#caelon

[ambidextrousarcher]

Embers and Shards

1: An Important Guest

Inspired by Sun and Glass by @whumpflash (credit for the prompt to @whumpwillow !)

This is my take on Caelon’s PoV, the first part of a multi-part series, that begins on the night before Rena’s arrival.

His hands are shaking. His master likes coffee, he can smell it, delicious wafts of smoke, and his hands don’t stop shaking, not even when he fists them desperately, because if there’s one thing he does know, it’s that his master doesn’t like sloppiness. Any slip from him, even if it’s against his conscious will (he doesn’t have one, he can’t, he exists to serve his masters’ will, hasn’t that been beaten into him enough?) is sloppiness on his part, and he knows he’ll be punished.

The coffee smells warm, inviting. It’s been more than a day since he’d eaten, because he kept making mistakes, he’s always sloppy. It’s like that in a new place for a while, he’s almost gotten used to it, he tells himself. He’s heard that people drink coffee to feel more awake, less tired, and maybe the vapours are the same, stop his hands from shaking? He breathes in deep, and gets a casual cuff across the head. He’s learnt not to wince by now, but he cannot stop the flinch.

“I should never have bought you. What use are you, daydreaming at all times?” He keeps his head down, his mouth shut but for an apology. It’s all he knows, and all he can do is hope it stops hurting sometime soon. “Useless though you are, you’re still to serve me, and you better pay attention.”

He raises his head slightly, eyes obediently on the floor, and says what he is expected to. “Yes, master.”

“We will be welcoming an important guest tomorrow. Do not embarrass me, understand?” He nods. “Yes, master.” “You know the consequences of sloppiness. The lady, she comes from strange lands, but I’ll make sure she knows what works in my house.” Strange lands?

Anything strange is a new, unknown variable, enough to send a frission of fear thrumming inside him, enough to keep him awake all night, for all he knows is that he is not to be sloppy, but he knows naught of what he is supposed to do, nor what is the right thing to do, if there is any such he can manage.

He sighs quietly as the rising Sun’s rays brighten the sky, his hands shaky still. All he can do is to survive. That’s all he knows.

[whumpflash]

Sun and Glass Masterlist

//general tws for this series: slavery, abuse, conditioning, implied noncon.//

Rena never expected to see Caleon again, a bully of a prince who terrorized her when they were children. But when she crosses paths with him while visiting another city, she hardly recognizes the broken man he's become.

Main Story

one: We Meet Again

two: A Person is Not a Window

three: A Friendly Wager

four: A Game of Riddles

five: Scars Over Scars Over Scars

six: Caelon

seven: Remember

eight: The Left Side

nine: A Lot of Small Actions

ten: Company on the Journey

Caelon’s Backstory

The Troupe

The Cold

The Master (nsft)

Embers and Shards

Caelon's Point of View, by @ambidextrousarcher

One: An Important Guest

[fantrollassemblage]

Day 1: Power

I’m gonna try doing @activatingaggro’s Inktober for writers!

Let’s see how many days I can pull it off. For now, have a drabble of Caelon.

Why do you still use those dice?

The question sticks to Caelon like glue. The times he has been injured, trapped, defeated. Many of his failed rolls disappear into the ether, memories he tries not to hold on to, so that he can remain resolute with every throw. Some stick, though. His failure to catch Rikkin. The two highbloods him and Teteira barely escaped. 

And yet, he throws them down. The brownblood facing him with a quarterstaff glances down at the magical malachites, hesitant for a moment, but he swings none the less. Caelon ducks, waiting for the result. Another swing, Caelon is forced to raise his arm to block it with a painful thunk as it hits flesh. He curses. It hurts. 

You wouldn’t have this problem with a real weapon.

He kicks over a trash can to push the brownblood back; They vault over it and deliver a downward swing. 2 feet closer, and it would have caved him in. Caelon jumps back again. Those damn dice need to land already!

The brownblood does not let up. Two more swings, a jab. Fatigue is digging its claws into Caelon. Coupled with the roaring pain in his arm, he’s barely able to keep up now. 

What about those stupid gems makes you refuse to let them go?

The staff swings down. Caelon knows he can’t dodge, so he raises his safe arm and prays it won’t break. 

A loud crack rings through the alley. Caelon flinches, waiting for the pain, but it doesn’t come. He dares slowly peels his eyes open, and gasps. His arm didn’t break. The staff did. It broke against the bright, green shine enveloping his arm like armor. Caelon insticntively know this outcome: 8x6x4, Disquieting Durability. 

Another crack echoes through the alley. The brownblood is sent flying by a punch you’d expect from someone twice Caelon’s size. His arms don’t hurt anymore, and all that fatigue is dispelled like the darkness from a candle light. The brownblood skitters up to their feet. Eyes wide with shock, they swing again, but now, Caelon sees it telegraphed so very obviously. He ducks, gets in close, then rips the staff away to crack it like a twig. One more punch is all it takes to knock the brownblood both to the ground and out of consciousness.

They make me powerful. 

[fatoctopus]

hiraeth moodboard - caelon

[bonni]

caelon replied to your post “when will wander stop… he brings shame upon an otherwise quality...”

he wont stop until he follows everyone exactly 5 times after they remake

FDVGJKFDK i don’t even know if i hardblocked him on this account for all i know he is following me right now... if you’re seeing this wander, i hate you

[whumpflash]

The Troupe

(a prequel to Sun and Glass)

cw: slavery, abuse, brief mentioned whump of a minor, implied noncon (not explicit), mild disassociation, death mention

He can't keep track of the days anymore, or even the months. There is only when he sleeps and when he wakes, when he eats and when he doesn't. And when it's cold…

He shivers a little at the thought. The leaves have started to fall, and the temperature with them. 

Last time it was cold, cold for days and days and days, all he could think about was how to try and get warm again, how to survive. Warmth of any kind is hard to come by, but the people who've bought him---his new masters, they don't seem as cruel as the bandits who'd had him first.

And how long has it been since they'd first taken him? A year? Two? It's hard to remember when it isn't something he likes remembering

(They'd pulled him away from his parents' corpses. His mother was killed when they'd run the carriage off the road, his father by an arrow)

And it doesn't matter anyway. He's stuck with them, and his best chance at avoiding misery is not thinking and just doing what he's told

(He'd thought the bandits would kill him. They didn't. They laughed when he told them he was seventeen, and said something about a long-term deposit) 

And it doesn't matter what it is he's told, because doing anything else only brings pain, a lesson he's learned dozens of times by now.

His new masters are bright and cheerful. They travel in a large group, with a big wagon pulled by a pair of mules that holds an assortment of props and costumes

(He has a distant memory of watching a troupe of actors as a child, some colorful show that made him laugh--)

He hasn't been with them for long, and hasn't been asked to do much and that scares him. How can he do what he's told if he isn't told anything?

The bandits had called him 'boy', nothing more

(My name is Caelon--)

And now, the new masters call him nothing, nothing yet, though he's heard them speak of him, calling him 'the young prince'

(Caelon, prince Caelon)

The bandits had done the same when they'd sold him; cleaned him up and paraded him around the market, calling him princeling until a curious buyer asked the price.

And brought him to the rest of the troupe.

The first time they pull a show on the edge of town, the first time they pull him onstage afterwards and auction off a night with the princeling, his heart is in his throat and it's all he can do to keep standing

(And it's a richly dressed man with the winning bid, who leads him to a canopy in the back. And he follows along, numb to the wandering hands that shouldn't be there, numb the next morning)

But he does what he's told. It's all he can do.

He learns quickly that his purpose within the troupe is to entertain the patrons who stay later

(Push down discomfort and pretend he wants to be there, pretend he wants them)

And if at least one guest doesn't stay late enough, there will be no meal waiting for him the next morning.

His new masters don't hit him often though, and isn't that a good thing?

(Then why is this so much worse?)

Before too long, he's fallen back into rhythm, and the days become nothing more than an endless pattern. There is only when they travel and when they stop, when he eats and when he can't.

When he sleeps and when he doesn't.

@fleur-des-lore , @fandomseksta , @whumpwillow , @and-then-there-was-whump , @pumpkin-spice-whump , @suspicious-pools-of-blood , @melodyvonmelody , @fantasywhumpco , @silent-starry-night , @i-cannot-remember

[fantrollassemblage]

Day 19: Freedom

Continuing the Inktober for writers with a drabble for Caelon and his friend Rikkin, belonging to @taimatrolls.

“RELEASE ME!” you demand, wiggling in indignant fury. Your cape covers part of your face, but you can still see that smug face, all proud about taking you down.

“No.” Rikkin replies in a childishly stubborn tone, adjusting his seat on you to counter your wild flailing with your legs. “You’we twapped fowevew.”

“I’ll KILL YOU!!!” You double your efforts now! His stupid voice will not go unanswewed. Unanswered. Ugh!!! Alright, wild flailing isn’t doing much. You think you smacked his face, but that seemed to hurt, so it’s not idea. Instead, you placed your free foot squarely against the wall of the couch and kick, shoving you both down to your mutual, floor-based demise. “OOF.”

It’s a hard landing, but it disentangles the little greenblood from you enough to kick him off. “HA HA!!” There will be no truce. You leap at him and grab his arms, almost pinning him down when he kicks you from the back with his stupid agile legs. You take a face-first tumble into some pillows - an unfortunate victim caught in the crossfire - and chuck them at him wildly. Some miss by a wide margin, but one gets him in the face. A perfect hit!

“OW- OW!” His call of feather-stuffed pain is nothing compared to the genuine yelp when you shove his arms back down into the floor, hitting his head into it on the way. Oof. You slip a quick apology, but he seems to shake it off well enough. This time, you sandbag on him, with your legs locking his down by sheer weight and lazyness. He is trapped beneath you! 

“I win!” you call out in smug triumph, sticking your tongue out at labored-breathing Rikkin. He’s fine, you’re not that heavy. He looks up at you and- Yo, is that a blush? Or is he just flustered from the fighting? “Hey Rikkin, you oka-” And then he blows a big, long, wet raspberry in your face. How dare he! The battle rages on!

[fatoctopus]

hiraeth moodboard - medieval au

coe - goose - caelon - seamus