OKAY for the new ask game, let's put all our eggs in exactly one (1) basket. If you don't like that one though you can do it 10 more times ;) <3
SONG: Ain’t No Rest For the Wicked - Cage the Elephant
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“You know coin doesn’t grow on trees, right?”
A laugh bubbled from Sylda’s lips, her mouth and chin coated in a brown, sticky syrup. “I know,” she said as she sucked more droplets from her fingertips. “See? No waste.” As if in proof, she locked eyes with Delver and licked all the way up the back of her hand, on skin that Delver knew couldn’t possibly have syrup on it.
Anything to make a point.
With a put-upon sigh, Delver shook his head and cast his attention around the street. Most of the smaller towns didn’t have a market quite so crowded, but with Cheln ravaged by who the fuck knows what and abandoned, Karrak had seized the opportunity to put itself on the map with both hands. Now, the once emaciated town was practically bursting at the seams, a river of people and wagons and colourful stalls threatening to make cobbles of the smooth road that ran its length.
“You’re thinking.”
Delver’s eyes cut across at Sylda’s accusation. She was mercifully done with the sticky breaded mess she’d been inhaling. “This may come as a shock, but most people do.”
That earned him a swat on the arm - honestly, a little harder than was necessary - but he huffed a laugh as he shook her off and nodded to the far side of the market road. “See that house? The small one beside the baker. I know the woman who lives there.”
Sylda’s eyebrows shot up into her hairline as if launched by a catapult. “Oh? Know her, eh?”
“It’s not what you think.”
“What? You’ve never stopped and had a tumble between stamping papers and plucking thieves off nooses?” Sylda skirted around to plant herself in front of him, hands firm on her hips, head cocked with dangerous curiosity. “Look, I know you’re a miserable bastard, but surely someone could look past it for a night or two?”
Delver glared at her. She stared right back, mouth half-twitching into a smirk as she fought hard to keep a straight face. “Fine,” he bit out eventually, and her triumphant smile bloomed. “You win. It’s exactly what you think.”
“Yes! I knew it.” With a newfound bounce in her step, she hooked her arm through Delver’s and began tugging him towards the centre of the busy street. If they were trampled by a wagon or a particularly excited market-goer, well, so be it. Sylda wasn’t one to think quite that far ahead. “So... what’s her name?”
“Eigrel.”
“Oh.” A brief falter. “Well, I’m sure she’s got a great personality.”
Rolling his eyes, Delver allowed Sylda to resume dragging him across the road. Their direction completely at odds with the rest of the crowd, she chirped meaningless apologies every time they startled someone into a sudden stop until they finally reached the far side, and the house in question. It looked the same as he remembered, down to the chip in the bottom corner. Eigrel had slammed it on her late husband’s foot once, and had clearly deemed the memory worth preserving. Before Delver could even begin to retell the story, Sylda was hammering on the door with her bony fists like the woman inside owed her coin.
Well... to be fair...
The door swung open, and suddenly Sylda was face to face with Eigrel. Older than the third of the sister moons and bent as a willow, Eigrel looked on the precipice of a bitter tirade, red-faced and vibrating with anger, before the sight of Delver stole the acid from her tongue. Instead, something in her eyes sharpened, her mouth twisted into a smirk, and she raised her chin. The motion was imperious and just how he remembered. “Well, well. Was wonderin’ when you’d be back. Needed a few seasons to recover, did you?”
Delver gave a deep, formal bow. It was entirely to hide the grin on his face from Sylda, who looked on the verge of full-body collapse. Or nausea. He could never tell with her until it happened. Schooling the smile away before straightening, Delver looked Eigrel in her one good eye. “Come now, Eigy. How could I stay away?” Stepping forward, crowding out Sylda with the span of his shoulders, he rested a hand on the door frame and leaned close. Eigrel smelled of old linen. Nutmeg. Clove. “You know I like a challenge.”
A grin split Eigrel’s face, the cracks of her wrinkles deepening into crevasses. That one brown eye of hers, offset by its milky partner, was as shrewd as ever. “Thought you’d be tired of it by now, boy.”
It was Sylda’s voice that responded, cautious, as though she was afraid of the answer but too painfully curious not to ask. “Tired of what?”
Eigrel’s eye never left Delver. The grin never wavered. She spoke the word like a promise.
“Losing.”
Snorting, Delver straightened with his own imperious half-shrug. “No rest for the wicked, as they say. But,” he pulled out a pair of bone dice, holding them aloft between his fingers, “I’m feeling lucky this time. Made them myself.”
Scoffing in the wet, tactile way unique to the elderly, Eigrel cleared her throat and leaned forward to inspected them, getting close enough that he could have coughed and accidentally poked out her one good eye. But, confident in his workmanship, he allowed her to check the angles like a master smith testing the line of a sword. He turned the dice slowly in his fingers, one side at a time. Sylda watched, silent. The tension was near palpable.
Eigrel never approved. She simply stopped disapproving. This time, her acquiescence came in the form of an unspoken invitation as she huffed, stepped aside, and didn’t slam Delver’s foot in the door. “Go on in, then. Let’s test that so-called luck. Bring your friend, too. Girl should learn how to play proper.”
Sylda, still at a loss, quickly raised her hands as if to ward off a curse. “No, no, that’s all right! You two have your, ah... fun. Playing. Y’know. Whatever it is you’re playing.”
For a moment, Delver thought he’d have to be the one to do the convincing. After all, she was the last person he’d trust in a busy market unsupervised. But before he even had a chance, Eigrel had fixed the full force of her attention on Sylda. Pinned her with that wicked-bright eye. It gleamed in a way that made Delver suddenly nervous.
“Don’t you want to learn how to beat a man with his own dice?”
Before Delver could blink, Sylda was gone, vanishing inside Eigrel’s house like a cat at mealtime. He opened his mouth to protest her betrayal, but knowing it would be useless, gave up with a sigh. Damn Eigrel. Somehow, before even starting, he was already defeated. And they both knew it.
“Go easy,” he plead as he stepped in off the street and slid off his dusty boots. “She’s enough trouble as is.”
Another piece for @oc-growth-and-development‘s OC-tober, also incorporating the Day 4 #Fictober20 prompt.
Series: Stonebreaker (Original Fiction)
Characters: Delver & Sylda
Warnings: Language
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Where in the Divider’s name could she have run off to?
Muttering darkly, Delver peered down another alley, shook his head, and continued onward, boots scuffing against the dust and grit that coated Yelen’s streets. When he’d left Sylda, she’d been half-dead at best, barely able to move, her body a mess of hastily bandaged injuries and deeper, less visible pains. It wasn’t that he blamed her for taking off the second his back was turned; all things considered, it was fair enough. Waking up to a complete stranger eating soup beside her bed - especially a man from the Allied Kingdoms - would be alarming at the best of times. But particularly for a young woman who had spent her previous waking moments hanging by the neck in the gallows courtyard. How she had managed to get out of bed, yet alone sneak out the second storey window, was nothing short of baffling.
Or it would have been, if he hadn’t already witnessed her do far stranger things.
Whoever she was - whatever she was - he needed to find her. Apparently, convincing her to uproot her entire life and travel the length of the continent alone with him was going to be difficult.
Who knew.
Alleys and side streets drifted past as Delver continued his nighttime hunt, the middle moon, Rhana, kind enough to bathe the streets in her pale blue glow. Part of Delver knew what he was doing was foolish. His innkeeper, after some creative haggling that left Delver short an iron drem and his belt knife, had offered vague directions towards a section of the city infamous for housing thieves and cutthroats. Apparently, it was an area civilians knew to avoid, especially after dark. Which just happened to be the exact place a runaway thief like Sylda was likely to go.
Of course, that meant Delver had to follow, and despite it being a well-lit evening, he couldn’t keep his gaze from snapping towards every faint movement in the corner of his vision. This particular tangle of streets would make the perfect site for an ambush.
It was going to be a long night.
What if she’d collapsed in an alley, somewhere? Divider, he hoped not. Burnout was a severe risk among thaumists - even highly trained ones. If she pushed herself too hard too soon, it could be enough to succeed where the gallows had failed.
After his wanderings along the main road bore no fruit, Delver sucked in a breath, shoved aside his self-preservation instinct, and began to search the side streets. The even narrower alleys, swathed in a near impenetrable darkness, could wait until he was truly desperate.
Of course, as he was quick to discover, even the side streets held their dangers.
“Well, what’ve we got here? You’re a long way from home.”
Delver came to a sharp halt as a voice carried up the street behind him. Turning, he found himself approached by two figures, one as tall as he was, the other about a half-head shorter. They ambled almost casually, which seemed an odd tactic for a robbery. Or a murder. That or he posed so little threat that they were happy to take things slow.
How thoughtful.
“Easy,” Delver said, swapping to the local dialect, hoping its might earn him some kind of favour. He raised his hands, proving he was unarmed, although he doubted it made much difference. “I’m looking for a friend, not for trouble,”
As expected, the tall one snorted. “Right.” He gestured to his partner. “He your friend?”
Delver blinked. “No?”
“What about me?”
“Ah, no.”
“Well...” The shorter one smiled and drew a knife from his belt. “Then I guess you’ve got trouble.”
Great. Thieves and fucking comedians to boot. He must truly be the unluckiest man alive.
Sighing, Delver lowered his hands. “I guess I do.” He made a show of stretching his back, using the movement to quickly scan the nearby alleys. There didn’t seem to be any more movement. The two of them must have been running as a pair, probably on the way back from an unsuccessful hunt somewhere else in the city. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to just leave me alone?”
The tall one shrugged. “You could try. Most folks do.”
“I take it that didn’t stop you before?”
“Nope.”
Delver sniffed. “Fair enough.” He went to put his hands in his pockets, only to find a second knife being thrust menacingly towards him. Jaw tight, he froze, then returned his hands to their former position. “Listen - I’m only here because I’m looking for a woman.”
“Yeah? Ain’t we all.”
“No, not like… her name is Syldana.”
There was a pause. The pair shared a glance, brows raised, their knives still raised threateningly. “Hey, wait,” said the taller one slowly. His dark gaze drifted back to Delver. “You the one that bought her off the rope?”
Realistically, telling the truth could go one of two ways. Luckily, Delver had always been a gambling man. “I am,” he replied, raising his chin, doing his best to look more important than he was.
Again, the two shared a look. Then, the smaller one grinned, crooked teeth flashing.
“Well, you’ve got more coin than brains, dontcha?”
Exhaling, Delver closed his eyes. Of course it went the wrong way.
The taller one stepped forward this time, boots crunching, advancing until he was almost within arm’s reach. “It’s our lucky day, Raoul. C’mon. Let’s clean his pockets.”
Well, there was no helping it. Shoulders stiff, hands still raised, Delver waited as the man started patting down his sides, hunting for hidden pockets, jewellery, treasures sewn into the lining. His knife hovered menacingly by Delver’s throat at first, so close that when he swallowed, he could feel the steel brushing against his skin. But the man was distracted, busy running a rough hand down the side of Delver’s leg. The knife wavered… pressed closer for a moment… started to dip away…
The second he had an opening, Delver swung, cracking the man across the temple with his elbow. He went down with a shocked yelp, red dust springing up around him. The knife skidded from his hand, but Delver was already moving, dancing out of his reach and away from his partner, who appeared to still be processing what had just happened.
“Krom!” the short one cried eventually, then turned a hateful glare on Delver. “You bastard - get back here!”
“Alright, alright. Just take it easy.” Delver continued retreating, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. Reaching back, he slid a wooden rod from his waistband, its twelve inch length concealed beneath his loose shirt. Just as well Krom hadn’t gotten too handsy, or he would have easily found it. With a jerk of the wrist, Delver extended the weapon to the side, doubling its length, then twisted to lock it in place. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. Krom was already getting to his feet and Raoul had seemingly regained his addled wits. “How about we all just walk away?” Delver pressed, eyes flicking between the pair. “No one has to get hurt.”
Their response was simple enough.
Grunting, Delver ducked to the side, the sound of Raoul’s dagger whipping past his ear barely registering as he swung the rod, striking the shorter man across the back. The thief grunted, the momentum of his overeager lunge sending him stumbling past, buying Delver a few seconds to plan his next move.
Or it would have, if there weren’t two of them.
A low grunt gave Krom away, but only barely. Heart lurching, Delver whipped around, his movement unnaturally fast. As he spun, something inside him burned away, the sensation sending a shiver of discomfort racing through his body. Still, he managed to slap Krom’s fist aside and follow through, ramming the end of the rod into his gut. It’s been too long since I did this, Delver thought, breathing hard, hands trembling slightly as he backed away from his assailants. He’d grown too reliant on the anchor fastened to his wrist; too willing to use its reserve of thaumic essence than tap into his own. Now the disc was empty - possibly even broken. He was on his own.
The rod, handy though it was, wasn’t doing the damage he needed. Even with its unnaturally hardened wood, the two thieves just weren’t staying down. He was starting to think the obscene amount he paid for it in Tel Shival might have been a mistake. However, before Delver had time to dwell on his poor financial decisions, he found himself accosted once more.
One knife, one fist, two angry men. Delver wasn’t a fighter. Not really. As Krom swung a punch at his stomach, Raoul darted forward, slashing at him from the side. He could only hope to stop one of them, so he swung the rod towards the dagger, barely catching it before it sunk into his shoulder. That left him open to Krom, and he acted on sheer reflex. Concentrating, sucking in a breath, Delver reached for the hum that resonated inside his body. Then, without the time or practice necessary for any finesse, he dragged it all to one spot at the center of his torso.
Krom’s fist connected.
And the bones in his hand shattered.
The man’s scream was enough to curdle Delver’s blood. Cradling his hand, at least three fingers bent at jarringly unnatural angles, Krom stumbled away, tears pricking his eyes, a string of panicked curses bubbling from his lips. “Y-Y-You! You rat-bloody-bastard!” He groaned loudly, sounding almost nauseous as he curled over his ruined hand. “K-King’s eyes as m... my fucking witness... I’ll kill you!”
Normally, Delver would have had a snarky remark for that. You’ll have to catch me first. Tell The Errant King I said hello. Try aiming a little higher next time. But instead, he found himself also staggering, heart pounding, head spinning. Almost immediately after Krom’s fist connected with his stomach, the area briefly hard enough to rival stone, Delver had lost his concentration. What remained of his essence suddenly dispersed, like a cloud collapsing under its own weight into a fine mist. He could barely feel its hum now. It was weak. Very weak.
I need to get out of here.
Sweating, Delver backpedaled, stumbled on a broken cobble, and barely caught himself against a nearby wall. His arms were shaking something terrible, the rod in his grasp wavering laughably as he brandished it between himself and the advancing Raoul. “Last chance,” he rasped, blinking, fighting to clear his vision. And to think he’d been worried about Sylda pushing herself too hard. Divider’s Own, he was a fool. If he burned out now, that was it. He was a dead man.
“Y-You’re one of those freaks,” Raoul spat. He was shaking too, although for a very different reason. “A fucking aberration's what you are!”
On a regular day, Delver would have been impressed that Raoul even knew such a long word. But as it was, he could barely keep his feet under him, familiar shivers starting to tingle across his skin. That damn girl, he thought, an irrational anger washing over him as his remaining attacker warily advanced. She just couldn’t stay put for one night. Couldn’t even do me that one fucking favour after I---
“Raoul - stop!”
Suddenly, there was another body in front of him. Short. Brown haired. Familiar.
Delver stared, speechless. He must be dreaming. Or dead. Or both.
With a knife in each hand, Sylda jabbed one towards Raoul, who had halted mid-step, eyes wide. She was still injured, the bandages around her wrists, stomach, and throat all stained brown from old blood.
But she was there. Awake. Alive.
“Enough,” Sylda continued, her voice surprisingly firm. Far stronger than it had been just a few hours ago. “He’s with me.”
“Ahh…” Raoul glanced back at Krom, who was clearly the leader of the pair. Unfortunately, he found him barely conscious, slumped against the wall of a boarded up building. No help there. Slowly, he turned back to reassess the situation for himself. An aberration and a miracle, both apparently on the same side.
What would he do...
“He’s your friend, is he Sylda?” Clearing his throat, Raoul’s eyes flicked to Delver. “Why, ah… why didn’t you say so?”
Delver blinked. He almost argued, then realised that this was his way out.
“Must’ve slipped my mind.” He shrugged awkwardly. “Sorry?”
Huffing, Raoul rolled his eyes. Despite his over-performance, it was no small relief when he sheathed his knife and took a step away. “Gotta keep a better eye on your friends, girl. Nearly killed this one. He doesn’t belong here.”
Sylda just nodded. “I’ll keep it in mind.” There was a pause. “Uh… what happened to Krom?”
The man in question had started whimpering, rocking slightly, hand curled against his chest.
“He punched a wall,” Delver said hurriedly, then shot a meaningful look at Raoul. The other man, clearly looking for someone to follow, nodded.
“Oh, yeah. Got a mean temper, he does. Really shouldn’t let it get the better of him like this.”
Sylda glanced back, and Delver nodded sagely.
While it was pretty obvious that Sylda wasn’t buying their composite lie, it didn’t really matter. Sighing, she lowered her blades and shook her head. “Fine. You’d better get him back to the nest. Davros has been asking about you two.”
Raoul stiffened. “He has? Did he say...”
Dizzy and about one sharp turn away from throwing up on his shoes, Delver let the rest of the conversation wash past him, focusing on his breathing, willing his body to comply. With the threat apparently over, he twisted the rod, the two halves sliding back into themselves. By the time he’d managed to stow it away again, Raoul and Krom were already limping away down one of the nearby alleys, their forms vanishing into the heavy dark.
“You’ve...” Delver coughed, throat painfully dry. Another fun side-effect. “You’ve got some timing.”
Sylda just exhaled, clearly as relieved as he was. She turned, regarding him for a moment; his clammy skin, his shaking hands, his over-reliance on the wall. Then she reached up, fingertips brushing over the bandage he’d wrapped carefully around her neck earlier that day. As she did, her expression softened.
“Guess I could say the same about you, huh?” Slowly, she moved closer, concern tinging her round face. “Are you okay?”
Delver grunted, offering a conciliatory nod. As much as he’d been cursing her just a few moments ago, he had to admit, she had practically saved his life. Which meant…
“I suppose this makes us even.” Delver chuckled weakly, tipping his head back against the crumbling stone, closing his eyes. Just for a moment. “A life for a life. Pretty fair trade, if you ask me.”
Sylda hummed, and the pair lapsed into a strange, heavy silence. They both knew it wasn’t the same. Not really. What Delver had done - reckless and archaic and irrational - went a little beyond intervening in an alleyway brawl. When he’d saved her life, she’d been a stranger. A murderer hanging for her crime before a crowd of thousands.
But, as it turned out, they were both willing to ignore that fact. At least for now.
“Come on,” Sylda said softly, her voice coaxing Delver’s eyes to open once more. Blurry at the edges, she held out her arm - an offer of support. It was a gesture of peace, even if only temporary. “We’d better get out of here. I’ve... got some questions.”
Nodding, pulling in one last steadying breath, Delver didn’t even have to swallow his pride for once. He just accepted the offer.
So heads up for (the, like, five lol) people who might be familiar with Stonebreaker up to this point - there has been some adjusting/reshuffling of the characters to balance things out and help dig me out of this deep writer’s block. So… yeah, just roll with it!
In which Adiran is just relaxing in the one place he feels safe, only for that to all go out (or through) the window (1000 words).
CW for cheap, nasty alcohol.
Prompt is from @oc-growth-and-development‘s OC-tober list!
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There were very few places Adiran felt were truly his own. The palace belonged to his parents. The city to the people. The training grounds to the soldiers. The gardens were close, but there were always people passing by. Servants whispering as they walked. Gardeners clipping branches and tending to new blooms.
But Adiran’s private rooms? His bedroom, his bath, and the spacious entry for relaxing and receiving guests? Those were his.
It was an unspoken thing, mostly. A person’s private quarters was their space away from the demands of the outside world. Even his mother and father had separate entry rooms and baths, connected by a central bedchamber. As it turned out, even Kings and Queens needed a break from each other.
Which was what made it all the stranger when he heard a frantic tapping at his window.
On the third floor.
Frowning, hand automatically dropping to where his sword would have been, Adiran slowly made his way towards the Valcretian windows. Designed to help circulate air in the humid Rosemarsh climate, they had two large ornate panels that swing outward, latched at the centre by a gilded hook. The royal palace simply used the design because it was foreign, and therefore expensive and desirable. Despite their beauty, Adiran’s were almost always covered by a thick blue curtain, designed to block both light and prying eyes. He kept them drawn so often he could actually see a fine layer of dust gathered on the dark material. The house staff would have a fit, if they were ever permitted inside his chambers.
Three sharp taps again, more insistent this time. A muffled sound accompanied them as well; a single - rather colourful - word in a voice that was entirely too familiar.
Heart squeezing, Adiran ripped the curtain aside to find Sylda crouching on a branch of the towering Ashewood just outside his window. Let me in, asshole, she mouthed, pointing exasperatedly at the latch. Still at a loss for words, Adiran unhooked it and shoved open one of the panels. The thief, all elbows and knees, spilled into his room like a toppled pitcher. “Ugh - finally,” she said, picking herself up off the carpet and dusting the bark and leaves off her clothes. “Thought I’d have to spit on a guard just to get some attention around here.”
“I… what… how…?” Adiran just gaped as Sylda shook out her gangly limbs, snapped the curtains shut again, and proceeded with cat-like curiosity to poke around his room.
“Who, what, when?” she teased, dropping her voice in imitation of his own. Distracted, she gave a low whistle as she prodded his duvet. “Divider’s Own - I reckon your bed’s as big as my entire room!”
“What— I—” Adiran caught himself mid-stammer, partly because the look Sylda gave him made it clear she would not hold back a second time. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? How the fuck did you get in here?”
“Window.”
“That’s not what I—” Adrian cringed and lowered his voice. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
She just grinned, spun around, and flopped bodily onto his rumpled bed. “And you know that’s a secret. A trick of the trade, as they say. I can’t just go telling anyone how to sneak in here.” Sighing, she seemed to all but melt into the soft mattress. “It’d be bad for business. And for you, probably. Wouldn’t want any unsavory sorts climbing in through your window at all hours of the day.”
“Yes. That would be terrible.”
“Right?”
Judging by Sylda’s tone, the finer details of just how many people might actually know how to sneak onto palace grounds was, evidently, a matter for another day. Running an agitated hand down his face, Adiran double-checked the window before turning back to confront his latest problem. “Can you at least tell me what you’re doing here?”
“Oh, yeah, sure.” Sitting up, legs crossed, her boots leaving dirty streaks on his covers, Sylda swung her battered satchel around until it was resting square in her lap. “Hadn’t seen you around in a while. Figured you might’ve caught something nasty last time you were out mingling with us low-folk. So…”
Before Adiran could even muster an indignant response, she pulled out a bottle of something painfully familiar. “You didn’t,” was all he said, aghast, before a wicked grin lit up her face.
“Didn’t… what? Bring you some medicine, like the kind and thoughtful friend I am?” Her smile widened as she held the bottle aloft, swaying it enticingly. “Damn right I did. Now, you got cups in this fancy palace of yours, or are we swigging?”
Adiran was still trying to process what was happening. Taking his silence as some kind of response, Sylda shrugged and tugged the cork out with her teeth, barely managing to catch a stray droplet on her outstretched palm before it stained his sheets.
“Wait... you... you seriously broke in here just to torture me with Palmaros Red?” Adiran had had a rough time, after his introduction to that particularly deceptive breed of swill. It was just sweet enough that you could comfortably polish off a whole bottle before the suffering kicked in. Despite his hesitation, Adiran found himself sliding onto the bed beside Sylda, doing everything in his power not to dwell on the suspicious brown streaks left by her boots. “Do you hate me or something?”
Rolling her eyes, Sylda took a long, deep pull of the wine, throat bobbing as she swallowed it with a belligerence that bordered on terrifying. Veteran though she was, even she winced at the after-burn as it went down. “Smooth as gravel,” she rasped, then turned her attention back to Adiran. “And do you really reckon I’d come all this way for someone I hate?” Before he could reply, she shoved the bottle at his chest. “Just drink up, princeling. It’s been quiet without you around to talk shit with me.”
Wrapping a hand obediently around the bottle, Adiran regarded it with pure disdain, almost wishing Sylda had just left him entirely alone. But, of course, that thought drained away when he glanced up to find her watching him fondly, lips twisted in amusement, dark brows raised expectantly, mouth tinged a tell-tale red. That strange pressure in his chest suddenly returned, almost making it hard to breathe.
What could he have possibly done, to make someone go to all this trouble just to drink utter piss with him?
In truth, he didn’t know. He felt like he barely knew anything, these days. Not where other people were involved. But despite his own self-doubts... there she was. Sitting in the last place he ever expected to see her. A surprisingly welcome sight, even in the one place he dared to call his own.
So, with a defeated sigh, he plucked a stray leaf out of her curly hair, and took his damn medicine.
Taelan had never seen the sea. At least, not since he was a child, and even then, the memory was vague, tainted by fear, thick with uncertainty. All he remembered was the feel of bodies, pressed together in a too-tight space. The taste of salt. The smell of iron and sweat.
It was nothing at all like the translucent water, cold to touch, that now lapped gently at his feet.
The others were busy arguing with a coast-runner, attempting to barter passage to Tel Shival via the Trade Coast. Apparently that was easier than just going through the front gate, if you could convince a captain to risk their reputation and take you. At first, Taelan hadn’t cared what route they took. But now, his boots discarded by the shoreline, his feet submerged in the bite of the water, he found himself wanting to go further. To sink down into the maw. Spread his arms. Let himself drift away...
“Your toes falling off yet or what?”
Taelan opened his eyes, not even realising he had closed them to begin with. “Not yet,” he said, after confirming with a downward glance. He couldn’t exactly feel them. Turning, he threw a questioning frown back at Sylda. She was standing on the thin strip of sandy shore, arms crossed, looking thoroughly disconcerted about something. About him. A familiar pang lurched in Taelan’s stomach and he quickly turned away, palms pressing instinctively to the sides of his thighs. What was he doing? “I’ll come out.”
“What? No - hey, it’s alright. I was just teasing.” Something in his voice must have given him away. Or maybe it was the fact that his hands had curled into fists without his permission. But before he had a chance relax, a splashing sound from behind stole his concentration.
It was Sylda, her trousers rolled clumsily to her knees, wading into the ankle-deep water. “Divider’s ass!” She gritted the words out through clenched teeth, a pink flush already colouring her cheeks as she braved the bitter cold. “You’re fucking with me, right? You can’t be enjoying this!”
He didn’t really know how to explain. How to put into words that the throb of the cold was comforting because it was something he had never felt before. Unlike so many things, it wasn’t a memory he’d made as a bondsworn. There was nothing to compare it to. Nothing to taint it. It was new. It was his.
“I guess I just like the cold.”
“Ugh. Insanity.” Sylda cringed, but continued wading out towards him like he owed her money. “I s-swear, this is----ACK!” The water suddenly swelled, rising to mid-shin, and Sylda’s voice pitched with it, her horrified yelp loud enough to disrupt the negotiations taking place further down the shore. “Shitttt!” She rose to her toes, but it did little to save the bottom of her haphazardly rolled clothes. “Shit shit shit!”
Abandoning her misguided quest for solidarity, she spun and hurried back to shore, cursing and yelping the entire way, threatening every gentle wave with a painful death until she was back on dry land. Once safe, she immediately began the futile task of trying to wring the sodden ends of her trousers, muttering darkly, glaring and snapping impotently at any wave that dared venture too close.
And, for the first time in a long time, standing there in the glittering water, Taelan laughed.
I arrive with a humble entry, dedicated to my lovely @frenchy-and-the-sea. Thank you for letting me borrow one of your Seven Cities characters!
This turned out a lot longer than expected because of who I am as a person. Anyway I hope you like it, and I apologise in advance for any wild inconsistencies with the Captain of my Heart and Soul.
~2000 words, original fiction (a hearty blend of Stonebreaker and Seven Cities)
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There weren’t a lot of things to be said about sailors. Well, other than the conclusive fact that they were all utterly insane. But there was something about that cocksure Captain Alex, with her big hat and big ego to fill it, that had been keeping Sylda up later and later into the night. Before, she would just lie in her makeshift pallet, entertaining increasingly ridiculous ideas; the kind that scythed their way through her skull to the rhythm of the rocking ship. This time, partly out of desperation, she had opted for the aid of fresh air to clear her mind.
Perched on the wooden taffrail, her gaze - and left leg - swung out over the ocean’s dark oblivion. For the first time in over a week, she was finally alone. Thinking.
Just... thinking.
How Delver had managed to find them passage on a remotely seaworthy vessel was nothing short of a miracle. Sylda hadn’t asked any questions - she certainly knew better than to look the proverbial horse in the mouth. But the fact that they hadn’t been gutted and keelhauled the second they lost sight of land still hadn’t quite sunk in. She’d heard stories about the mad seafarers of the east. About their obsession with dark water. About their greed and cold steel. About the way they used people as bait to lure creatures from the deep...
Well, she supposed she should be grateful they hadn’t ended up on one of those vessels. Delver was a lot of irritating things, but at least a decent judge of character appeared to be one of them.
The sound of a door suddenly creaking open earned a carefully languid glance, the motion at utter odds with the lurch of surprise in Sylda’s stomach. Relax, she chided herself. This wasn’t some ale-soaked back alley. It was probably one of those twins - Fin or Din or something - wandering out to take a piss.
Her rational side’s attempt to assert dominance crumbled the second she realised who had actually stepped out onto the afterdeck.
“Captain Sheffield.” Sylda wasn’t about to snap to attention, but she gave Alex what she felt was a suitably deferential nod. “It’s a nice night. Out for a stroll?”
Alex’s nose wrinkled slightly. “Some fresh air, more like. Not much strolling to be had back here.”
That was true enough. There were far better options for an evening walk than the stern, after all. Letting the door swing shut behind her, Alex groaned softly and moved forward, hands on her lower back, stretching as she went. From her vantage, Sylda swore the line of Alex’s spine had fixed itself into a slight bow, ready at any moment to diligently curve itself over a desk. Whatever she and Delver had been up to, it seemed to have gone far longer and far later than expected. He probably drove her half-way mad, rambling on the way he does, she thought, smiling slightly to herself. At least someone else got to experience the uniquely infuriating pleasure of his company.
As quickly as the smile arrived, she shooed it away with a start. No - she would rather die than admit to even an ounce of fondness for the insufferable man. He was a means to an end, and she was exactly the same thing for him. That knowledge - that truth - had served them well over the seasons.
A sharp clearing of the throat pulled Sylda from her thoughts. Alex had stopped a few steps from the door, and something about the hawk-like intensity of her gaze made Sylda feel very much like a mouse on a platter. “Do me a favour,” Alex began slowly, as though each of her words required careful and deliberate measuring. “If you’re plannin’ on tipping yourself into the sea, kindly do so when I’m not close enough to feel obliged to go in after you.”
That startled a laugh out of Sylda. “Oh? Is that something captains do?” When Alex’s stern expression didn’t waver, she cocked her head and smiled. “C’mon - don’t give me that look. Are you trying to tell me that daring rescues aren’t actually part of the job description?”
It took a moment before Alex responded, and when she did, it was strangely like a confession. “It’s... more a personal habit than a demand of the position.” She snorted softly. “An unfortunate one at times, if you ask Tahir. Reckon that particular impulse has had a fair hand in turning him grey over the years.” The brief moment of levity, however, vanished as quickly as it arrived. “But let me be clear; I've no intention of feeling guilty tonight.”
There was no mistaking the unspoken command. And frankly, with those piercing eyes leveled at her, Sylda didn’t feel particularly keen to risk disobedience. That was a strange thing all by itself. Divider, she’d cussed out bandits with a knife to her neck - spat in the face of guards hauling her off for a week in the pit. But now, she found herself sighing and swinging both her legs ship-side. Without even a trace of her usual malicious compliance, she slid smoothly until her feet were pressed safely to the wooden deck. “Well, I wouldn’t want to cause you any grief, Captain.” Her eyes flicked up and she flashed a half-smile. “You know, I’ve actually got a pretty steady set of legs under me. Been running rooftops since I was tall as your waist.”
“That so?” Alex folded her arms, but something about her posture had shifted. Loosened. “Well, when rooftops start pitching in a swell, make sure you pass on word. I’m sure plenty of folk will be keen to know another viable application for their sea legs.”
“Alright, alright. Point taken. I’ll keep my arse off the rails.” Still chuckling, Sylda turned, leaning her forearms on the lacquered wood instead. “Can’t imagine a stiller night than this one, though. Can a ship even move in this?”
The sound of boots against the deck heralded Alex’s approach. Arriving beside her, the Captain mirrored her pose, allowing her weary back to settle into a more familiar position. “Aye, it can, but not at any particular speed.” She motioned at something in the dark, her finger tracing a line over the water. “The current here runs south-east. We’ll just let her drift in that direction until the wind picks up.”
“That won’t take us off-course?”
Alex shrugged. “Not far enough to be worried, unless we’re becalmed for days on end. But I can’t say I’ve had that happen out here. The Pale’s not a quiet sea. This is...”
Alex trailed off, closing her eyes, as though to better feel the strange stillness. There was no real need for her to finish her sentence; Sylda simply allowed herself to lapse into the same peaceful silence. The sound of the water lapping against the hull was a soothing rhythm for tired souls. It had been a long few weeks. Seasons, even, if she were being truly honest.
“Hey... can I admit something?” Sylda eventually asked. That, it seemed, piqued Alex’s curiosity. The Captain turned away from the water, arching a brow to indicate her approval. Maybe even her curiosity, if Sylda felt like flattering herself. “Coming out here,” she continued, “out on the open water... it kinda scared the shit out of me.”
To her surprise, Alex snorted. “And here I thought you’d be telling me something I didn’t guess the first hour out of port.”
Sylda cringed. “Was it that obvious?”
“Finn reckoned you were wound tighter than a tenday clock.”
Groaning theatrically, Sylda made a show of hanging her head. “Alright, alright, laugh it up. At least I kept all my meals down.” They shared a glance at that, and twin smiles slowly spread across their faces. Who would have thought that the image of Delver, green-faced and dramatically clinging to the rail, could actually bring people together? For a moment, Sylda almost forgot where she was. Who she was with. It was like being back in Yelen. Back in the Nest, sitting across from someone she knew. Someone she trusted. Respected, even. Someone with eyes of steel and a liberal dusting of freckles.
Someone she might just want to lean towards and...
As quickly as the feeling had taken her, Sylda remembered that everything she knew about Alex Sheffield could comfortably fit into a thimble - with her thumb already in it - and the smile drifted away. Clearing her throat, she did her best to hide her burning cheeks, turning back towards the quiet, dark ocean. The Pale. An ironic name if ever there was one. “Anyway... I heard a lot of stories. About the deep water. I’m not sure if any of them are true, but they were enough to convince me I wouldn’t let myself anywhere near it. Just in case.”
Alex turned as well, the folds of her shirt shifting softly as she leaned backwards against the rail, her weight resting on her elbows. With the stillness of the night and her head tipped slightly skyward, Sylda couldn’t help but picture Alex as a kind of statue, her sight forever set on the stars. She supposed anyone willing to sail the open water had to be a bit like that. A bit in love with things distant and unknown.
“But, despite it all, here you are,” Alex said after a moment. Her voice was suddenly soft. Thoughtful. Somehow, Sylda got the distinct feeling that she wasn’t just talking about her anymore. That was alright. It was a night for quiet contemplation, apparently. That could be nice, sometimes. Calming.
Leaning into the moment, Sylda exhaled slowly, feeling her shoulders dip. Feeling the weight of her feet pressing against the deck, of her arms on the rail. “But here I am,” she replied, then playful smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Fuck me, right?”
Alex snorted. Confused, Sylda turned to discern the source of her amusement, and when it hit her a half-second later, she let out suffering groan. “Oh come on. You’re better than that.”
“Am I? You’ve seen the kind of company I keep.”
It was Sylda’s turn to laugh. “Okay then, maybe not. But if we could side-step the gutter for a moment, I’d like it known to you and anyone eavesdropping nearby that I expect at least a kiss first.”
“That so?” A gentle breeze stirred - just enough to tease the curling locks framing Alex’s face - before quickly falling away again. For a second, Sylda’s words stuck in her throat, and she realised just how close they were. Just how alone they were.
Then the playful gleam in Alex’s eyes - as though she somehow knew exactly what she was doing her - tugged Sylda back to the present.
“What can I say? I’m an old fashioned kinda gal.” Sighing in mimicry of the high class ladies whose purses she liked to pluck, Sylda arched her back and mimed demurely fanning her bosom. “I require courting.”
“Really?” Alex raised a brow, her lips twisting in what Sylda quietly hoped was amusement. “With just a kiss?”
Sylda grinned and mimed tossing the fan into the sea.
“Well, I never said a lot of courting.”
Laughter seemed to carry further on still nights. It was as though, in the absence of wind, it sought to fill the sails all by itself. For the first time since leaving port, Sylda felt lighter. Not without burdens - never that light. But at least, for a few moments, she could flit and flirt and pretend it was something a person like her just got to do. Without guilt. Without worrying about all the things standing in her way. About all the ways she would inevitably fall short.
And for her part, Alex proved surprisingly open to the game. Maybe it was just because she was tired, and her walls were lower than usual. Despite her curiosity, Sylda hadn’t expected to even catch the Captain alone, yet alone rope her into a starlit conversation. After all, she knew - acutely well - how much of a time-siphon Delver could be. Particularly when his passions were piqued. It was a miracle he hadn’t shackled himself to Alex’s ankle like the ball and chain he was.
No. That's not fair. Closing her eyes, Sylda pulled in a long, slow breath. When she opened them again, Alex was regarding her quietly, her arms folded once more, her head cocked ever so slightly. Sylda knew when someone was sizing her up, but this... well, it wasn’t quite the same. A step to the left of it, perhaps, where she knew something was being measured, but she just wasn’t sure what.
“Copper for your thoughts?” Sylda asked eventually. Alex blinked, then reasserted herself, her arms unfolding as she hummed and levered herself from the rail.
“Just committing some things to memory. Don’t worry yourself over it.”
At that, it was Sylda’s turn to arch a brow. “Oh?” She reached up absently, her fingers twisting the ends of her hair as Alex smirked and headed back towards the door. Then, finally, she decided to be brave. “Well, before you head off, here’s another thing for your memory. I wouldn’t mind, ah... worrying myself.” She paused, then hastily added, “Over it. That.”
She swore she heard someone snort from somewhere in the rigging, but she was already too mortified to pay it any real heed. Well, that was smooth as fucking gravel, Sylda thought, cringing inwardly. It took everything in her power not to flip herself over the rail and into the sea. Idiot. This is why you don’t do this. This is why...
Again, maybe it was the product of weariness, or perhaps the strange stillness of the night, but Alex Sheffield, Captain of the Ranger, actually turned back. Her hand rested on the carefully carved doorknob. Her hair, untouched by wind, curled loosely at its ends.
“Well,” she said, then graced her with a quick, sly smile. One that went straight to Sylda’s knees. “Suppose I’ll go ahead and add that, too.”
💦 If you as the writer could erase one traumatic event from this OC’s life what would it be and why?
Hmm. I always find this question weird, because like... I put the traumatic event there lol. I suppose I’d erase Sylda’s mother dying in childbirth? Just because Sylda would have been a lot better off with her around/learned a lot about herself and the world. I think they could have had a very interesting dynamic and their existence, should word get out, would have caused quite a significant stir.
13, 31 and 40 for Delver! Also 6, 8 and 15 for Sylda!
Delver
13. What is their Hogwarts house?
Preferably none, but if i had to choose i guess ravenclaw or something
31. Do they have any precious mementos or keepsakes? What are they?
Delver isn’t particularly sentimental for the sake of sentimentality. Unless something has a practical value, he isn’t likely to lug it around with him while traipsing across the land. It is neither a memento or a keepsake, but probably the anchor he was given by Tellene is the most precious thing he has in his possession. Also the most expensive. Which makes it precious to him lol.
40. What’s an experience they gloss over that is a matter of concern?
LOL there are a few, let’s be real. But if I had to pick one... probably his mother snapping and trying to murder him when he was 15. He definitely does NOT bring that up whenever he mentions her (in truth, he tries not to mention her at all).
Sylda
6. What kind of chocolates do they avoid in a box of Russell Stovers?
I have no idea what this is so I’ll just say she generally avoids mint flavoured chocolate?
8. What Studio Ghibli movie are they?
Spirited Away
15. Do they associate a certain food with a memory?
Flatbread makes her think of late nights with her crew, going over the day’s spoils and playing what could be considered tantamount to tug-of-war with the more stale pieces. To this day she prefers her flatbread a bit stale, just because it is the texture she’s used to.
AHHH I MISSED PROMPTS! How about we give someone in Stonebreaker something they desperately need. 22, nap!
Micro Story Prompt
In which I, once again, fail to deliver a micro story. (1453 words SHAAME).
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“Hey, Delver... can we stop for a bit?”
The heat was unbearable. Oppressive. Smothering. So much so that Delver trudged a few more steps, deep in the trance of just putting one foot in front of the other, before he even realised Sylda had opened her mouth. By the time he lumbered to a halt, the young woman was already veering off the road, her pack half-slung, dangling from her elbow. “What?” He blinked slowly, glancing around the roadside. Red dust. Brown grass. A scattering of rustbark trees. “Right here?”
Divider, he felt like his head was about to split open. Whose bright idea was it to make the sun so damn... well... bright.
“Mhm. Why not?” Sylda, the brat, was already dragging out her spare cloak. Deftly, she shook out any stray pieces of grass before laying it down again beneath the thick branch of one of the rustbarks. The squat tree, its copper leaves drooping like a miser’s purse, cast its shadow at a long, wide angle. They still had a few hours of light left. It made no sense to stop.
Delver opened his mouth to say as much, only to turn and find Sylda already lying on her back, one leg kicked over the other, her foot bobbing, shoeless, in the late afternoon heat. He stared for a beat. And another, bemused. Then, with a defeated sigh, he shook his head and trudged over, boots grinding against road until the sound was replaced by the snapping of brittle grass.
“What, no argument?” Sylda seemed genuinely surprised. He supposed that was fair enough. On a regular day, he would have a number of choice words at the ready, but right now his head hurt enough to turn his empty stomach inside out. So instead, Delver just grunted, dropping to the ground, not even bothering to put anything beneath him. He wrapped himself in his cloak and leaned back against the rustbark’s knotted trunk. As always, it was about as comfortable as lounging on a bed of river rocks, but for some reason it didn’t bother him so much. The shade alone, like a salve against his throbbing skull, was worth the rest of the discomfort.
”Twenty minutes,” he said, and tried hard to keep the relief out of his voice as a gentle breeze trickled around the tree, curling the edges of his cloak. Merciful Divider. He failed to stifle a yawn. “After that, we keep moving.”
“Forty,” Sylda countered. Because of course she did. “I’ll keep watch for the first half while you take a nap. You can do the second. Deal?”
Delver would have sent her a vicious glare - Divider knows she deserved it.
But, lucky for her, his eyes were already shut.
---------------
Delver awoke, disoriented, to the sound of birds. Groaning, struggling onto one elbow, he nearly yelped like a startled maid when something slid from on top of him and landed with an indignant rustle in the grass.
A cloak?
His cloak.
When had he...?
As his consciousness slowly rejoined reality, Delver glanced around. A few feet away was a pit, lined with stones, the smoke of a freshly quenched fire curling from its charred center. A pot hung above it, filled with water, about a cup short of full.
And, perched atop the already packed coil of her sleeping roll, was Sylda.
How had she managed to boil an entire pot of water in twenty minutes?
“Oh, hey- you’re up.” Turning, alerted by his attractively waking grunts, Sylda threw Delver an innocent smile. It called forth just the right amount of dimples to disarm even the sternest opponent. It was the exact smile she used when she was up to something. “Feeling any better?”
As much as Delver wanted to chastise her, he found himself lacking the willpower. Again. Oddly enough, this time it was because he didn’t feel like a mule had kicked him in the head.
He really was losing his touch.
“I’m fine. I was fine yesterday, too.” Sitting up, wincing from a night spend on dirt and stones, he mustered the effort to cast her a disparaging look. “You didn’t keep watch all night, did you?” He wasn’t sure what would make him angrier. Camping roadside was dangerous at the best of times. One of the biggest benefits to traveling as a pair was having a second set of eyes readily available. If she’d stayed awake, she was an idiot. If she’d dozed off, she was a reckless idiot.
Sylda shrugged, before climbing to her feet and moving towards the pot of water. Well, at least she'd put her boots back on. “It’s alright. I sleep well most nights.” She left out the unspoken unlike you, which was unusually tactful for her. “And before you start snapping at my neck, it was an accident, okay? I got all stuck in my thoughts and forgot to wake you.” She scooped a ladle of water into a cup. The water was probably still pleasantly warm. “You didn’t even snore for once. It was actually peaceful.”
While that was a valiant attempt to distract him, Delver refused to rise to her obviously false bait. He didn’t snore. He had that on good authority. “It doesn’t do either of us any good if you’re exhausted either,” he chided, stiffly accepting the offered cup. “You won’t be able to concentrate on your lessons.”
The water was a sweet, sweet mercy. His throat felt thick and dry with dust. It coated his skin, his hair, darkened the underside of his nails. Divider’s Own, he couldn’t wait to be rid of it. Away from the dust storms, and the burning heat, and the shadeless stretches of sun-cracked road...
He lost himself so thoroughly in the simple act of drinking that he completely missed that Sylda had spoken.
“I said,” she repeated with a roll of her eyes, “that you’ve been in no shape to give me lessons these past few days anyway, so what does it matter if I’m a little tired?”
The urge to argue rose like a flood within him. In fact, Delver spent a good half-minute in stony silence trying to come up with a remotely feasible defense. But, like with most things lately, it just kept slipping through his fingers. He might not be in crippling pain, but he still wasn’t himself. As much as he loathed to admit it... she might have a point.
“Oh!” Clearly immune to his resentful silence, Sylda tugged up her sleeve, her fingers making short work of the leather straps binding the anchor to her wrist. “Here. I took it off you while you were sleeping. Figured I could try practice a bit overnight, but...” She faltered, some of the brightness in her dimming as she turned the ebenite disc over in her hands. Delver waited silently, partly because he still felt a little too raw to speak, partly because he assumed she had more to say. But instead, she just sighed and handed it over, her eyes fixed on the brown grass at her feet. The shame radiated off her so intensely it was almost palpable.
“Drawing from any anchor isn’t easy, Sylda.” The disc felt right, strapped safely to his wrist again. He was surprised he hadn’t noticed its absence the moment he woke. “And drawing from Ebenite? It’s practically impossible at the best of times. If it wasn’t, we wouldn’t be here, doing what we’re doing.”
More importantly, if she truly couldn’t do it, she wouldn’t be here. Alive. Breathing. Mothering him despite being ten years his junior.
“I know, I know.” With a heavy breath, Sylda kicked at the stones near her feet. “I just... I don’t know. I have the anchor, and I have you. I figured I’d be able to do something by now.”
You and me both, Delver thought, but kept it to himself as they lapsed into silence. She self-applied more than enough pressure without him adding to it. He might be a belligerent asshole, but he liked to think he knew when to ease off. “We should pack up,” he said after a time, sensing they both needed a distraction. As Sylda nodded and stood again, his gaze followed her, a slight frown tinging his brow. “You’re... sure you’re not tired?”
His kindhearted concern was met with an entirely unnecessary groan.
“I’m not, Delver. Really - I feel better than fine. It was just one night. I’ve stayed up for longer before, back when I was in Yelen.”
Just one night. Sure, if they were lounging around eating grapes and reading poetry, he might accept that. But they were on the road, traveling all day in the dragging heat of Latesun. It just didn’t add up.
Then again, he had to admit, she really did seem fine. No heavy footsteps. No dark circles beneath her eyes. No sluggish reactions as she went about clearing up their makeshift campsite, bundling utensils, kicking dirt over the fire, re-scattering the stones. She wasn’t even yawning, even though she had been the day before.
Slowly, Delver’s gaze drifted down to the anchor. It was warm against his wrist. As warm as usual? It was hard to tell, with the day’s heat already climbing fast around them. Regardless, he made a mental note to pay closer attention in the future. Something could be happening right beneath their noses. Something subtle enough that they could comfortably blink and miss it.
“So are you planning to watch me do all the work, or...?”
Snorting, Delver waved an acquiescing hand and struggled to his feet, muscles protesting the movement, aching from a night spent curled on the uneven ground. “What, you mean your goodwill only lasted one night?”
He barely caught the ladle as it went spinning towards his head.
