“Long ago, Ah-Ha-Ee, the Coyote, met Oo-Soo-Ma-Te, the Grizzly Bear on top of the mountain. Seeing the Grizzly was a powerful being, Coyote asked him to watch over and protect the land. Then one day, people came and tried to chase Oo-Soo-Ma-Te from the Mountain. But Grizzly was strong and held his ground. When coyote saw the brave bear standing alone against so many, he turned Oo-Soo-Ma-Te into stone so he could never be driven away. To this day, people claim they can hear the great bear spirit in the wind that roars through the caverns and trees of Grizzly Peak.”
―The Legend of Grizzly Peak
The Grizzly Peak Woodlands is a forested area, surrounded by the Frostfells in the north. It is similar to other forests during wintertime, except that winter here is mostly year-round. The trees are tall and thick; the pine needles and crisp, clean air produce a pleasant scent, the snow leaves the ground clean and fresh, and the hills themselves are high enough for decent elevation but low enough and gradual enough to be easily climbed. It is one of the nicest regions in Valewyn. Dwarves live here in Hogsfeet, (also the name of their clan) but they aren’t the only residents. Trolls dominate the region, and they make fine neighbors when they’re not attacking. Wild animals roam the woods, providing plenty of meat, fur, and entertainment. It is not an easy land by any stretch, but it is handsome, fierce, and full of life.
The Valewyn Region is a verdant place of mountains, plains, bayous, and woodlands. It is naturally bordered by the sea on the eastern, southern, and western coasts while the mountains cap off the northern borders. The most prominent kingdoms on Everas are within the Eastern and Western Kingdoms. The Western Kingdom holds the great cities of Red Orchard, Baldboulder, and Tidemark while the Eastern Kingdom houses Haven, New Orlais, and Citrouille.
Founded by Ableton Wakefield, Wakefield Academy is the most elite boarding school for wizards. It does teach sorcerers who wish to be classically trained, however most sorcerers learn by themselves or through another family member or close mage friend. It does not, however, train warlocks anymore.
Hidden away from the mundane world, most students spend their entire adolescence here practicing their magic and gaining skills under the supervision of highly skilled mages hired by the Magisterium. For as long as history has been recorded, the school has taught young wizards to harness the abilities of the arcane. At the center of the school is the Sorcerer’s Stone, a magical crystal formed from the sap of the Elder Tree, with the capacity to absorb and store magical energy.
ADMISSIONS
The admission process is extremely selective. Prospective students do not apply but are instead selected via a highly attuned detection process designed to identify individuals with magical potential. Following a period of examination and observation, those selected are then invited to take the Entrance Exam. If they pass the written examination they are given a magical aptitude examination. If they fail the written examination, their minds are wiped of all memories of the event and they are given a reasonable alibi to explain their absence.
MAJORS
The school teaches the following majors of magic. Necromancy is only taught with high restriction under Magisterium Law due to Case 72913: MALISTARE VS THE MAGISTERIUM and must be approved by the Magisterium Council.
Abjuration: blocking, banishing, or protecting
Conjuration: producing objects and creatures from nothing
Enchantment: entrance and beguile people and creatures
Evocation: elemental effects
Illusion: dazzle, befuddle, and trick others.
Necromancy: life, death, and undeath forces
Transmutation: modify energy and matter
I owed this to Jess ages ago and I'm finally finished and OH GOD I'M SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG JESS I HOPE YOU LIKE IT.
So this is kinda dark guys. You've been warned.
Rating: M
Warnings: Mild/Strong language, mentions of sex, mentions of drugs, mentions of violence
Vale delves into the life of what he hates most in order to seek out the cousin of Blodwyn Hauteclaire, a man named Luke Winterleigh.
-7
It always starts with a rumor.
He plants the seed into anybody that will care to listen. On the streets, mentioned in passing to two gossiping noblewomen, announced loudly over the bar table crowded by a slew of red-faced drunk men, whispered in the ear of some busty blonde dame whose bed he's sharing for the night.
It takes skill to weave a story so intriguing it cannot stand to stay stagnant on the tip of somebody's tongue, but he's mastered it to seem effortless, like a single dropof dye in a pool of water. He lets it sit, brewing, bubbling until it froths over when it cannot contain itself any longer.
Before long, the man known as Cade Marlow is the talk of the town. Everybody else in Divinity's Reach does the work for him. They gossip about the atrocities he's committed, the riches he's stolen, the number of people he's killed. The story takes on a life of its own, until there's nothing left to do but become the man himself.
He's created a man out of thin air.
0He’s disappointed. For many reasons.
Firstly, he makes it in the camp with little effort. When he approaches the gates, dressed in his borrowed garb (exactly as described by the whispers on the streets), announcing himself as Cade Marlow, the first guard looks skeptical, but his partner is startled that this is the guy everybody in Queensdale is whispering about. They let him into the camp for his reputation alone and it's so simple he's bored to tears.
Secondly, and worst of all, Luke Winterleigh sticks out like a sore thumb, the same white hair and the same regal air about him amid the sea of rough, loogie-spitting bandits. Sure, he can sniff out a prince from a pauper from a mile away, but this is insulting.
Sometimes it’s a curse being this good.
His entrance is hardly anything to write home about (which he’ll certainly lie about anyway). And he's always been one for theatrics.
He wonders if the most exciting part of the mission has already left him, and now he’s left to bide his time wallowing in bandit stink.
His first night is spent sleeping on a single cot between a passed-out scruffy man and a pair engaging in loud drunken sex.
Still, he can’t remember the last time he’s slept in a bed of his very own.
3
“Who's that?” he asks one of the bandits. (He won't care to remember any of their names once this is all over and done with.)
The bandit looks to where he's pointing. “Luke Winterleigh.”
“The fuck is some noble ass shit doing here? We keeping him hostage or something?”
“Naw. The boss is keeping him safe, who knows why. Some sort of deal I guess. I hear the guy is on the run from some noblewoman. His niece or sister or something. He's from this crazy family in Ascalon, you know, the one that screws their daughters and shit? He probably tried to fuck her, but she wouldn't have any of it, and now he's hiding out until he has the chance.”
The man cackles and he wants to beat the man's face in so goddamn badly, but he can't, so he cackles along with him. That's what Cade Marlow would do.
7
If there’s one good thing about this place, it’s that he can get his hands on a stash of drugs anytime he wants. They’ve got crates full of them, like they're nothing but candy. His hands have never felt better, and that’s probably because they’ve been pumped so full of painkillers he’s practically numb so really he’s not feeling anything at all.
He's so eager pumping his veins with any substance he can get his hands on, he nearly loses himself in the effects, and he's so far gone he can't stop laughing hysterically, because suddenly everything going on in his life is so hilarious. A pair of bandits at their posts look his way with brows raised when he lets out a particularly loud snort. It takes him a second, but he remembers the reason where he is and why he's here in the first place, so he schools his face into the sort of brooding expression Cade Marlow would make, and they look away again.
He makes note to be careful with his intake from here on out.
“Better said than done,” he mutters when he looks over longingly to the crates full of powdered regret.
10
He's lying down at his cot, fingers laced behind his head. The cavern is sweltering tonight and he can't sleep.
A woman named Laine or Lana or something like that stumbles over to him and kisses him hard, teeth crashing into his, reeking of liquor and nasal mucus. The sex is rough, and if he were Vale Torrance, he would have shoved her away (because even a slut like Vale Torrance has standards), but he’s not, he’s not, he’s not, he’s Cade Marlow, and Cade Marlow fucks drunk desperate women. He has to repeat the words in his head over and over again as she mounts him. At least he doesn’t have to move much, Laine or Lana does all the work, writhing and bucking and shrieking like a banshee. Before he knows it, he finds himself wrapping his hands around her neck, and squeezes. Instead of fighting him, she simply gasps and moans in pleasure, and it's all kinds of fucked up. She drags her fingernails across his chest, leaving thin, red marks upon his skin, drawing blood.
When she’s sated and passed-out on the cot, he inspects the damage done upon his body. Bruises along his wrist, his hips, his neck, the small of his back. Angry red marks, peppered here and there. At least it wasn’t his face.
So much for sleeping in a bed of his own.
16
When he shoots a man's toe off is when he seriously begins questioning why he's here doing what he is.
He was sitting at one of their tables, guzzling down a bottle of whiskey and boasting about his latest conquests, but one man seemed to think he was nothing but talk. (To be fair, he really is nothing but talk.) So he unholstered his pistol and unloaded a single shot into the man's foot without batting an eye.
The others were stunned, but they made no move to help the bleeding man. Judging by everybody's reactions, the man he'd shot was just some nameless, faceless nobody.
He has to go outside, away from the cavern to collect his thoughts. Because despite his unbridled disdain for bandits, he didn't expect to actually go in and hurt any of them. He was simply acting in the moment. When he thinks of what Vale Torrance would do, his insides twist so uncomfortably he wants to vomit.
So instead, he thinks of his “employer,” Blodwyn Hauteclaire, of the infamous Hauteclaires.
Officer Blodwyn Hauteclaire would never shoot off a guy's toe, he thinks.
Officer Blodwyn Hauteclaire would never strangle the bitch she's in the middle of fucking, he thinks.
Officer Blodwyn Hauteclaire would never pump herself so full of drugs until she couldn't stop giggling like a schoolgirl, he thinks.
Yes, that's the reason why Cade Marlow is here instead of Vale Torrance or Blodwyn Hauteclaire.
Somehow that makes everything easier to swallow.
22
Luke Winterleigh is always guarded.
He knows this, with the amount of weeks he's spent with this den of bandits. Between meetings and guard post duties, he watches him like a hawk, but not too close as to draw attention. He looks thin, scrawny, like he hasn't fought a single time in his life. But he's from a long line of necromancers, so there's no telling what sort of magic he's capable of.
It seems the bandits actually respect the nobleman to some degree. He supposes they'd have to; why else would they keep around a single scrawny man instead of taking everything he's worth?
If he wants Luke Winterleigh out in the open, he'll have to do the work to separate him from the very group that keeps him protected.
Luckily for him, it's a group he couldn't care less about.
The smile on his face grows slowly as the plan percolates in his head.
26
He passes by Luke Winterleigh, who is flanked on both sides by two different bandits.
“Hey,” he says.
Luke Winterleigh stops and blinks. “I'm sorry?” he asks, like he hasn't the time to spend wasting it conversing with him.
But he grins at him like a shark, leans in like he's divulging a secret. “I keep the heads of the kids I kill in jars in the cellar of an abandoned mansion. Just thought you should know.” And then he continues on his merry way.
Hey. He has to keep him intrigued somehow.
31
A third of a season has passed. They’re raiding one of the farms in Shaemoor.
Not his family’s and he actually drops the act for a bit to thank the nonexistent Gods.
They give him his task. He’s given two choices: torch the thatched roof cottage or slaughter the cattle.
He chooses to save the cows over the cottage, tries not to think of what could be inside.
He has to squeeze his eyes shut, because no matter which one he chose, they're both gone anyway.
32
They cannot find him the next day, because he’s huddled in one of the recesses of the cave, curled up and screaming into the pit of his elbow to muffle the sound.
“Officer Blodwyn Hauteclaire would never torch a farm into nothing but ashes,” he says roughly, and his throat is raw. And then he starts screaming again.
33
He kills twenty skelk that night and wrings them dry.
34
A group of them are all gathered playing a game of poker, betting a mountain of goods they've recently stolen from a traveling caravan. They're swigging away, spitting and swearing at each other, when it happens like a wave. Their eyes widen, they stand shakily, and suddenly they're vomiting all over themselves, one after the other, swearing louder than before.
That's skelk poison they've ingested, something he had slipped into their drinks without any of them noticing. Not enough to kill them, but enough to make them break out in sweats and empty out the contents of their stomachs violently. Only the bile rising in his throat stops him from breaking his carefully-crafted facade to laugh hysterically. (He couldn’t very well leave his own drink untainted after-all, lest they get suspicious.)
It occurs to him, when the little voice in his head nags at him (“Officer Blodwyn Hauteclaire would never give a bunch of bandits the runs for revenge”) that this isn’t what he’s here for at all, but he doesn’t give a shit.
Even as he doubles over and leans one hand against the wall and vomits his guts out, he cannot keep himself from smiling.
It’d been worth it.
40
He's on his cot again, staring up at the ceiling, another sleepless night.
The trick with the skelk poison was enough to quell the anger in his chest for a time, but it won't be long until they start another raid. That's what bandits do. They pillage and murder and take and take and take until there's nothing left and nobody left to run to. He doesn't know how long it'll be until they invade upon his family's property, what his parents or sister will think if they seem him as he is now. The thought is so terrible, and he shivers so violently the cot shakes beneath him.
It's all so fucked up, you know.
42
He really starts making progress when they suddenly wave him over to join them at their table. There's a group of them seated together, cutting lines of Dragon Dust, and who is he to refuse such an invitation?
They talk about all sorts of nonsense he makes an effort to block out when the conversation takes a welcome shift that piques his interest. “Winterleigh’s been as jittery as a fuckin' pack bull with a fly up his ass lately. The guy's going mad,” one bandit says.
“That so?” he asks, patting his nose after a particularly good hit.
“Yeah, dunno what's up with him. Must be the cave, noble shits like him can't deal with that stuff. Truth be told, I dunno why the boss still keeps him around.”
His blood is pumping in his veins from a combination of anticipation and chemical stimulation. This is the opening he was hoping for. He'd be a fool not to take it. And he's a bandit right now, and bandits do nothing but take, so he does. “The guy's ready to explode, from the inside out. I've seen this happen before. Once I was hired by this stuck-up bitch to keep her safe while she was traveling through Ascalon. Tried to kill me in my sleep once she thought she had no more use for me. Turned the tables on her though. Bet it's no different here.”
The bandits look to him, eyes unfocused from the buzz. “Whaddya mean?” one of them asks.
“Remember when we drank that crap and we got so sick we nearly shit ourselves? Bet it was him.”
The man shakes his head disbelievingly. “No fuckin' way. He wouldn't have the balls.”
“Hey, think. You're in a den full of guys that could murder you in a second. What's the easiest way to get rid of everybody without 'em knowing?” He sees the realization dawning in the bandit's eyes, but he elaborates anyway for anybody too thick to figure it out. “Poison. Hard to detect until it's in your system and you're passed out foaming at the mouth. And he's from that batshit family in the Fields of Ruin. Bet poison was just something they did on the side when they weren't busy fucking each other.”
He leans back in his chair, kicks up his legs. “We were lucky to get out alive that time, he probably screwed up the dose or something, but I wouldn't expect him not to try again.”
It's so easy to convince them of anything when they're high on snorting Dragon Dust.
And if he starts laughing hysterically, it's just the drugs taking over, he swears.
43
It ends as it starts. With a rumor.
It's a risk he's taken, inciting the urge for blood in a bunch of low-life criminals.
He has to carefully monitor the way the wind blows, not so touch-and-go this time. He started small, but eventually word will go up the ranks, and that's when they'll move to dispose of Luke Winterleigh, in the grimmest way possible. And Officer Blodwyn Hauteclaire would not be happy.
“Officer Blodwyn Hauteclaire would never let Vale Torrance get away with such a failure,” he says, but he's grinning.
He has to move fast, because sometimes his reputation proceeds even him.
45
The next time he sees Luke Winterleigh, he’s in the middle of taking a leak. He’s caught by surprise. Not because he’s caught with his fly down, but because this is the first time he’s seen the man outside the caves, and unaccompanied to boot.
He shrugs nonchalantly, tucks himself back in, zips up. The nobleman has been in the company of bandits for years. He's probably seen far worse. But Luke Winterleigh averts his gaze.
“Terribly sorry,” Mr. Winterleigh says.
“All good, mate.” He grins, shark-like, too much teeth, not enough sincerity. “Getting some fresh air?”
“Something like that,” Luke Winterleigh sighs.
“I'll bet,” he hums.
They stand in silence, because even he as Cade Marlow has nothing to say to a guy like him. That is, until Luke Winterleigh sighs again and moves to head back into the cavern.
“You really think you can stay safe and cozy in a den of bandits?" he pipes up.
The nobleman stops, looks at him very much as he did the first time he stopped him in passing. “I'm sorry?” he says.
“They're thinking of getting rid of you, you know. I dunno what sort of deal you struck up with the boss, but it probably won't help you soon. Place like this? Nobody can hide forever. Not even somebody like you.”
“And how would you know all this?” Luke Winterleigh says.
He grins. “I'm Cade Marlow. Not a lot gets by me.” He unsheathes his dagger, idly tosses it up and down in his hand. “If you're looking for a way out, I’ll help you.”
Luke Winterleigh narrows his eyes. “Why? What do you want?”
He peers at the nobleman, schooling himself to appear menacing. “Nothing. I could kill you right now. A clean bullet, right between your eyes, you couldn't even know what hit you. But you don't have anything I want. So because you have nothing I want, I have no reason to kill you to take it. But you have something to take care of. I can see it in your eyes. And it intrigues me. I wanna see you see it through.”
The man before him appraises him, looks him up and down, as if trying to assess his bluff. “How can I trust you?” he asks, carefully.
“You can't,” he replies simply with a shrug. “But they're going to kill you whether you trust me or not. They're gonna cut out your eyes and slit your throat and your wrists and bleed you out to dry, and then when that's all done, they're gonna string you up and spit and piss on your body.”
He watches the color drain from Luke Winterleigh's face, but the man's expression is something between fear and... fascination. Sometimes he has to remind himself that he's dealing with a man from a long line of necromancers, and it really shouldn't surprise him as much as it does.
“I'll do it. I'll go with you. If you get me out of here.”
He grins that shark-grin again, but there's a different sort of elation fluttering in his chest as well. His job is nearly finished. Now he can leave. Now he can go home--
Wherever home is.
“Meet me at the crossroads of Jadon and Salma road two hours after midnight. The moon will be smallest, and it will be easier to leave without anybody noticing. They're planning a raid soon, so they won't try to kill you before then. Keep yourself hidden best you can.”
Luke Winterleigh nods, murmurs a thank you. He grins. “Don't thank me yet. Not until you're outta here.”
45.5
He draws a map of where he's meant to meet Luke Winterleigh on a piece of parchment. He makes sure to keep the letter cryptic. There's just enough detail to be coherent, yet vague enough to look like just a mass of scribbles to anybody but his employer. She's certainly intelligent enough to decipher it.
“Officer Blodwyn Hauteclaire would kill Luke Winterleigh in cold blood,” he says out loud as he adds on the finishing touches to his letter.
He's not stupid. He knows the reason she hired him to seek out Luke Winterleigh isn't for a slap on the wrist. That's the dark, shady business he's witnessed over the years; nobody seeks anybody unless they want to kill them. He imagines the only reason she did not ask him to kill Luke Winterleigh was so she could do the honors herself, despite the consequences of a Seraph officer committing cold-blooded murder. But of course, somebody of her intelligence would know of that already.
He thinks Vale Torrance would probably have something to say about that. That he has never killed a man before, even if he reasons that he's entirely capable of it, and he's not in the business for murder. But he's not Vale Torrance right now, he's Cade Marlow, and Cade Marlow couldn't give a rat's ass whether Luke Winterleigh dies or not.
He seals the envelope, hands it off to the carrier pigeon, watches it take flight.
“May the Gods have mercy on your soul, Mr. Winterleigh,” he says mirthlessly.
And when he thinks about it, long and hard, deep, deep down he finds that Vale Torrance doesn't care enough after-all.
50
When he walks out of his very own weeks-long hellhole, his eyes are bloodshot, his mouth is dry and his hands are shaking. It's not his first, second, or even fifth time snorting Dragon Dust and getting high on any and every drug he could get his hands on.
It will take him a while to find himself again. A few weeks to detox from the drugs (the ones he can live to part with, at least) and a few hours to scrub off the bandit filth and stink until his skin is red and raw. He'll burn the clothes, not just to get rid of the evidence of his escapade.
But he's not so far gone that he's lost sight of himself in the lies. He never is, but this lie has certainly been harder to deal with than all the others, if not for his coping mechanisms, as sparse as they were. He has Officer Blodwyn Hauteclaire to partially thank for that. In some twisted way, she managed to keep him sane when he was sure to lose it.
Being paid handsomely for the effort is just something nice on the side.
Quick! List *1* song that reminds you of each of your pairings. Can you do it?
CHALLENGE ACCEPTED ANON THIS IS WHAT I LIVE FOR!
Saelix and Fiachra - Lover/Soldier - Washington
Lover, you’re a soldierYou’re a long, long way from homeA long way from your mother and you do it on your ownI don’t belong to you and you don’t belong to me
Vale and Blodwyn - Short Skirt Long Jacket - Cake
I want a girl with a mind like a diamondI want a girl who knows what’s bestI want a girl with shoes that cutAnd eyes that burn like cigarettes
Glade and Ezra - Time Is Running Out - Muse
I think I’m drowningAsphyxiatedI wanna break this spellThat you’ve createdYou’re something beautifulA contradictionI wanna play the gameI want the friction
Glade and Saelix - Dusk (Dark Is Descending) - Anathema
Reach for my handAnd take me away
Cyril and Frapps - Lady In Spain - Ingrid Michaelson
I am in love with a boyManufactured to destroySo I shall unravel my loveLike an old red woolen glove
==> BONUS (because I can’t choose just one) - My Beloved Monster - Eels
My beloved monster is toughIf she wants she will destroy youBut if you lay her down for a kissHer little heart it could explode
Mint and Celandyn - Moon - Sia
Two ships passing in the night Two lips pressing ground the tides I believe the world it spins for you We will never be, I am the moon
…..VALEWYN IT IS. OK I HOPE I DON’T MESS UP VALE I DEEPLY APOLOGIZE IN ADVANCE:
Who cooks normally?
They take turns. Blodwyn’s a pretty decent cook, but her dishes turn out dull and have a lack of variety. Vale is much more experimental when it comes to cooking, so I imagine he’s the better one of the two.
How often do they fight?
Almost on a daily basis. If by fight you mean her reprimanding him over the smallest things, like not putting his plate away or leaving the toilet seat up. He takes her scoldings in good stride but never really learns from his mistakes; he actually kind of likes seeing her get worked up over him.
What do they do when they’re away from each other?
Blodwyn heads to Seraph HQ if she’s on duty. Her time off is spent speaking to informants, studying law, and sometimes sending a small sums of money to Vale’s family without mentioning it to him. Vale would travel out of the city to visit his family (and would be puzzled to find letters filled with gold in the mailbox). He’d pick some flowers from the countryside which he would later put in a vase in the dining room, which Blodwyn quietly appreciates.
Nicknames for each other?
Blodwyn insists that he call her by her first and last name, or by any of her formal titles. Vale opts to call her “sweetheart”, which drives her absolutely nuts.
Who is more likely to pay for dinner?
They have a quiet understanding to let Blodwyn handle the bill, along with every other expense they share from living together. On the occasion that Vale does offer to pay for anything, Blodwyn would politely turn him down and tell him to “worry more about himself and his family.”
Who steals the covers at night?
Vale. Blodwyn would attempt to pull them back to her side, but he’d resist in his sleep until they end up playing tug of war with it. She’d resort to getting her own blanket from the closet.
What would they get each other for gifts?
She would at first get him valuable books about history and literature (only to find that he doesn’t read very well), so she ends up getting him new, “proper” clothes to replace his worn ones. He gets her jewelry and perfumes she’d never wear (whatever he could get away with stealing, really), but he finds that she vastly prefers the flower bouquets he makes himself.
Who kissed who first? / Who started the relationship?
…I think Blodwyn would be the one to do it. I figure that even though he’s openly amorous of her, he wouldn’t force anything physical on her until he knows that his feelings are returned.
Who made the first move?
Vale, obviously, the day he first met her.
Who remembers things?
Both! Blodwyn I think would have the sharpest memory of the two, but I imagine Vale as an extremely sharp long-term memory.
Who cusses more?
They both have their fair share of cussing, although I think Vale is much more… creative when it comes to it. Blodwyn is careful not to swear in front of her peers or superiors, so when she does swear it’s often to herself.
What would they do if the other one was hurt?
Vale would do his best to treat her himself; he’s had experience patching himself up during times when he’s been compromised. In Blowyn’s case, the only form of healing she’s ever used is life transferring using her necromancy. She would be reluctant to use it on Vale, since there is a chance it could have negative effects on his body.
