#aen-consilium

[gynvaell]

'Sometimes, I still hear his voice... It went something like... 'gay homosexual gay gay homo gay sexual.' Iorweth, he is standing next to you. ;/

this bitch.

[warwaged-archive]

Katarina + heartbreak

Send me something to drabble about

The first man to break her heart never does it to her face.

It is no tale of romance, of love found and lost. Heartbreak first comes to her in the shape of a blade, crimson blood dripping through her fingertips from a wound that leaves scar much deeper than the obvious mark of failure etched upon her face. Katarina had been scarred before, a thousand times and more; those were marks of devotion, however, of dedication to shaping herself into something deadly and violent and strong and perfect. This one is different; this is shame and humiliation and the explicit message in words he never bothers to say.

You are no daughter of mine.

Not even worth his time, that he would take her life himself; all the General offers her is spite and a death sentence, a nameless assassin he had raised from the city slums to wound her pride, and it hurts unlike anything she had experienced. Katarina had bled before, by accident and on purpose; had felt the blood within her veins burn with poison that would have killed her had she taken the wrong dose. She was no stranger to broken bones and bruised skin; there was no building strength in a golden cage, and she had always been determined to be strong. Yet training endurance and crafting resistance of body and mind did awful little to prepare her heart, inconvenient thing that it had always been, determined to feel too much, too strongly. Emotions had led her astray in her mission, emotions devastated her as she faced the consequences of it; emotions threatened to ruin her, then, daggers clashing against the nameless assassin’s blades with vicious rage (willed forward by each sharp edge of a shattering heart).

Was a daughter worth so little in face of a name?

Was she nothing but a disposable weapon, to be thrown away upon first test and failure?

Her chest rises and falls with quick breath, anger overwhelming. There is no planning, no careful analysis of opponent, but she needs it not; what she needs is the violence in itself, each motion a product of a lifetime of training, each strike delivered with more strength than needed (it would tire her faster, but Katarina did not care; had she not been made to kill? Then kill she would, in bloodiest, most gruesome possible way, so there would be naught left of the nobody her father sent to end her life). 

Her heart aches at that, screaming betrayal; and though instinct moves her as blade nearly guts the other where he stands, Katarina grows careless. She allows herself to get lost in what comes naturally -- the fight, lashing out as she is; the deadly dance of blades matched evenly by one equal to her in skill. In battle, some sort of soothing; it does not numb her to it but dulls violent outpour of emotion, enough so that when carelessness could have cost her life, she knows to acknowledge it is a deliberate withdraw on her would-be killer’s part.

There is silence between them, then, cut only by her quick breath; and though anger subdues, Katarina does not allow it to go away entirely. It is better than giving in to pain; and controlled, it allows her to clear head enough to decide what to do next.

“I failed my mission.” A statement, not a question; she has realized her mistake well before she had noticed the presence of the other assassin. Fingertip still upon her cheek, tracing the end of the wound he had given her; but green eyes do not move away from him, even though he had been first to sheathe blades. “I intend to make it right. I will kill my original target and pay for my mistake. You can stand in my way and die or let me do what I ought to have done already.”

Even as she speaks, chaotic feelings are kept just beneath the skin; he could have killed her. He had the chance, and chose not to. The other assassin did not seem older than she was; and by choosing not to kill her now, he had failed as she had. 

She does not know what to make of that, though it seems not an act of pity. Mercy from a stranger, a nobody, a nameless assassin who sees her choice to atone as worthy enough he would submit himself to judgement for allowing her to leave; if her heart is in pieces, she feels the pieces shatter to dust. Mercy from a stranger, but not from one who had taught her everything, blood of her blood, mentor, father. 

Perhaps it is what leads her to stay her own blades, rather than killing her would-be killer. Perhaps it is what drives her to ask for his name instead. “Before I go, I would have the name of the one he sent for me.”

“I have no name to offer you. My name never mattered.”

“It does now.” Why she was uncertain herself; but Katarina’s tone made it clear she would have an answer, something to call the blade her father had sent. The truth of it did not matter; there was nothing to be gained from that knowledge she could not have taken through violence then and there. It is important for her to know all the same; the nameless nobody had matched her in strength and skill, she who carried the name of one of Noxus’ old houses. They are worlds apart and not at all, children of the same land, mentored by same teacher.

It stings to know the other will not face punishment as she had, favor lost and name disgraced and life threatened, but Katarina knows it to be the truth. 

This was never about her mission, or the Noxian lives she had caused to be lost. This was about a name, and one man’s pride, and though her chest still aches, there is bitter resignation at that. She had failed, yes, because he had failed in teaching her, sharpening her edges to best serve him when she should have been spilling blood not for the man, but for the nation. 

“It matters to me.” She repeats when silence falls upon them once more, and finds it to be the truth. It matters not to the General who had brought them both then and there, to be as they were; of that she has no doubt either. 

But she is not her father, and this is the moment when she chooses to never be. 

“They called me Talon.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The ruin inside is plainly mirrored in exterior by the time she walks towards her father once more.

Katarina needed not make it messy, true, but she wanted to. She could have slipped into the Demacian’s camp undetected, slit his throat in silence, returned clean and freed of the burden of a mission unaccomplished. Could have, but did not. Instead she allowed them to see her, slaughtering her way to her target; and when she reached him at last, his death had been neither quick nor painless, drenching her in blood as head was severed from body.

Katarina needed not make it messy, true, but she wanted to. She could have brought simpler proof of her kill, kneeling before her father and pleading forgiveness in face of her attempt to atone. Could have, but did not. Instead she walks in with righteous fury, confident even when torn apart, and throws the severed head at his feet, gaze sustaining his, even as eyes so alike her own offer her only disdain.

“I would have taken your head instead,” Something flickers in his eyes (perhaps wrongfully assuming this to be threat, announcement of what she would do next?), but she does not flinch. Violence solved everything; and blood had soothed her heartbreak enough it had since turned to deserved resent. Father had not been wholly wrong, however; she had, in expecting their ties to matter more than their mission. “but failure must have consequences.”

“And I have failed.” Sour enough to say it that the bitter taste stays upon her mouth, worsened by each subtle sign of a reaction he displays (barely there at all, but his is a familiar face, and too long she had hungered to see it show pride, learning each shift in order to avoid blatant disregard he now offers). But swell of disdainful pride does naught to smother her own, evenly matched; she is not her father, but blood is thick, and spite only makes her more spiteful. “Not you, but Noxus.”

One of her earliest memories is of being taught not to cry. You do not display your emotions for all to see, or they will know to use them against you. You do not show fear, and you do not show pain; if you are hurt, you endure it with strength and dignity. The assassin is the blade; you wound, and you do not weep. There had been nothing of comforting in his stern tone as he spoke, looming over her in a stance others may have taken to mean General instead of Father (they had always been the same to her). Her tears had dried as soon as she was able to force them back, nevertheless; she did not wish to disappoint him. She promised herself to be strong, and brave, and never cry again.

The memory seemed irrelevant, in spite of coming to her then, father and daughter staring down at one another in deathly silence. If he expects her to request forgiveness, Katarina never does; she merely slips into the shadows once more to take her leave, no permission requested. 

Had her mistake not been enough, she had actively burned that bridge now. There would be no amends, now or ever; there would be nothing but constant reminder of scorn and failure, attempt after attempt to spite her --- to wound, not because he refused to show weakness but because he could, and whichever ties she had been foolish enough to presume, she had never been more than a tool in his vast arsenal.

Rain that pours outside washes away some of the blood; it barely hurts at all as water runs down the wound above her eye. Katarina does not seek shelter from it, in spite of blurred vision and stinging eyes; if she lies well enough to herself, she can almost believe it is just the rain.

[snarkomancy]

'You must ubderstand, Philippa, that I hate you from bottom of my heart. There is nobody as hatef in my life as you and I hope said feelings is mutual. It would break my heart to know there is someone else, someone dearer to your heart. Please, remember of those wordd when opening my gift. From your esteemed nemesis, Vilgefortz of Your Heart.' it's vial with new poison he found but looking like perfume shhh

A small package is delivered to his chambersalongside a card with an intricate design of entwined flowers.

The package contains a carved wooden box insidewhich rests an ornament made of a sliverbright metal that is somehow fluid inappearance, as if it was alive, shimmering and shifting. It depicts a viper,its eyes set with rubies, every scale perfectly crafted.

It comes to life if touched, rearing up with ametallic hiss, baring fangs like needles that drip venom. A beautiful,treacherous, magnificent thing. 

The card reads 

Esteemed Rival,

I thank you most kindly for your thoughtful gift.The substance caused an utterly delightful cardiac arrhythmia that truly mademe feel alive – no one has ever managed to make my heart beat quite as fast.Why, I shall savour the memory of it for as long as I live, which owing to theantidote that my physician has provided shall be quite some time.

Delightful. Completely delightful. I was,however, a little disappointed that you neglected to add any substanceaffecting the respiratory system. Did you omit this on purpose, knowing howvery fond I am of the sensation of slow asphyxiation? How cruel of you todeprive me of such delights. I am hoping you will do better next time and I amlooking forward to the next occasion on which you will grace me with one ofyour thoughtful gifts.

In the meantime, please enjoy this trinket frombeyond the Korath desert. I’ve had it imported just for you, at significantexpense. I trust that you shall cherish it. 

Your Beloved Nemesis,

Philippa

[hdgewitch-a]

Package from Vilgefortz arrived on this special day. Letter was... short. 'You belong in My Heart.' Attached to it was very small bird cage, made out of bones - making a mental image of ribcage. Inside it, there was a little ball with written over 'My Heart.'

To my Lord, the venerable and wellbeloved Vilgefortz of Roggeveen, a greeting to your pleasure by the grace of God,

Despite the affection I hold for you and your intents, I cannot abide by your gifts, with the reason being simply an effect of their inaccuracies. Your heart is as tangible as stable North—by which I mean to state outright that I wholly doubt its existence altogether. The subtlety in your creative pursuits is, however, to be lauded. Bravo, naturally.

Yours,Keira Metz of Carreras.

[diguerra-moved]

(tot not one day late) Though it was event brought to them by humans and not widely celebrated alongside Night Elves, Malfurion thought... it would be nice to have a moment just for themselves. He sent a note to Tyrande, one saying she is urgent needed in south part of Ashenvale. When she arrivied, her beloved welcomed her with cave decorated in all flowery&the most exotic of fruits in lovely baskets. A smile on Archdruid begged for forgiveness for such a trick.

LOVE IS IN THE AIR // what do you mean valentine’s day was two days ago I’m not late at all.

She had rushed through trees and streams, as fast as Ash’alah could take her, as soon as his note had arrived; and though Tyrande questioned what could be so urgent and demand she went alone, both at once, it had neither slowed her nor made her worry less. There had been no sign of danger nor attack, however, nothing that would give her something concrete which to fear; and yet, hadn’t threats often risen from unlikely places, in ways none of them had been able to foresee?

Elune willing, she would be worrying for naught. The High Priestess slid of her saddle in a fluid motion, landing gracefully as feet touched the ground. The closer she got to where they were supposed to meet, the more attentively she had surveyed the surroundings for any clue on what this was about. Heart continued to race even as she adopted quieter approach, now that she was but a few feet away from where Malfurion should be; but there is neither sound nor scent that will tell her much, not more than silver eyes were able to find, and Tyrande decides it’s best to go at once. 

It was the only manner she would have her answers, after all.

With quiet steps, she continues her path to him, until trees thin out and give way to a small clearing, gentle rays of sun finding their path throughout the more sparse leaves. Sense of danger is nowhere to be found; nothing seems out of place, and it is perhaps worse than if it did. Delicate features set in a frown now more confused than concerned; she does not stop, greenery on the ground transitioning into stonier terrain, until the entrance to the cavern is within sight — her beloved standing at the entrance. 

Relief comes first. Malfurion is all apology in smile offered, and whichever frustration arises in her that all anxiety had been for naught, urgent message no more than means to get her attention, Tyrande throws herself in his arms and it fades before it ever properly forms. “You made me very worried, did you know that?” Arms remain around his neck, tight hug only separated enough that she could look at his face (try as she might to sound chastising, it does not happen, lips curling into a smile; it was always so very difficult for her not to melt in his embrace). “You could have simply invited me for a date, beloved.”

Hardly as if she would have denied him; duty may consume much of their time, but Tyrande always made time for him who kept her heart. As embrace further loosens, she turns a glance to appreciate their surroundings. The cave could scarcely be deemed lifeless place, a fair share of flora making its way throughout it, the myriad of flowers livening the place with different colors (some of which are out of season, her very favorite included; yet there it is, fiery orange that fades to light yellow, bright as fire itself, and she has to wonder if this too has been purposeful). “Or in the very least, you could have told me you meant to celebrate. I would have brought your present if I knew.”

Perhaps same could be said of her, then, who had worried about gifts without making it known; but even if it wasn’t an event inherent to Kaldorei culture, love was always worth celebrating. So long had they been apart, so often had others had to come before… yet no matter how lengthy separation nor how great distance between them, her heart had long been his. Had, and always would; Tyrande had long given up calling it her own. Pulls him close again, silver eyes as radiant as the smile she gives him before any distance left is erased with a passionate kiss, less demanding than it is surrendering; it feels like overflowing with feelings she cannot put into words, with love so everlasting there can be no life without it, of devotion so complete that she wants nothing more than to be his, now and forever. Kissing him tastes of joy, and hope, and bliss and peace only found in each other’s arms.

It tastes of love.

[takivvatanga]

aen-consilium mentioned you in a post

Morvran is doubting you @takivvatanga​

“I’m still here, aren’t I?”

[upperaedirn]

Gimme Ior/Saskia kid I NEED.

if they had a kid meme

Name: Elnar Cedric of Upper Aedirn

Gender: Male

General Appearance: Fair, slightly tanned skin, dark brown, straight hair, deep green eyes. He looks like a full-blooded elf (even though technically he is a half-elf) with strong, chiseled features, a tall and svelte frame, and elongated, pointy ears. He grows up to be somewhat more muscular than the average elf, however. 

Personality: Quiet, introverted, melancholic, gentle. He’s analytical and reflective, observing the world and people around him and noticing small details others might not. He doesn’t speak much, but when he does it’s obvious he’s very clever and introspective and that he always thinks twice before saying something. He exudes peace and calm and prefers diplomatic solutions, going out of his way to avoid conflict. Though reserved, he’s also very thoughtful and considerate, always mindful of other people.

Special Talents: He’s got an artistic, sensitive personality and is very talented in all sorts of arts, from playing instruments and writing poetry to sculpture and theater. As a half-elf, half-dragon, he also has a long lifespan and is very quick and agile physically. He has great aim as well, but he never had the inclination to wield any weapon.

Who they like better: He loves both of his parents equally. He has great admiration and respect for everything they’ve been through and all they achieved. 

Who they take after more: Iorweth, both physically and personality-wise. He has none of Saskia’s bold, assertive temper, though he shares her idealism. 

Personal headcanon: He’s part of the first generation of children to be born in a free Upper Aedirn where no elf is persecuted. Even though his mother is the Queen and his father her consort and a high-ranking officer, it never gets to his head. He remains humble and unpretentious. He becomes part of the community theater and he’s thrilled when Saskia and Iorweth manage to clear their schedules and attend the plays he’s part of. One Mother’s Day, he and Iorweth surprise Saskia by composing a melody for her that Elnar sings while Iorweth plays his flute. 

[akindlymonster-a]

continued from here:

“ Several somethings, one might agree. ” Regis cast an eye across the Scoia’tael camp, temporarily quiet and without crisis, but for how long? In these last few days, he had seen hardships not known since his days with the refugees in Geralt’s hansa. But for these poor souls, it was a war without end.

“ How delightful that sounds. ” He sighed, setting down his satchel - now considerably lighter than it had been before - to lean against a moss-covered log. “ I would dearly love to be lost in something other than my own mind - please, play on, my dear fellow. Perhaps it will do us both some good. ”

                                 @aen-consilium