive, and he was no longer a passive observer. He was its inheritor, its guide, and its measure of authority.
From the grove beyond the terraces, faint shadows lingered—Malchior and Althan observed, not in direct interference, but in distant acknowledgment of the family’s unfolding threads. For now, their attention remained on Clara and Julien, leaving Gabriel to shape his world unimpeded, his skill and authority growing in parallel with Élodie’s mastery of the city streets.
The city was alive in a way the vineyard never could be. Markets teemed with merchants and pickpockets alike, the clatter of carts echoed off the stone walls, and the smell of smoke and bread mingled in the warm afternoon air. Élodie moved confidently now, satchel at her side, eyes sharp for opportunity or danger.
Her first encounter was with Mara, a streetwise girl of similar age who had a knack for finding work and avoiding trouble. She watched Élodie from across a crowded market stall, curious at the newcomer’s careful observation.
“You’re not from here,” Mara said, approaching with a cautious smile. “But you’ve got eyes. Quick, steady… maybe even smarter than you look.”
Élodie laughed softly, the sound unfamiliar but freeing. “I’m learning,” she admitted. “I need coin and a roof over my head.”
Mara’s grin widened. “I can help with that. Stick with me for a bit—you’ll learn the ways of the streets faster than you think.”
Next was Tomas, a gentle young man who ran errands for the local doctors. He offered Élodie small jobs, tips for moving unnoticed through crowded alleys, and an ear when she needed to speak. In him, she found steady support—a quiet presence to counter the chaos of the city.
Together, Mara and Tomas became her first anchors: friends, confidants, allies. Slowly, a small found family formed, bound not by blood, but by necessity, trust, and shared survival.
And then there was Aiden. Tall, quick-witted, and confident, he ran a small repair shop near the market. Their first encounter was a collision in a narrow alley: a misstep, a dropped satchel, and a brief spark of frustration.
“I should apologize,” Élodie said, gathering her scattered belongings.
“I think I owe the apology,” Aiden replied, eyes glinting with humor and something she could not name. “You move fast… and don’t look back.”
Their paths crossed repeatedly over the following weeks: deliveries, errands, small favors. Each meeting carried laughter, small teasing, and a subtle, undeniable spark that grew into friendship—and something more she didn’t yet understand.
Élodie felt the thrill of independence alongside the comfort of connection. She was mastering the streets, yes—but she was also weaving herself into a community, finding people who cared for her, who challenged her, who made the city feel less like a labyrinth and more like a world she could inhabit.
At night, under the dim glow of street lamps, she reflected on her journey so far. She had learned to earn coin, to secure a room, to navigate danger, and to form alliances. She had made friends, discovered allies, and glimpsed a spark of affection that hinted at the life she could build—if she continued to survive, to learn, and to trust herself.
The city was no longer just a place of survival. It was a living network, threads intersecting in invisible patterns of opportunity, trust, and loyalty. And Élodie, once the daughter who fled the vineyard, was beginning to understand her own power within it.
From a distant hill, unseen but subtly felt, threads hummed faintly—not tugging her, not directing her, but acknowledging. Malchior and Althan remained focused elsewhere, leaving her to walk her path alone, shaping it with skill, wit, and growing confidence
The market was alive with chaos, the clatter of carts, merchants shouting over one another, and the hum of coin exchanging hands. Élodie moved confidently among the stalls, satchel slung tight, eyes sharp for opportunity or threat.
Her first warning came in whispers. Mara tugged at her sleeve, voice low and urgent. “Watch that group over by the fountain. They’ve been hanging around the market all morning. Not here to buy, if you ask me.”
Élodie followed her gaze: a trio of men, broad-shouldered and sneering, surveying the vendors and passersby like predators. Something about them set her nerves alight—not fear, exactly, but a keen awareness of danger.
“I’ve got this,” Élodie murmured, adjusting her stance. Mara and Tomas flanked her, ready but not in a way that drew attention. Together, the three moved as a unit, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease.
The confrontation came quickly. One of the men lunged at a fruit stall, tipping crates and scattering produce. “Pay for what you broke, girl,” he barked, voice rough, as he spotted Élodie nearby.
Élodie’s instincts fired. She didn’t fight with brute force; she used misdirection. She ducked behind a cart, grabbed a dropped basket, and hurled it in the opposite direction. The crate spilled fruit, drawing the man’s attention and giving her a moment to escape.
Mara and Tomas acted in sync. Tomas distracted the second man, engaging him in heated negotiation over imaginary debts, while Mara snatched the third man’s cloak and disappeared into the crowd. Within minutes, the trio had confused, frustrated, and evaded their pursuers, leaving them spluttering in the center of the market.
Later, safe in a narrow alleyway behind a bakery, Élodie exhaled, heart racing. She looked at Mara and Tomas, gratitude and pride mingling. “We make a good team,” she said, realizing the weight of her own cunning and their combined effort.
“You did more than just survive,” Mara replied, grinning. “You led. That’s new.”
Élodie smiled, a spark of satisfaction igniting in her chest. She had faced organized danger, applied her skills, and emerged not just unscathed, but in control. The city had tested her—and she had met its challenge.
That night, as she sat on the roof of her small rented room, Élodie reflected on her growth. The streets, the market, even danger itself had become lessons. She was not merely surviving—she was mastering the city, building a network, earning respect, and beginning to understand strategy, trust, and leadership in her own way.
Her mind wandered briefly to Aiden, the repairman who had become more than a friend, whose presence made the city feel slightly less cold and uncertain. There was promise there—a thread yet to be fully woven.
In distant hills beyond the city, unseen, the Astartes observed faintly—not intervening, not tugging, merely noting. Clara and Julien remained their focus, and Élodie’s path was hers alone. Threads hummed faintly at the edge of perception, acknowledging choices made and skills earned.
Warnings: murder mystery dinner, false accusations, please ask me to tag something if I’ve missed it!
Summary: Accusations fly, but Darsas won’t let himself be painted as the villain
"You've read what your role, backstory and your your character connects to others, yes?" Honey asks as she adjusts the tie that she had insisted that he wear as part of the outfit for the role he was to play.
Darsas chuffed a little as he leaned down just enough to let her fuss in the way that he knows that she enjoys fussing most. "Yes, love. I have read through it and remember anything. I am Antoine Riviera, jet-setting Adventurer for Hire. You are my charming assistant and secret romantic partner, Julia Nelique. We are going to a dinner party hosted by a wealthy if mysterious patron, along with others, including your estranged and adversarial childhood friend, Melinda Vasquez and her boy-toy Ezekyle ... hahaha hahaha... hahaha..."
"Why are you laughing, love?" Honey asks, tilting her head curiously up at him.
"Oh... I just... Have had occasion to deal with a very... Dangerous individual named Ezekyle. The idea of him being anyone's... Mmm... Kept person is. Wildly entertaining. Perhaps even true once a long, long time ago in his past. Not that there is anything wrong with sex-work. I just..." He falls into another fit of helpless laughter, his eyes gleaming in amusement. There was quite a bit more that had been in the file that he had read that he wasn't supposed to reveal except in certain circumstances. He was curious to see how this televised game of pretend and mystery would unfold. He had also followed the rules and not snooped through his beloved's things to read her full file, despite the temptation to do so.
"I see. Well, the car the event organizers sent to come get us will be here any minute. It's time to go. You've got your props?" Honey answered, grabbing the period-accurate purse and parasol she'd been instructed to bring with her.
He grabs the bag and the prop pistol, placing it on the holster that was strapped to his hip. "Right here, my love. I am ready to go."
She nods and leads him to where they needed to wait.
~
"And I am telling you that it has to be Antoine who killed Baron Von Valencio! He's the only one with a gun." A baseline who had gone by the name of Quinton shouted, pointing dramatically in Darsas' direction, finger trembling in faux-outrage and a touch of real fear.
Darsas rolled his eyes behind his helmet and answered "I have not spent time alone with the Baron before he passed tonight, and from what we saw of his body, he was not shot to death. He was stabbed. You, Miss Julia and the sergeant at arms are the ones with blades of the length and depth to cause those wounds."
"But he was shot!" Julia cried out, glaring at him, half hiding behind Ezekyle. Whose name was at least partially unchanged, though he was much younger, given the scars he had and those he did not. And the lack of the shifting aura that a champion of Chaos Undivided that had long clung to the Warmaster of Chaos.
"That happened post-mortem. I am very well acquainted with death, as a professional adventurer." Darsas answered, his voice calm and lilting a little with amusement. "Besides, the bullet that wounded him post mortem is two sizes larger than the ones that my pistol is capable of firing. Herr Van Gutte is the one with the rifle that has the correct sized ammunition. I am not, and did not have the means nor the motive to kill our dearly departed host."
"Explain." Ezekyle grunted, scowling. While Darsas was almost certain that both the future warmaster of Chaos - who was here as an unspoken representative of either loyalist or renegade astartes, the character he was playing was apparently dim and direct.
"May I?" The Night Lord - who was dressed elegantly as a minor noble who had been invited to the dinner party as a close friend and confidant of the dearly departed host.
"Please, Lord Zehal." Darsas answers with a magnanimous smile, gesturing for the other to continue.
"Mister Riviera here has worked for the dearly departed baron for most of his adult life, and has lost his patron to the cruel embrace of death. I imagine that he is among the most motivated to discern who among you all is the killer." The Night Lord answers with a smirk.
"You also came to this dinner party of the dead! You could have stabbed him." Gregory Van Gutte cut in, scowling.
"I. Am. Wheelchair bound, and do not have the strength to stab someone that many times. Especially not someone as fit and in the prime of his health that our host was." Zehal pointed out primly, gesturing to the wheelchair that he'd been seated in the entire time he'd been at this televised event.
"... Well, I suppose you have a point there." Van Gutte reluctantly conceded, scowling a little.
A terrified scream from the upstairs parlor rang out "OH GOD! WHAT THE FUCK? HELP, PLEASE HELP ME!"
Ah, onto the surprise second murder, then? Given the nature of these kinds of games - especially one so televised, a twist of a second - and perhaps third murder - was something that he was entirely unsurprised was going to happen. "We are coming to your rescue. Julia, with me!" he says in his best Dashing Hero voice, sweeping Honey off of her feet and into one of his arms as he rushed towards the sound of the screaming, most of the rest of the other guests following behind.
Warnings: murder mystery dinner, false accusations, please ask me to tag something if I’ve missed it!
Summary: Accusations fly, but Darsas won’t let himself be painted as the villain
"You've read what your role, backstory and your your character connects to others, yes?" Honey asks as she adjusts the tie that she had insisted that he wear as part of the outfit for the role he was to play.
Darsas chuffed a little as he leaned down just enough to let her fuss in the way that he knows that she enjoys fussing most. "Yes, love. I have read through it and remember anything. I am Antoine Riviera, jet-setting Adventurer for Hire. You are my charming assistant and secret romantic partner, Julia Nelique. We are going to a dinner party hosted by a wealthy if mysterious patron, along with others, including your estranged and adversarial childhood friend, Melinda Vasquez and her boy-toy Ezekyle ... hahaha hahaha... hahaha..."
"Why are you laughing, love?" Honey asks, tilting her head curiously up at him.
"Oh... I just... Have had occasion to deal with a very... Dangerous individual named Ezekyle. The idea of him being anyone's... Mmm... Kept person is. Wildly entertaining. Perhaps even true once a long, long time ago in his past. Not that there is anything wrong with sex-work. I just..." He falls into another fit of helpless laughter, his eyes gleaming in amusement. There was quite a bit more that had been in the file that he had read that he wasn't supposed to reveal except in certain circumstances. He was curious to see how this televised game of pretend and mystery would unfold. He had also followed the rules and not snooped through his beloved's things to read her full file, despite the temptation to do so.
"I see. Well, the car the event organizers sent to come get us will be here any minute. It's time to go. You've got your props?" Honey answered, grabbing the period-accurate purse and parasol she'd been instructed to bring with her.
He grabs the bag and the prop pistol, placing it on the holster that was strapped to his hip. "Right here, my love. I am ready to go."
She nods and leads him to where they needed to wait.
~
"And I am telling you that it has to be Antoine who killed Baron Von Valencio! He's the only one with a gun." A baseline who had gone by the name of Quinton shouted, pointing dramatically in Darsas' direction, finger trembling in faux-outrage and a touch of real fear.
Darsas rolled his eyes behind his helmet and answered "I have not spent time alone with the Baron before he passed tonight, and from what we saw of his body, he was not shot to death. He was stabbed. You, Miss Julia and the sergeant at arms are the ones with blades of the length and depth to cause those wounds."
"But he was shot!" Julia cried out, glaring at him, half hiding behind Ezekyle. Whose name was at least partially unchanged, though he was much younger, given the scars he had and those he did not. And the lack of the shifting aura that a champion of Chaos Undivided that had long clung to the Warmaster of Chaos.
"That happened post-mortem. I am very well acquainted with death, as a professional adventurer." Darsas answered, his voice calm and lilting a little with amusement. "Besides, the bullet that wounded him post mortem is two sizes larger than the ones that my pistol is capable of firing. Herr Van Gutte is the one with the rifle that has the correct sized ammunition. I am not, and did not have the means nor the motive to kill our dearly departed host."
"Explain." Ezekyle grunted, scowling. While Darsas was almost certain that both the future warmaster of Chaos - who was here as an unspoken representative of either loyalist or renegade astartes, the character he was playing was apparently dim and direct.
"May I?" The Night Lord - who was dressed elegantly as a minor noble who had been invited to the dinner party as a close friend and confidant of the dearly departed host.
"Please, Lord Zehal." Darsas answers with a magnanimous smile, gesturing for the other to continue.
"Mister Riviera here has worked for the dearly departed baron for most of his adult life, and has lost his patron to the cruel embrace of death. I imagine that he is among the most motivated to discern who among you all is the killer." The Night Lord answers with a smirk.
"You also came to this dinner party of the dead! You could have stabbed him." Gregory Van Gutte cut in, scowling.
"I. Am. Wheelchair bound, and do not have the strength to stab someone that many times. Especially not someone as fit and in the prime of his health that our host was." Zehal pointed out primly, gesturing to the wheelchair that he'd been seated in the entire time he'd been at this televised event.
"... Well, I suppose you have a point there." Van Gutte reluctantly conceded, scowling a little.
A terrified scream from the upstairs parlor rang out "OH GOD! WHAT THE FUCK? HELP, PLEASE HELP ME!"
Ah, onto the surprise second murder, then? Given the nature of these kinds of games - especially one so televised, a twist of a second - and perhaps third murder - was something that he was entirely unsurprised was going to happen. "We are coming to your rescue. Julia, with me!" he says in his best Dashing Hero voice, sweeping Honey off of her feet and into one of his arms as he rushed towards the sound of the screaming, most of the rest of the other guests following behind.
Warnings: murder mystery dinner, false accusations, please ask me to tag something if I’ve missed it!
Summary: Accusations fly, but Darsas won’t let himself be painted as the villain
"You've read what your role, backstory and your your character connects to others, yes?" Honey asks as she adjusts the tie that she had insisted that he wear as part of the outfit for the role he was to play.
Darsas chuffed a little as he leaned down just enough to let her fuss in the way that he knows that she enjoys fussing most. "Yes, love. I have read through it and remember anything. I am Antoine Riviera, jet-setting Adventurer for Hire. You are my charming assistant and secret romantic partner, Julia Nelique. We are going to a dinner party hosted by a wealthy if mysterious patron, along with others, including your estranged and adversarial childhood friend, Melinda Vasquez and her boy-toy Ezekyle ... hahaha hahaha... hahaha..."
"Why are you laughing, love?" Honey asks, tilting her head curiously up at him.
"Oh... I just... Have had occasion to deal with a very... Dangerous individual named Ezekyle. The idea of him being anyone's... Mmm... Kept person is. Wildly entertaining. Perhaps even true once a long, long time ago in his past. Not that there is anything wrong with sex-work. I just..." He falls into another fit of helpless laughter, his eyes gleaming in amusement. There was quite a bit more that had been in the file that he had read that he wasn't supposed to reveal except in certain circumstances. He was curious to see how this televised game of pretend and mystery would unfold. He had also followed the rules and not snooped through his beloved's things to read her full file, despite the temptation to do so.
"I see. Well, the car the event organizers sent to come get us will be here any minute. It's time to go. You've got your props?" Honey answered, grabbing the period-accurate purse and parasol she'd been instructed to bring with her.
He grabs the bag and the prop pistol, placing it on the holster that was strapped to his hip. "Right here, my love. I am ready to go."
She nods and leads him to where they needed to wait.
~
"And I am telling you that it has to be Antoine who killed Baron Von Valencio! He's the only one with a gun." A baseline who had gone by the name of Quinton shouted, pointing dramatically in Darsas' direction, finger trembling in faux-outrage and a touch of real fear.
Darsas rolled his eyes behind his helmet and answered "I have not spent time alone with the Baron before he passed tonight, and from what we saw of his body, he was not shot to death. He was stabbed. You, Miss Julia and the sergeant at arms are the ones with blades of the length and depth to cause those wounds."
"But he was shot!" Julia cried out, glaring at him, half hiding behind Ezekyle. Whose name was at least partially unchanged, though he was much younger, given the scars he had and those he did not. And the lack of the shifting aura that a champion of Chaos Undivided that had long clung to the Warmaster of Chaos.
"That happened post-mortem. I am very well acquainted with death, as a professional adventurer." Darsas answered, his voice calm and lilting a little with amusement. "Besides, the bullet that wounded him post mortem is two sizes larger than the ones that my pistol is capable of firing. Herr Van Gutte is the one with the rifle that has the correct sized ammunition. I am not, and did not have the means nor the motive to kill our dearly departed host."
"Explain." Ezekyle grunted, scowling. While Darsas was almost certain that both the future warmaster of Chaos - who was here as an unspoken representative of either loyalist or renegade astartes, the character he was playing was apparently dim and direct.
"May I?" The Night Lord - who was dressed elegantly as a minor noble who had been invited to the dinner party as a close friend and confidant of the dearly departed host.
"Please, Lord Zehal." Darsas answers with a magnanimous smile, gesturing for the other to continue.
"Mister Riviera here has worked for the dearly departed baron for most of his adult life, and has lost his patron to the cruel embrace of death. I imagine that he is among the most motivated to discern who among you all is the killer." The Night Lord answers with a smirk.
"You also came to this dinner party of the dead! You could have stabbed him." Gregory Van Gutte cut in, scowling.
"I. Am. Wheelchair bound, and do not have the strength to stab someone that many times. Especially not someone as fit and in the prime of his health that our host was." Zehal pointed out primly, gesturing to the wheelchair that he'd been seated in the entire time he'd been at this televised event.
"... Well, I suppose you have a point there." Van Gutte reluctantly conceded, scowling a little.
A terrified scream from the upstairs parlor rang out "OH GOD! WHAT THE FUCK? HELP, PLEASE HELP ME!"
Ah, onto the surprise second murder, then? Given the nature of these kinds of games - especially one so televised, a twist of a second - and perhaps third murder - was something that he was entirely unsurprised was going to happen. "We are coming to your rescue. Julia, with me!" he says in his best Dashing Hero voice, sweeping Honey off of her feet and into one of his arms as he rushed towards the sound of the screaming, most of the rest of the other guests following behind.
They are delightful. Also the Cuthonian gangster bonded to the widow of an organized crime boss(before they met) definitely owns and runs a bar.
That delights me. And honestly probably convinces any one that knew him that yep that's really him
(Reverse husbandry scenario Abby ends up back in 30k. Rants to the Mournival "I had a bar! Warpy grox shit tossed me to m3 then it tossed me back and took my bar!)
romaincrisis
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
stormborns
turnnoffyourmind
pixelskylines
