In case anyone wants to kick me into gear to finish one of these oneshots lol Here, some snippets of upcoming stories!
He was well into his cups by the time his eyes snagged on a pretty Bearer at the outskirts of the camp, the man helping disperse firewood to be used throughout the night. Even from this distance, he could tell the Bearer was built like a solider. Strong muscle corded through every inch of him, nothing but a linen shirt and threadbare trousers to hide the majority of that physique from sight. Not someone who should be delivering firewood.
Alstroemeria, Dion/Clive, Bearer Baby AU:
There was a time when Dion thought that he would never grow accustomed to the nobles penchant for excess. After years of being surrounded by it, he was now desensitized to it. And when his men - all noble, all rowdy from victory - asked for a night spent drinking after a long campaign, he couldn't refuse them. Nor could he reject their invitation to join in the merrymaking.
One of his men followed his line of sight and barked a laugh, slapping him on the back. "Aye, that one certainly gets around. The Bastards will be leaving our pleasant company by morning light, but they were a right help in that last battle."
Dion held his cup up out to be filled by another soldier and asked, voice tight, "What do you mean?"
"Oh? You didn't know?" His fellow dragoon kept his gaze on the Bearer, a sneer on his face. "The Bastards know their way around all kinds of swords."
Riptide, Barnabas/Clive, Barnabas needs someone to marry in his place and chooses a 'son' for the honor:
"Have you heard the news?"
The whispers on the streets were loud today, excited murmurs everywhere on the boardwalk closest to the pier. Clive had gone for a walk after finishing his chores at the inn, hands still dirty from cleaning out the fireplace. Passerbys turned up their noses at him, peasants and nobles alike looking at him like he was less than the grime that marred his skin. Much like the streaks of ash on his cheek, soot also covered up the inked flesh of his wrist. It hid Odin's eye from view, but they seemed to know what he was regardless. A servant of Ash, written in the poison of a wyvern tail.
"At least Sanbreque has seen reason," remarked one noblewoman, fanning herself slowly. "About time. Now all that's left is convincing that King of ours to wed. That's another matter entirely, don't you agree?"
The man accompanying her scoffed, saying, "Men are all the same. Throw a pretty young thing at their doorstep and who wouldn't take the opportunity?"
With a giggle, the woman agreed, "Yes, who wouldn't? I hear the High Cardinal's daughter is quite the looker too."
"We'll see," said her companion, "portraits can be contrived. And you know how fickle King Tharmr is. He hardly takes anyone to his bed these days."
Their conversation drifted off and Clive continued on, a vague curiosity replacing the nastiest of his day. He didn't want to think of the innkeeper's parting words to him earlier, about selling him to bring in the funds they were sorely lacking. Manual labor was something he had experience in, yes. but his master had threatened to sell him to the mines. There was a high chance he would never make it back to the surface after that, which he had mixed feelings about nowadays.
On the one hand, he wanted to one day to return to where he was meant to be, where he always should have been, but on the other, did he have any right? He could still hear his brother calling out to him, gasping for breath, the sound of water splashing as Clive reached for him - only to fall short. Always one step shy of succeeding.
His fist closed on nothing but air and he reminded himself that it was in the past. He did not have the luxury to dwell on such memories. His master was expecting him back soon, having permitted him to go on this walk for one reason alone: they were nearly out of groceries. He would place the needed orders and then sort through the deliveries when they arrived later tonight. The innkeeper didn't trust him with coin, preferring to do that in person.
Not that Clive would take what wasn't his; the serf mark on his skin ensured he wouldn't be able to run. Not until his debt was paid, and even then, the blemish would remain. Twisted threads that made up an all-seeing eye. A reminder that his own mother had sold him to the first person at the docks in Isolde that day Joshua had nearly drowned. A harrowing experience that still haunted him in his dreams some days, along with the the rocking of a tumultuous boat and the crack of a whip along his back scolding him for something he could no longer recall. He had done something wrong; it didn't matter what.
His then master had been disappointed by his lack of healing abilities, grumbling that Clive wasn't worth the gil if he hadn't been Blessed by the Phoenix. The words had seared over his heart more painfully than a whip ever could. He carried the weight of those words every day. Failure, worthless, never measuring up. A familiar treble that whispered in his thoughts, sweet and sharp. Just like the faint memories of his mother. Ghost impressions of a woman who hadn't wanted him after the Phoenix rejected him. Not once but twice.
A commotion near the port caught Clive's attention, snapping him out of those thoughts. It looked like someone important had docked near the boardwalk. His gaze strayed from the crowd and their cheers to the boat itself and he froze mid-step. That was the Einherjar, the Black Galleon herself. The flagship of the Waloed navy. What was the King of Waloed doing here in their quaint village, of all places?
He ducked his head, not wanting to be seen by the one man he should never meet in person. There were tales of his cruelty, but more than that, he was a threat to Storm. To his brother. Best not to invite trouble. He wandered to the nearest seller peddling their wares and retrieved the piece of paper with the list of ingredients on it.
Now that he was looking at it, his brow furrowed in confusion. There was a lot on it, far from the usual. Almost as if they were expecting - his gaze snapped back to the crowd welcoming their king, a yawning chasm opening at the base of his stomach and making him feel ill as soon as his eyes connected with the solemn stare of King Tharmr himself.
He looked away at once, folding the list and citing the ingredients from memory to the grocer. A faint waver in his words, but it went unnoticed by those around him. Good. No one need know that he did not belong. A fish out of water, lost amidst the hustle and bustle. A servant doing as he was told.
Unnamed Illegal Bearer Auction AU, Dion/Clive:
"Next, we have a Branded woman of twenty summers. There is a bit of deformation at the legs, as you can see, but she is untouched by the Curse otherwise. One of the rarer finds at her age," boasted the auctioneer. He was an older gentleman graying at the temples with a goatee trimmed to a fine point on his chin. "We'll start the bidding at one hundred talents."
Dion folded his arms across his chest, leaning back in his seat. He didn't know how much more of this he could bear to watch.
"You wanted to come here," reminded Terence, tapping their numbered card against his thigh in obvious agitation. "I understand the intent, but do you truly intend to proceed?"
It would be a feat in itself to take out an illegal auction ring, one that would bring acclaim to their newly established Order of the Holy Knight Dragoons. A way to separate them from the past betrayal of their forefathers. Actions such that had broken the Tri-Unity Accord years ago. Some transgressions could not be forgiven, but now that he knew what role that dragoons had played in the fall of Rosaria - he had to start somewhere with their redemption.
"We continue," Dion insisted. He would wait until a Branded caught his eye, something to bring legitmacy to the act he would need to put on to gain access to the backrooms. If he could just catch a glimpse of the list of prior sales, of patrons. It would be enough to reveal today's buyers, establishing the necessary proof that illegal actions were taking place. Just enough to bring this matter to their ally in the courts. Quinten had the Lord Chief Justice on their side as well; they would take it from there.
A man was dragged out next, forced to his knees before the auction podium, eyes downcast with long, dark hair shadowing his face. It did nothing to hide the prominent Brand that was on full display for all to see. "The hightlight of today," the auctioneer called, using the podium mallet to tip the man's chin up to reveal piercing blue eyes that sent a chill down Dion's spine. It felt like that gaze was looking right at him, seeing through the mask he had worn to conceal his identity. Oddly familiar, a scratching of remembrance at the back of his mind.
"Not a touch of the Curse on him," continued the auctioneer, allowing the man's chin to fall back down. The man's gaze remained lowered, burning a hole through the wooden floorboards under his knees. "He has been thoroughly vetted. Once a soldier on the frontlines before he was sold here by his previous master. There are a few imperfections, but the benefits outweigh the cons in this case, friends."
The Bearer certainly looked the part of a previous soldier. Strong, proud, almost noble in the way he held himself. Straight-backed and proper even with his gaze resolutely on the floor. Dion nudged Terence with his foot, nodding to the man on stage. His friend rolled his eyes behind his own mask and held up their card.
