pegunicent: Default Setting (Default)
 Liam listened to Alberic's stumbling, halting apology and knew it would not reach where it was intended. Estinien was beyond reason, beyond the cold ground of logic, trapped in white hot rage and betrayal. A good man Alberic may be but he was a piss father. This whole mess could have been avoided if Alberic had even once in the last two decades simply girded his loins and faced his own weaknesses. 
 
Instead he'd basically served his adopted son up on a gilded tray for the vengeful wyrm gnawing away at his heart and mind, and it was up to Liam to stop the dragoon from exploding or being devoured or whatever else might happen with that much tainted Mist flooding his lanky form. 
 
Since words weren't going to do anything, Liam settled for the swift and brutal approach. He shoved his spear into Alberic's hands and leapt, throwing his whole body weight behind the punch that cracked three of his knuckles and broke two fingers on Estinien's helm. He followed up the gasping stagger with a spin kick, armored heel solidly denting the drachen mail chest piece over the elezen's sternum. Ten yalms away the boy's body caught up in the snow and Liam pounced, ripping off the horned helm to shove that broken and elegant nose straight into the ground. 
 
Red eyes blazed wyrm fire at him and he leaned in to snarl back. “Get. Out.” 
 
Whatever a 'dragon soul' was supposed to feel like, all Liam felt was pissed. Distantly he knew the raging Mist from Nidhogg was roiling against his own, but he'd never attuned his senses in the way of magery and oft ignored his own less than mundane instincts. Slowly the snarling beneath him tapered off while his own continued, until dark blue eyes replaced the maddened red wide with shock and no little wonder. 
 
Once he was sure all hell was not going to break loose, he stood up, flexed his hand with a hiss, and started stalking back for his bloody spear. 
 
“Wait... what... are you?”
 
Estinien may be the greatest dragoon alive but in that moment all Liam could hear was a broken child, alone and afraid and his old heart tried to break all over again. Glowering at Alberic, the source of this whole mess, he snatched his weapon and forced his legs to keep going. 
 
“Old. Too damned swiving old.” He growled, feeling every one of his 277 turns.
pegunicent: Default Setting (Default)
 

It's not the pain that sends him to his knees. Honestly the ache in his chest has been so steady, so constant, that the flare of even more just knocks away his breath. No it's not the pain. What sends him crumpling to the ground heaving for air and gagging on blood made Light is less pain and more a sudden crack through his very being; a blinding, freezing knowing of things he doesn't understand, a flood of knowledge and voices he doesn't know and can't focus on, a chilling certainty that he has been here before and every time he died.

 

It hurts. Sweet merciful sea it hurts but more than that it tears at him. He knew the Light would kill him, there was too much for any one soul to command, 9/10's of a world's Light aether in one mortal frame? But he had to try, and more he had to plan how to deal with it and he had, he had a plan but...

 

He chokes and vomits and tastes not iron or copper or even bile. It's nothing. It's nothing but aether, his own aether, insides melting under the pressure of his soul, physical organs collapsing under the weight of ephemeral mass. He knew the Light would kill him but he didn't think it would be like this.

 

He's only taken two of the damned Wardens down. He needs at least the third before the Exarch, before G'raha Tia shows his hand. The damned cat has some sort of suicidal plot in the works, using Urianger no less, and until Lewellen has sussed it out he's not sure how he can counter it, so he absolutely cannot die now. Even if it would be so nice to just lay down and rest. Even if it meant the thundering cascades of agony in behind his ribs would finally cease. No more wars. No more primals. No more being lied to and used and looked at as merely another tool that could walk and cast and maintain itself.

 

No more Hagwife and crew to be worried about him. No more idiots seeking to best him for glory and fame. No more messes to clean up. No more adventures. No more disappointed sighs from a certain Maelstrom commander. No more anything.

 

“I'm the one whose dead, so why do you look worse?”

 

Ah Ardbert. Of course the ghost couldn't let him die in peace.

 

With a last heaving spit he fumbled for his potion pouch and pulled out a hi-elixer. He chased the bitter tonic with an ether, dangerous that, and then a pure hi-potion for the physical damage.

 

“No' enough Darkness.” He gasped out as he felt his energies swirl wildly, pulling on his buried Dark aether to counter the hoarded Light. “Gotta balance, or ya pop. Big bloody sac oh aether an guts.” he managed to gesture to his focus, dropped on the floor with his collapse, and muscled his way to leaning back against a chair. Part of him wondered if the Exarch was watching him even now, talking to the air in his room after a fit of Light poisoning. Serve the bastard right for pulling him into this mess at all and then lying about it if he felt guilty and torn about his 'hero'.

 

“What are you going to do then? If you can't contain it? You can't, can you? If it's already doing this to you?”

 

“Course Ah can't. No one can. A whole world of Light in one man's belly? Ya want meh shitten rainbows an farten sunshine next?” It was ridiculous. Lewellen was one man. A pirate. He got lucky once, and paid the price for it the rest of his life because people thought being temper-proof was enough to take on the Gods and he was stubborn and clever and spiteful enough to do it and keep living through the ordeal. No matter who else died. No matter how much it cost. No matter how much he wished otherwise.

 

“Then what are you going to do?”

 

Ah poor Ardbert. Bloody big idiot with an even bigger ax. Why did Lewellen have to have a weakness for that sort? “First, ah'm gonna drink mahself stupid. Then do somat stupid, then sleep, if'n what ah do doesna set tha whole bloody tower on mah head. Then ah'll deal with that.” He pulled on a wry grin for the scowling shade and waved a hand dismissively, the one that wasn't rubbing the aching hollow over his heart. “Donna ya worry. Ah said ah'd save yer world right? Ah have a plan.”

 

“Does your plan involve you living to see the world saved?”

 

“...” Through the haze of roiling magic in his veins, Lewellen thought he saw something like worry on the dead mans face. “Do ye know... yer tha only one on this reflection what even cares? Ya shouldn't.”

 

“You're dying to fix what I destroyed!”

 

“An little'l be lost in tha end.” Slowly he eased his head back against the chair, feeling where the strain in his neck would be an incredible crick if he didn't get up soon. He couldn't care about it. Between the pain and the influx of... whatever had filled the crack in his soul the light had made... he was too tired and too weak to care about what more pain would come. His life had been pain of one flavor or another since Carteneau.

 

A little rest, then a lot of booze and some more potion abuse. He remembered well the incantations and binding spells of the necronomicon copies he'd hunted down for the Thaumaturges all those years ago. The wardings and summoning runes Edda had used in her perverted magics. The taste of the Void and it's boundless Dark aether were forever imprinted in his memory. Doubtless Wynjeager would call him reckless and insane after all the voidsent they'd destroyed together but if his own Dark aether wasn't enough to keep him alive then something elses would have to do. Just long enough to save two worlds.

 

What was the life of one pirate against that?

 

Why else would fate or the gods or G'raha damned Tia have called to him across the great Rift, if not because he was clever, and stubborn and so very, completely expendable?

 

It wasn't the pain that clawed at him. It was the tears he couldn't even find strength to shed anymore.

pegunicent: Default Setting (Default)
 

“I can fix this.”

 

“HOW?! You've turned the whole Cultivation world against you! You had to go an play hero and for what? For them?!”

 

“We owe them. I owe them.”

 

“Your life?!”

 

“Madam Yu and Uncle Jiang! Your parents! Our lives! We OWE them.”

 

“Then why didn't you TALK to me?! Do you know what you've done now? How am I supposed to protect you from this?!”

 

“...don't.”

 

“...What?!”

 

“Don't protect me. Disown me from the Jiang. Declare me defect. I'll FIX this Jiang Cheng but I need TIME and... and these people need help. They can't stay here.”

 

“...what do you want me to do?”

 

“...hide them. Change their names, and hide them. Scatter them through Yunmeng, it shouldn't be hard. They're farmers and elders and craftsmen. No Cultivators. Just common people displaced by the war. Change their names and hide them.”

 

“There's less than forty people here if that's all you wanted you could have told me BEFORE killing Jin soldiers and making such a damned MESS of things Wuxian!”

 

“There wasn't time.”

 

“Of COURSE there wasn't. There never is with you, you get an idea and to hell with the rest of us.”

 

 

 

 

 

“There's only a few left now are you going to tell me what the hell you're planning? Sect Leader Jin is getting louder and louder about the 'army' you're building up here.”

 

“I told you, I'm going to fix it. He wants the Tiger Seal and I'll destroy it before he can have it.”

 

“Baba?”

 

“Who the hell is this?!”

 

“Ah, a-Yuan there you are! Shidi this is my son, I adopted him!”

 

“You adopted a brat. A Wen brat. And you're raising him HERE in a mass graveyard!?”

 

“Well I was hoping you'd keep him safe in Yunmeng for me, just until this is all over...”

 

“Tch. Idiot. Even if you can fix all this, the world will still be out for your blood. He can't be a Wei.”

 

“Oy!”

 

“Shut up, he can't! And you can't be a father you can barely count as a child yourself! Obviously he's MY son. Jiang a-Yuan.”

 

“A-Cheng!!”

 

“I said shut up! We were in a war! And teenagers! It makes enough sense and compared to Sect Leader Jin who would dare argue?! Fix your problems and clean up this mess and you can come back to visit in Lotus Pier and be the worlds worst uncle!”

 

 

 

 

“...what do you mean an ambush?”

 

 

 

 

“Wei Wuxian!!”

 

“I'm sorry shidi. I'm so sorry. Don't cry it'll all be fine now. I said I'd fix it.”

 

“WEI WUXIAN!!”

 

 

 

 

“Baba?”

 

“...I'm sorry. I'm so sorry...”

 

“Baba hurt?”

 

 

 

 

OMFG

Jun. 29th, 2020 10:56 pm
pegunicent: I'm in charge? Really? I thought I was Scape Goat Jesus. (Asylum)
 Quezacotl1: Okay

misstrips: Rose still needs to be burned with dragon fire.  But Leon is the worlds most determined virgin

Quezacotl1: And Sonia is a very clever enabler

misstrips: she put together a SEP charm!  That's not flashy magic, but it's *useful* magic!

Quezacotl1: -nods- Aeris heartily approves!

Quezacotl1: the fact he was sort of disappointed Raihan *wasn't* dragon shaped!

misstrips: He's been spending years going okay, I am going to fuck a dragon!  You... do not look at all like what I have been gear myself up for.

Quezacotl1: I really want a peek into Raihan's head because he has to be certain this guy gonna die... and then he doesn't

misstrips: Most of the virgins don't last the first night without wanking furiously because they *can* now and I shove a lot of dreams that make them horny as hell at them... heck, most just donate blood and.... (am not sure what happens to hem after he takes a decade off their life span, at the very least, Leon doesn't seem to have any idea that they didn't die?}

Quezacotl1: It sounded sort of like Raihan set them back outside and.. Actually... now I have a suspicion that the reason no one knows they live is because... they don't. I mean... Rose wouldn't be as terrifying if there were survivors, and the truth might get out. 

 misstrips: Nods it's all, raihan is all, blood, a decade of life span and gtfo, thanks for keeping the seal going.... but that's not at all the vibe Leon's projecting
 
 Quezacotl1: I don't think Raihan actually can leave Hammerlock... so he has maybe a limited idea of what Rose ACTUALLY does. He sees the runes, he knows the name, maybe Rose has visited a few times who knows but... Raihan isn't scared of Rose, or giving the impression he thinks much of the man, and Leon is terrified.

misstrips: considering that Leon had zero clue about Rai's existence?  Yeah, that sounds right.  Rai doesn't leave
 
Quezacotl1: I do not think I wanna be Rose, when the ritual succeeds and Raihan *can leave and finds out whatever happened to those people he set free.

misstrips: and Rose keeps sending all these *damaged* sacrifices to him.  Rai was already looking at Leon and going, you are probably totally sex adverse because every time in your life you've ever gotten a little horny, you've been blasted with sheer pain.  That doesn't make for *willing* bed partners
 
Quezacotl1: -nods- Doing in thinking you're gonna get fucked to death is not... a healthy mindset, and you're telling little kids they have to be *good* sacrifices like... what exactly is a 'good' sacrifice virgin? I'm betting if they weren't sex adverse they were masochistic because they've been trained to equate pain with reward. 
 
Quezacotl1: "you don't have to fuck the dragon" and Leon is all 'I'm not letting anyone *else* do it!"
 
misstrips: and Rai is all.  You're cute, and stubborn.  It's going to be a shame when you die

Quezacotl1: leon is gonna be so smug when he prooves Rai wrong
 
misstrips: Rai with those stupid gauzy robes and jiggling jewelry!
 
 Quezacotl1: Pouncing. Leon's gonna pounce him so hard. 
 
 misstrips: He's not super sure what comes after the pouncing.  Kissing  Bits rubbing against each other?  At some point a penis is going in someplace
 
Quezacotl1: They had sheep, he knows how it's supposed to work in theory!
 
 misstrips: He's rather leave off the headbutting though.  His skull isn't suited for it
 
Quezacotl1: God, Leon was so done with the bullshit magic stuff. So many of my muses were like 'This. Mood.'
 
 misstrips: Living with a curse and being told you're being set up to die for everyone else... and hey, your little brother looks like a fine piece of ass to throw at the dragon next... yeah
 
 Quezacotl1: “But it’s selfish of me, to wager your life for the sake of my freedom.” Yeah Raihan has NO CLUE what happens to the sacrifices he *doesn't* kill. 
 
misstrips: *nods*  He takes we he needs and send them away.  as far as he knows, they go home?
 
 Quezacotl1: And Leon is... well he's not lining up the dots entirely. He's got more important things to worry about in the immediacy. The idea that he could go home? Of course he can't go home. He can't let this fall on someone else!
 
Quezacotl1: The fact that No ONE ever Goes Home after being Sacrificed... is just a fact to him. He's not connecting why.
 
 misstrips: He's also fairly isolated,  No one talks to him either
 
 Quezacotl1: Raihan gonna be in for a LOT of unpleasant revelations. 
 
 misstrips: Rose is going to be in for a bigger one when Leon *succeeds*.  I have a feeling a lot of Rose's power comes from he's the one that 'ensures' the sacrifice is pristine 
 
 Quezacotl1: And also he's one of the few who still know how to *use* magic. He's deliberately sacrificing hte people who might, with training, someday replace him. The fact that he *has* to pick people with inate talent doesn't negate the fact he's failing to tell them what makes them 'special'. 
 
 misstrips: or teaching *other* people who have talent... like Sonai
 
 Quezacotl1: >>
 
 Quezacotl1: Replying to @notavodkashotYou have no idea the head cannons @MissTrips and I are throwing around about your world building and where it's all going and What Happened To the People Before Who Didn't Die? It's a lot of dark you've got us exploring.
 
Quezacotl1: I mean. I'm gonna be real I'm probably watching her stream tomorrow and blaming her for my new nightmares but also this is like, one of the few parts of Twitter not on fire somehow?
 
 misstrips: *nods*
 
 Quezacotl1: Oh gods she wants to KNOOOOW. -dies laughing-
 
 misstrips: *laughs*  so do we!  
pegunicent: Default Setting (Default)
In the end, despite years of searching, saving the world at least three times, dealing with multiple governments, despots, rogue armies and mad scientists, nothing Jak does brings Daxter back to normal. Daxter does it, all on his own, with a determined act of madness, like he's done everything else in his life since he met Jak. 

He drinks Light Eco. 

Not because he knows it's the cure to being two foot two and furry, but because it's *there*, Jak isn't, and Tess has been making less with the ear scratches and more with the longing sighs in blond Hero's direction. Dax just wants to be out of the way. 

That's not strictly true when he has his head on *mostly* straight, but at the time he drank the Eco he was drunk, lonely, had been a glorified rat-pet for nearly as long as he'd once been an elf and the idea of his best friend and his best *girl* friend getting together was... nice. Pretty, even. The way graveyards are at dusk with flowers on the cared for tombstones. They'd grieve a little while, then have bouncing blond babies with terrifying aim and a penchant for blowing up everything. Maybe Tess would ask Kiera to wear the worlds most hideous bridesmaid dress. Maybe she'd ask *Torn*. 

See, Dax gave up hope of ever seeing himself sans fur about two months after his Dark Eco dip. Oh he never believed *Jak* would give up searching, no, Jak doesn't really *understand* the term 'quit while you're ahead'. But *actually* getting his old body back? Yeah it was his 'old' body. Dax needed to *survive* and that meant... accepting reality. 

Daxter's the one who rolls with the punches. Jak's the one who punches *back*. That's always been their dynamic. 

So. In a fit of drunken suicidal ideology and loneliness, Daxter did the stupidest thing he could think of besides marching up to Damas and punching the lord of the sand wastes in the balls. He found a stash of Light Eco and drank the jar dry. 

Then he screamed. A lot. 

Not that anyone cared, not that anyone *heard* because he'd found it in a storeroom in the palace and everyone was out killing a bunch of *something* he hadn't paid any attention to, because Jak was back in Haven on some kind of errand for Samos that required Dax 'Stay here.' which was *never* a good thing, because people didn't understand that Jak *needed* Daxter, not even Jak sometimes and Dax....

Well. 

See, there was a time before the dynamic duo. There was a time Dax was all alone, in a village of elves that didn't like him, that were quietly *glad* his parents were gone, and some not so quietly awaited the day *he'd* be gone to. One way or another. He was a kid, and while the village wasn't Haven City, it wasn't kind and welcoming either. He'd survived anyway. He'd survived because he was Daxter and Fuck You. THEN came along little Jak, all silent smiles and bad decisions and Dax had found a friend. Someone to talk to, to teach, to look after. Daxter found a reason to survive that wasn't pure spite at the world. 

But the spite was still there. The instincts, the paranoia, the loathing for people who were Not Jak didn't get wiped away just buried a while then dug up, covered in rebar and cement and turned into a foundation for everything *else* Dax during the two years of separation and guilt in Haven City. Daxter survived because this was all His Fault and he had to find Jak and FIX IT. Which he did. Sort of. Jak of course did most of the heavy lifting but Dax carried Jak. That's how it works. Jak carries the world, Dax carries Jak. 

Now though... now they aren't kids anymore. Now they drink booze, flirt with breasts and kill people. Things mostly but people to. Jak is... not okay. He's balanced, Eco wise. He's almost as quiet as when he was a kid, but Daxter isn't the only one who can read him anymore. He's growing into his place in Spargus, he's figuring out what he wants out of a girlfriend and maybe wife... he's the best he's been in years and when Samos said 'don't bring the rat'... he didn't argue. 

Dax bitched on principle but he knew what was what. Jak didn't *need* him on his shoulder anymore. Was probably ready to do the whole growing up and apart thing that had been put on hold by trauma, world ending threats and a mountain of guilt on both sides that equated to an epic dependency complex. 

So Daxter saw his best buddy off, then went and drank anything with a proof over 30 that didn't come with a skull and crossbones warning. Which led him to remembering the last time he got drunk in front of Tess. He loved Tess. He loved her as much as he could love anyone who wasn't Jak. He remembered the way she watched his bestest bud, remembered the way she sighed after him because Jak was gorgeous and tall and strong and *not* a loudmouthed cynical rodent. He remembered telling her to just go and kiss the guy cause he'd never make the first move himself, not after Kiera... 

And remembering all that he'd gone looking for whatever would make him forget the look Tess had given him. The Look. Like he was the cutest, most wonderful thing she wanted to cuddle and never, ever, anything more. 

And if *Tess* couldn't imagine him as anything other than a furry sidekick... 

Light Eco. 

He'd touched it before, soaked it in as waves off Jak when he went all blue and tenta-winged. Shit had never been anything but *cold*, where his Dark Dip had burned to his fucking *marrow*. Cold and useless. So why not drink it? Either it'd kill him, or it'd do shit all and maybe make his bathroom activities interesting. 

So he wasn't actively suicidal, but if it happened he was long overdue.

He's not sure, after, how long he screamed. How long the Light Eco tore through him and rearranged things to its liking. He was never a channeler like Jak. Just a guy. Just a kid. Just someone normal. 

When he manages to find the strength and will to crawl his way back to their room, he knows things have *changed*, but he can't appreciate anything but the opportunity to die in peace, away from the scene of his stupidity. He curls up on the cot he shares with Jak, and passes out, praying to the Precursors Jak won't do anything stupid when he finds Dax's corpse. 



pegunicent: Default Setting (Default)
 "Micheletto, Rohar, Auditore, prepare to ride at dawn."
 
 2 Omegas, a beta, and an alpha Ezio awore was half feral. Or maybe just mad. Certainly the way Michelletto followed Mentore Miles was not the way a student followed a teacher, but more how a priest might follow the son of God. If he was the sort of priest to offer the crucified form oral release with evening mass. 
 
Ezio did not like nor trust Michelletto, but he did not have to. The Alpha initiate was loyal to Mentore Miles (damningly loyal) and all of them were on a journey to deliver a relic of the gods to a place only gods could know. It was all too fantastic for him to make sense of. 
 
 Rohar at least was solid and steady as bedrock, though he seemed innordinately concerned about their mission which failed to put Ezio at ease. 
 
 "We will be riding for many weeks across the land. Do you speak English?"
 
 "A bit, why?"
 
 "....If the mentore stops speaking Italian, then speak English to him. Nothing else. He can be... confused sometimes, on long journeys. On long rides."
 
 "Confused?"
 
 "It will come back to him, but you must not aid the confusion with other languages. English only. It is the fastest way. Arabic, if he is confused for more than a day. But even then we made decent time from Timbuktuu."
 
 Michelletto, frustratingly, only nodded at this strangeness. And gave Ezio a considering look. "Trauma creates madness, a way for the mind to cope with pain. Who has had more pain than the man *created* to lead murderers in the cause to kill gods? It would be madness to think he was not mad. And we, mad for willingly taking up his madness when he tries to keep us out."
 
 Ezio wished Machiavelli had been brought along, if only to argue something like sanity into his partner Alpha. his insanity sounded too much likes sense. 

 




The first temple they find (Mentore Miles finds) is on the outskirts of Rome, and they have to kill a number of slavering, slobbering feral Alphas for it. "Followers of Romulus. We've nearly wiped them out I hope, but their lairs are fairly simple. You three go a head and loot, if you can't get everything out, I'll go down after you come back."
 
 It's thrilling, being entrusted to run the tomb without Miles guiding the way, and frustrating to be racing his fellow initiates through the traps and pitfalls. Once, Michelletto pulls far ahead while Rohar falters and Ezio finds himself helping the beta back onto a ledge, unwilling to risk either of them sustaining injury just to get some gold. 
 
He is prepared to be chewed out by Miles, who has no affection for him anyway, when the pair reach the end with their own small chests of silver dinari. Instead he is slightly astounded to find the Mentor asking why *Michelletto*, the Alpha, the *sword of the Order* would abandon his armor and his shield to try and impress one old man? 
 
 It is a humbling and enlightening night for all three of them. Though they had killed a number of men and stolen their money, Miles cared only that they could not yet work as a *unit*. 
 
 Ezio had known the pair less than a full month!

But he was the Omega was he not? The armor of the Order. The steel that protected, shaped and defined the body they all represented? Michelletto was the sword, the bloodthirsty and obvious danger, while Rohar was the shield. Rohar was the one most willing to take orders, but also to find compromise. He was the versatile scholar of their group. And Miles, without his armor or sword, was entrusting *them*, these untried three, to protect him with a holy relic to an ancient temple and not fall to any of their vices. 
 
 A terrible test Ezio realized. If they failed, they would lose the most promising Mentore the order had seen in three hundred years. As well as a weapon the Templars would exploit for world conquest, and possibly an evil goddess. Miles rode on a horse with no reigns, no saddle. He wore no armor, and carried only a bow, arrows, and a small ax at his hip with his hidden blades. Not even bombs, or throwing blades. 
 
The man was as defenseless as he could afford to be, trusting three near assassins to escort him safely. It was, the most harrowing test of Ezio's life. And he knew on the third night that Rohar and Michelletto had figured it out to. 


 







It was not until the second week that the Mentore woke, and spoke to the m in a tongue none knew. A flowing roll of vowels and sharp, knife sliced guttural consonants that filled the morning air and made them all wary. 
 
Before any were awake enough to try and question, Miles was gone into the forest trees. An hour, maybe to later, had him return with a whole deer dragged behind him, a single arrow through a dark eye. 
pegunicent: the Great Kannon (Funky Lady)
 Ezio is spying. He's not sure *why* he's spying on Messer Miles, but he can't seem to help himself. The man is so gloriously *golden* to his Sight, and now all alone in the house of the Hastings...

Ezio has found him training at strange hours, bending and stretching and often contorting into strange positions. Sometimes the man sits on the floor and seems to fall asleep. Rarely he picks up a book and reads, or strums the strange Spanish instrument Leonardo made him. 

Tonight however he bathes, and Ezio watches from across the rooftop and curses himself. 

Miles is no strapping youth, but a man, solid and strongly built. A few years Fredrico's elder, his skin is bronzely tanned all over, making the black branding of his arm seem a strange shadow in the candle light. He lies in the large strange tub that steams with piped hot water. His hair is just long enough to curl in the damp. One scarred hand cups the flesh of his own throat while the other slides with ease and patience just below the waters surface in telling motions. 

Ezio tries not to look, and finds himself watching helpless anyway. He's not his brother to be attracted to the *challenge* of a partner, there is something else about Miles that yanks on his instincts. He finds he wants to befriend the man *badly*. More, he wants to *comfort*. Though... at the moment Miles appears comfortable indeed. 

With a sigh Ezio can almost hear, the man releases himself and reaches out of the tub for a towel. Thinking the bath over, Ezio prepares to move, not wishing to be caught, but instead of leaving the water Miles instead pulls an object from the cloth and settles determinedly back down. It takes Ezio's poor mind a few moments to comprehend, and by then the object is in the water and past his sight. With some deliberation Miles throws his legs over the porcelain sides, wide as a welcoming whore, and with no further obvious preparation, forces the thing straight into himself. 

The thing Ezio is almost *certain* was made of stone or ceramic and shaped not ungenerously akin to a *cock*. His heart races with strange fear and sympathetic *pain*. Miles face is not an expression of rapture so much as *suffering*. The hand not below the water grips the edge of the tub with white knuckles and for long moments Ezio wonders if the man will need a *doctor*. If he is staining the waters with *blood*. 

It takes an eternity for Miles to begin moving, and then only a few moments before he's throwing his head back and arching his whole body through a terrifying release. Ezio grinds his teeth and prays he will be able to forget what he is witnessing. It is too much and too strange and somehow not yet over. 

The peaceful lethargy of lovemaking does not come for Miles, with his penetrated rear. Instead of relaxation and satiation, the man only seems to soften around the edges before going tense as steel again. He arches his hips, enough to breach the surface a bit with his untouched shaft, and braces both arms on the tub. Then... Ezio has no idea how, he starts to *force* himself to the peak again. Untouched. *Unhappily*. His body clenches and shudders while his face seems *tortured* and Ezio is *horrified* to watch the man wreck himself in another agonizing climax. 

Finally though he seems to take some pity on himself, wrapping a hand back around his weeping prick. With rough, tight motions he dirties the water a third time, then seems... finished. The instrument is pulled away and discarded back on its towel; the tub drained and the man climbs out to stretch and dry off. There remains a sort of restless energy to his motions but Ezio sees no overt damage. No blood. 

Miles takes his candle and heads to bed and Ezio remains on the rooftop, confused and hurt and aching for a man he's barely spoken to. 
pegunicent: Altair is god (God)
 Desmond has never been the guy who wanted attention. Growing up on the Farm, growing up the Mentor's Omega kid... better to hide. Better to blend and fade and run. He mastered hiding in plain sight better than anyone else, just to save himself a few less broken bones. 

Now he has more attention than ever on him, and he just knows it's not going to end well. Beating the shit out of Fredrico had felt *good* at the time, but now there's going to be fall out. He can feel the change in the air, people are *watching* now, they know he's more dangerous than he's shown and he's shown a *lot* more than they were expecting to begin with. 


"You gonna play for us tonight?"

"Depends on the luthier, if the instrument is ready. You really wanna hear some tunes huh?"

"I'm beginning to understand Ezio's loathing of minstrels if all he get's to hear is that... ugh." 

Des smiles because even in a dress and her hair growing out awkwardly, Rebecca is still flawless and unchanged. 




"*Spanish* Miles?" Shaun's tone is epicaly put upon as he catches onto the tune Des is strumming on his new guitar. 

"French is the language of love Master Hastings, but Spanish gets you laid." He grinned, voice purring out low. "Ella tenía los ojos marrones mm, muslos de caramelo, cabello largo, sin anillo de bodas, hey." 

Shaun repressed a shiver and hoped few around were actually fluent enough in Spanish to realize that Desmond's dialect was far from the mother tongue. "Shameless Miles. Utterly shameless." 

He could forgive almost anything though for Rebecca's delighted laughter. He just knew she was going to take up the risque lyrics as soon as the 'woman's' part came around and if she tried to drag him into dancing he'd make an *utter* fool of himself and enjoy every buggered minute. 

"Te vi mirando desde el otro lado del camino y ahora realmente quiero saber tu nombre.."

"Oh I only know the English version! Mile's!!!" 

Thank the powers for tiny mercies. Being seduced by serenade should *not* work on him. No matter who's voice it was. 




Three years. It hits him as he's playing a game of chess with Messer Alberti  in the park that he's been in Renaissance Italy for almost three years. Of that time, Desmond has only been home a fist full of months between raiding trips. They're nearly respectable citizens for all that the various underbelly factions are undecided exactly how or where they fall. 

Desmond returns from his latest (and longest) journey with two novices and a merchant prince, along with the makings of an actual *greenhouse* not that Shaun gives a damned. He only cares that the man is seemingly uninjured, weary, stripped down to the barest physical requirements of an assassin and... hungry. Desmond is touch starved like someone who has spent the greater part of a year and a half abstaining from even the lightest skin on skin contact. He curls into Rebecca and shudders. They caress him and he *sobs*. Shaun isn't sure sex is the answer but at least it lets them drive him deep into sleep so they can simply *cuddle* while he's too weak to escape. 

They've discussed the future countless times, tried to make tentative plans in the mans absence but it's impossible. They need him. The Order arguably needs him. But what Desmond Miles needs... they can only guess at. A home. A nest. A purpose beyond the shedding of blood (especially his own) that includes raising others into the tribe/clan/family/order/society for changing the world and future. While not being the man in charge of it all, or at least not the only one. 

The Order has always wanted a Mentor... but a single soul in charge leads to so many issues. A council? Or at least a council of mentors? Something that lets Desmond fade into the background and take only those responsibilities he's actually good with... it's an idea they'd bandied about in between haphazard talks of children and the changes they've already wrecked on the world. 

He clings in his sleep and his nightmares make him reach for weapons they carefully keep on the other side of the room. 

The novices are more like rescues. Dangerous kittens half feral and fully aware that fire burns and steel cuts but not sure if the food is poisoned or the water drugged. They want to trust. They want to cling as hard to Miles as Desmond clings to Shaun; with white knuckled hands and gasping breathes. They say he murdered their mentor. They claim they don't know how. Shaun knows a thousand ways to kill a man without leaving a mark and doesn't bother wondering which as much as *why*. 

Which of the many crimes was the one that flipped the switch this time? 

Miles has scars that professional torturers couldn't explain. It takes *love* to leave the deepest wounds after all. 



"Rome?"

"It's a possibility. There's a lot going on in Rome, we have an advantage right now, no other real Order presence there." 

Desmond made a face that Shaun interpreted as 'Oh precursors not again', or something equivalent.

pegunicent: Altair is god (God)
 Des wakes up in a hospital. Which is... wrong. He used the Eye. He *died*. The superflare was stopped. He's... pretty sure that's all true.  Still he blinks himself awake and the sheer sterility, the hard surface, too cold, beneath him and the tube down his throat all scream hospital. And alive. 

"We're not Templars."

Des coughs and chokes and alarms go off, people flooding the room to pin him down and *carefully* yank the tube out. In the corner, nonplussed, sits a pale blond boy with wide, light blue-gray eyes who glows golden to his Eagle eyes, and another, older male who screams Yellow/Danger/Trained. 

"What?"

"We're not Templars. You're safe. We're not the Brotherhood either."

"Who the hell..."

"We have our own Creed. 'If we can not save the world, we will Avenge it.'"

Des lets his eyes close against the sudden spiking migrain. "Shit."

"Yeah. Welcome to the superhero club. Entry fee one successful Armageddon thwarted." Yellow/Danger/Threat apparently also has all the morbid humor.

Brain Gunk

Jan. 24th, 2020 12:02 am
pegunicent: Altair is god (God)
So I've been reading a lot of fanfic (that's what you do when you can't *play* what you want right) and is started up another AU fic idea in my head that once again my co-conspirator Trips is not around to bounce off of. 

The Eye. 

I HATE the way AC3 ends. I HATE IT. I hate everything that came after, I refuse to pay money to the rest of the franchise I *loath* AC Black Flag... yes there were pretty bits, and then there were the Native Americans but no. Fuck You. DESMOND LIVES. 

So. 

The Eye. 

I've been reading  https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama a lot of their time travel shenanigans, which are good. I highly recommend Stone Angel and Impermanence, personally but my brain wouldn't stop at all the pretty and demanded more...

Desmond, knowing that the war between the Brotherhood and Templars was nothing more than Juno's way of *kneecapping* the human race, and that it began in Altair's time, *with* Altair and the 'apple of Altair'... uses the Eye not to just create a new time line with himself in the past but *create* a new lifetime in the past. Umar has a second son. Altair has a younger brother. Everything Desmond *knows* of the next eight hundred years becomes fever dreams and nightmares and visions for the child Aquilar Ibn Al'Ahad who might just break the world, or remake it. 

How different would things have been if both Altair and Malik were older brothers? How much more *thinking* would Altair have done, earlier, if it was not just his own pride on the line? how would the world have changed if just one small boy stood up to the great Al Mualim and said 'No. I don't want to kill for you. I'll Heal and study and spy, but I will not kill.'? 

That's where my brain has been the last day or so as I wade through job applications and interviews and my co-conspirator is silent. I don't think it takes all that much to change a timeline. Small actions NOW have so much influence on the future. 
pegunicent: Default Setting (Default)
Aji was born looking for trouble. If Haikada was to be believed, Aji had been born from a violent explosion of pure chaos and destruction. Since Aji didn't remember the event, and he didn't care to speculate about the kind of people who would leave their infants in the garbage filled allies of Rukongai, he chose to believe his brother was being more factual than dramatic. 

So it was no surprise that Aji was constantly in fights as soon as they got into the academy, or that he won more than he lost. Though he didn't win them all. As he felt his ribs crack under a vicious kick, he was pretty sure he wasn't winning this one. Three on one he could handle, but six pushed even his limits, and he refused to draw steel on guys who hadn't drawn yet on him, even if they did bring all their friends. 

Kada was going to give him one of those lectures again. The ones about actually *applying* for 11, not just thugging his way in. 

He curled around his middle with a bloody cough, black spots swimming over his eyes. 

"Enough."

Oh shit. Aji went looking for trouble like a dog hunting table scraps, but that soft, almost whispery voice could make his blood run cold and his whole body freeze before his brain had time to catch up. The sharp stab of pain as one of his opponents connected with his kidneys with their sandals told him the other guys had the survival instincts of wild dodos. 

"What, little futani here to save her boyfriend? Stay out of this you faggot unless you wanna be as ugly as..."

Aji blinked and forced his wavering vision to focus enough to catch the complete non-expression on his little brother's face, and was stupidly grateful he'd already emptied his bowels before heading out to this beat-down. "Seiko.... Don't kill 'em...." 

Aji was one to give and receive his beatings like a man, if these assholes didn't kill him he'd heal, train, hunt them all down later and repay the debt tenfold. If Haikada had come he'd have brought teachers and the full weight of the academy rules down on all their heads, Aji's included. They'd grown up on the streets surviving day to day with their fists and wits. 

Seiko didn't understand fighting fair, and he'd never trusted anyone or anything but himself, and his two 'beloved idiots'. 

"I said *enough*."

Together they'd managed to convince him of the necessity of *warning* people, of giving time for people to *run*, and saving his energy for threats that mattered instead of whatever annoyed him. Coming out in the open and raising his voice enough to be heard over Aji's rasping groans *probably* counted in his twisted head. 

Later Ajibaldo would claim it was how close he was to blacking out that he failed to see what happened next, though he had the suspicion no one under Captain level could actually *see* movement that quick. He heard one of the morons mutter about having 'fun with the Futa', the rasp of steel leaving it's sheath, and saw his little brother's eyes narrow just slightly. After that was a nearly silent 'shikai' and the air *screamed* with exploding reitsu, wind and pressure blasting the training field. Aji blacked out, still praying the instructors wouldn't be picking up corpses. 






Haikada nearly bit his tongue as he snapped his mouth closed in a tight grimace mid-answer to the teacher's history question. Disregarding the woman's sharply barked demands he grabbed his sword and started running. Class was boring, but Duty demanded he do his best. In this instance, Duty took a backseat to the sudden stangling yank on his soul, the rush of fear for the other halves of his heart. Aji hadn't mastered the art of Soul Threads yet, either manifesting or singling out the bonds that allowed shinigami to warn each other over vast distances. His reitsu tended to center in his fists. 

Haikada understood the theory, he'd practiced enough to be able to *see* the ribbon-like red threads with a calm mind and a lot of effort. Touching them, finding the ones that meant his Brothers...

He broke into a full sprint as the atmospheric pressure over the school took a dangerous nose dive, clear skies crackling with surging ozone, wind rushing into the vacuum fast enough to tear off roof tiles, snap tree branches and flatten unprepared students. He didn't need to look to find the eye of the sudden storm, he could feel it pulling him like a chain anchored in his sternum, the other end drawing tight. 

His eyes picked out the bodies first, since he'd been looking for them. Male, uniformed, young... crumpled boneless and a few at decidedly painful angles that meant broken bones if they were still breathing. Aji, not bleeding but not moving either. he found he was writing a mental casualty report and forced himself to ignore everything but the issue at hand. The bigger issue. 

"Seiko don't you kill him!"

Tinier than anyone in the Academy the only way for the diminutive boy to loom was with shadow stepping, but he'd figured the technique out quickly. An older student, one of the next graduating class and ringleader if Kada could guess, was holding tight to Seiko's slim wrists, and only the strength of his arms was keeping him from sliding into the crossed steel of Seiko's twin feather blades. 

"I told him to stop." Seiko murmured, voice arctic in the eye of his private storm. "He hurt Aji."

"And he will be dealt with, *properly*, according to the *rules* Seiko. We don't kill idiots for being idiots." Haikada left his hand on his blade, but kept his tone even and firm. De-escalation. No one else had a chance of saving the bastard in his brother's grasp which left it to him even if he didn't particularly *want* to. 

"Why not?" From anyone else that would not have been an honest question. From Seiko... Haikada wasn't sure. But he answered honestly because Seiko was his Brother and he didn't lie to his Brothers. 

"Because then we'd run out of *people*. Put him down, don't kill him. We need to get Aji into the clinic." Firm orders, simple instructions, honest answers. A trail of blood ran down the fantastic rippling edge of the shorter blade, but eventually the wind settled down and the terrified fool full of ego fell to the ground with his head still attached. 

"Thank you."

Seiko gave him the long, blank stare he'd somehow hoped would disappear with the application of a warm roof and soft bed, steady food and endless availability of books. 

pegunicent: Default Setting (Default)

Seji takes a lot of care to mix his medicines exactly. The key to a good medicine is preciseness, and catering to the patient. There are of course general things; throat soothers, headache tamers, stomach settlers, that almost anyone can benefit from but those are not what bring people to an apothecary like Seji.

 

“I am a priest, not a healer.” he says often enough as he checks heart rate, temperature and the color of a person's tongue. “I can make you some tea for the digestive issues, but you really need to discuss your diet and possible allergies with a medic.” He'll explain as he gathers various roots and leaves and boils some flower petals, grinding or cutting before wrapping up a bundle of fragrant herbage in paper sheets tied with string. “And there's no tea for a teenager I'm afraid, it sounds to me like he needs to be given some space and time to work out why he's so angry, and maybe a few inanimate objects to abuse. Cutting firewood is always a soothing, productive activity.” And the upset parent will hum and pass over some coins, leave with a bowel that's less cranky and a mind a bit clearer.

 

The bulk of his customers are like this, middle-aged to older civilians living as peacefully as they can in their small sector of the village, producing children who grow up idolizing their shinobi neighbors, and who have the mundane, boring lives of people just trying to get by. Market people, farmers, laundresses and cooks, cobblers and trashmen and great great grannies all come by. He trades relaxing incense for soup bones from the butcher, passes candies to the school kids who bring him scraggly weed bouquets and offers advice to the troubled souls that come in the small hours of the morning, tears staining their faces because the gods don't care.

 

If anyone was asked to describe the man Seji Ashouka to an utter stranger, they'd call him kind, gentle, patient and dull.

 

If anyone asked a shinobi to describe him, the first word would be 'dangerous'. At least if it was a shinobi of any actual skill or intelligence. Ibiki who used 'dangerous' to describe any human he did not know utterly to the atom of their chakra paths, would follow up with 'cunning', 'incredibly skilled and deceptive', and 'Probably ANBU level'.

 

Kakashi, who was an actual if mostly retired ANBU, agreed and felt there ought to be a word specifically for the kind of person who was better at your job than you, but also not doing your job. If there was a word it wasn't yet in any volume of Icha Icha.

 

As a mostly retired ANBU and now hopefully retired instructor of Team Seven, there was no particular reason for Kakashi to be spying on the village's most popular and successful brewer of teas and poultices, except that the Council in their infinite wisdom had made a special and specific position of Instructor for the man, for one Uchiha Sasuke the would-be Avenger. On the surface, and at least a layer or two beneath, Sasuke was supposed to spy on the man, learn everything about him, and finish what previous members of T+I had failed to do which was discover who, what, and how dangerous he really was. Digging down a bit deeper someone wanted Sasuke away from Kakashi for a while, and he had to admit that probably wasn't a completely horrible idea... they were far too similar in some ways and Sasuke was picking up all the skills and abilities Kakashi could teach, but without any of the connections to his team, or his village, that kept Kakashi from going rogue back at that age.

 

Still, assigning the Heir the Uchiha to a lowly civilian priest would put the kid's back up enough he might just go missing-nin for good. At least if he failed to connect the same dots that the Council had. Seji Ashouka had been in Konoha less than a year before the attack of the Fox. He'd been given citizenship by the Fourth directly, under 'refugee' status, and he'd earned the highest honor a civilian could by protecting the entire civilian section of village under a massive chakra Ward that had ended up with him laid out in a coma for a week. Similarly, with the attack from Sand he'd stepped in and powered a Ward to shield half the village from both released Tails, that coincidentally prevented the Snake bastard from escaping until he'd been drained near death of both chakra and blood. Orochimaru unfortunately escaped only missing most of his limbs.

 

Seji's 'house' in the civilian district was a modest two story affair with the main floor being utilized as a work shop and sales counter. The upstairs was relegated to living space. There existed a floored patio instead of a yard to the back that housed an ever increasing army of potted plants, and flower boxes under ever window. There were also wards so powerful and subtle that no whisper of sound, motion or light escaped once activated, inscribed in plaster, wood and stone and bound with blood seals. The man took privacy, and the secrets of his clients, as sacred. Because he was an apothecary as well as a priest, every windowsill and doorway to the outside was lined in a mixture of raw salt crystals and powdered cinnamon. Salt for demons, cinnamon for ants.

 

Whatever the 'gentle', 'kind', 'patient' little priest from Wave Country decided to teach Sasuke, it wouldn't be to be weak or stupid.

 

 

 

“What is that?”

“Unagi. Well, specifically unagi jerky.” Seji waved the scrap of pressed, salted, fishy smelling meat at him invitingly. “It's good for you!”

“No. Thank you.” Sasuke wrinkled his nose and reminded himself that Wave people were weird. “You make fish jerky.”

“I buy it. It's a bit more expensive than deer or hog.” Seji tore a small strip off the piece he held and popped it into his mouth. “If there was more than river fish readily available I might try my hand at smoking, but river fish are better just charred and stewed really. Unless it's salmon.”

Sasuke had never had opinions before on fish, except that they were easy when on mission or in a survival situation to find. Even in Wave he hadn't bothered really paying attention to the cuisine. There was food, he ate it, it may have had more fish than chicken. He did remember a lecture from Kakashi one evening about the cute factor of small animals and how that measured into their nutritional value, but he'd passed most of that off as more bullshit from the master bullshitter.

 

“Is that why you have a cupboard full of seaweed? To mask the fact they're river fish you're cooking?” He asked idly as he continued taking inventory of the small kitchen.

 

“Mmm, no. Not really. It's just a healthy snack and it keeps forever, plus you can cook with it, or in a pinch use it to thicken the base mix of plaster casts and clay poultices.”

 

Sasuke paused and rewound that conversation in his head to make sure he'd heard it right, then went back to the cupboard and double checked the dates on the various boxes. Sure enough not one box was over a year old, and at least one had been purchased only a few weeks ago. As far as the rest of the cupboards went there was a decent collection of pots and pans, an army of cans of vegetables only T+I would consider food outside of a crisis, a small collection of mission rations probably purchased for him, and three small sacks that looked as though they'd never been opened, purchased only because someone said they were a necessity of a kitchen; of rice, flour and sugar. In the fridge was more terrifying fish jerky, a bowl of impossibly small fish fry that had been fried crispy and salted, a jug of milk, a smaller jug of orange juice, and three small brown eggs.

 

“This is everything edible in your house.”

 

“Technically everything in my house is edible, including you and I, but cannibalism is frowned on in polite society.”

 

“You don't even have cooking sake.”

 

“I have almost two thousand ingredients to make teas and lozenges and vitamin supplements... I have alcohol but it's in the laundry room.” Seji shrugged at him, chewing on a long thin fish bone.

 

“Why is your alcohol in the laundry room?”

“Because the club soda is in there to. I keep telling myself I'm going to learn to mix the two one day but.. club soda is good for stains and doing laundry makes me want to drink.” He tossed the bone in the garbage can. “I'm not a good cook. Or house keeper.”

 

Sasuke tried to imagine living off dried seaweed and pressed fish. It made him slightly nauseous. “How have you not died of scurvy?”

 

“There's lots of vitamin C in seaweed actually. Anyway if the Council wanted me to teach you to Adult that way, they really should have done more research on my spending habits.”  

pegunicent: I'm in charge? Really? I thought I was Scape Goat Jesus. (Asylum)
 Hope Feilds Island is a small summer island far from any major log pose. It's main function for the World Government is the housing and training of accepted orphans for elite military programs, and each child has to prove themselves in a battery of tests to even get there. Those that survive to graduation are fully indoctrinated Cypher Pol agents.

Leon Liore was in the same 'class' as Kalifa, Rob Lucci, Kumadori, and the other CP9 agents. Unlike them however, he failed in one key area that no amount of training could overcome. With puberty, came the sickly-sweet scent of an un-bonded Omega.

“Obviously you can't remain here, you'll be a distraction to the rest of the recruits. Don't worry though, there's a facility for people like you as well, you'll have your own training and programs to try for.”

As children, mostly orphaned by pirates and desperate for a better future, they all chose to believe in the quick, casual lies. Before, Leon had been the one who always cheered them up. He was the bright, smiling optimist unafraid to call Kalifa pretty, or tease Lucci to try smiling, or to give Jabra a consoling shoulder to cry on when the next girl didn't want to be friends.

They all chose to believe that they'd meet up again after graduation, in one way or another.

Sommerset Island was a winter Island, clear across the Blue, and only one log pose ever reached it. The Omegas who were shepherded into the laboratory facility were given numbers instead of names, rounds of suppressants and neuro-stimulators, and put into a singular program called 'Betterment'. Some broke in weeks, but subject 104472-LL lasted years. He made friends with everyone, smiled and laughed even when he cried, and never gave up telling stories of how things were going to get 'better'. Gradually he lost his memories, he forgot his name, his past, everything except hope and how to smile.

When Kaku and Kalifa finally discovered where their missing friend was 'stationed', the person they 'requisitioned' was no longer the Leon they knew. He'd been rolled so deep Under he was like a pliable doll. One that responded only to an Alpha's push, and set command lines. When he finally surfaced, everything that occurred when he was Under was lost to his memory. A self wiping assassination machine. Incredibly useful to CP and the military.

CP9 was divided. While they agreed they couldn't allow Leon back into 'circulation' between agencies, actually keeping him in their division and caring for him themselves interfered with their own efficiency. Before a consensus was reached, Spandam brought them a long-term undercover operation to infiltrate a shipyard in search of the plans for the Pluto.

Officially they listed Leon as 'undercover' and gave him strict orders to stay in the bustling Marine port, setting him up as a janitor as his cover. It wouldn't be until almost a year into their mission they would receive word through the post that Fire Fist Ace had attacked the port, burning every ship to the waterline and killing an untold number of Marines. Leon was not among the survivors, and sorting through the wreckage left too many unidentified to be certain...

That day a World Government Bounty became something personal to CP9.  

pegunicent: Default Setting (Default)
Hunter isn't sure about this at all, especially the part with Den-Mate flying the squishy thing to some strange world. The whole journey is nerve wracking and he glares at the insides of his eyelids waiting for them to die painfully. It doesn't help that Den-Mate is so HAPPY to be back in space and throws in a lot of twists and turns and skitter-jumps that make Hunter's insides feel like icy stones in his body.

He has never been so glad for land before, he's sure. He's so grateful to be out of the squishy thing and on solid rock it takes a few moments to realize half the rock is on fire and the other half seems to be a ball of Dark.

“This is where the guidance system pointed us for the trade meet up... what's going on?!” Den-Mate fills the bond with worry and Hunter sends back reassurance.

He doesn't need magic to feel the roiling powers at play, the battle of supremacy that's tearing the small island apart. //LIMIT BREAKING. TERRITORY BATTLE? ALPHAS.// He snorts, lips curling in a sneer at the grasping, greedy feeling that always comes with Dark this potent.

“We're supposed to meet up here... if the island is destroyed I don't know what we're going to do with all these Water crystals!” Den-Mate feels more concerned than a simple trade shipment calls for in Hunter's opinion. With a sigh he sends back a steady purr and grabs his blade.

//DON'T WORRY. WILL SMACK.//

//BE CAREFUL!//

Hunter snorts and grins. It's an impressive display they're putting on... for elementally driven spell work and mid-grade Alphas. Griever's snarls are utterly dismissive. He wades on in with a basic Wall and eyes the two behind all the mess, letting his annoyance fill the mindscape. They're locked fist against fist and so into each other they don't even realize he could kill them both with one shot. //MORONS! STOP MAKING A MESS! PEOPLE LIVE HERE!// He projects as he brings the flat side of his blade down crosswise on both their thick Alpha heads.

Looking down at the dazed and unconscious bodies he sends exasperated chagrin back to Den-Mate. He really had forgotten his strength while shackled by the Druid collar. At least they both seem to be breathing.

 

 

 

Smoker takes one long, deep drag off his cigars after another and tries not to imagine the paperwork he's going to have to write up in the near future. On his right Tashigi is staring through her glasses and obviously trying not to gape at the crater that was Banaro Island, a main trading hub before entering the Grandline.

On his left No Name is a silent, solemn shadow. He'd been the first to hear the reports over the Den Den, and Smoker couldn't begin to guess what the Kenbunshoku Haki Omega was feeling from the half melted and crumbling pile of rocks. He'd been getting quieter the closer they got to the Grandline, training his abilities as though afraid Smoker would abandon him in the calmer seas if he didn't prove his strength.

Stupid of course, half Smoker's crew would flat mutiny these days if something happened to the unassuming mop-boy. Still, some insecurities could only be fought with time and experience. He'd learned that from a certain fire-brand the hard way.

“Find us a safe place to anchor and ready a life-boat to go ashore.”


“What about the townsfolk?” Tashigi asked, indicating the small fleet of fishing vessels waiting just off the coast.


“Depending on what we find, we'll help set up temporary housing, or take them aboard and set off for the next island on the log pose. For now they can wait.” He growled.

“I'm going with you.” No Name's voice was soft, almost a whisper.


“Too dangerous. Teach was reported in the area he might still be there...”


“I'm. Going. Sir.”

Smoker looked, and sure enough while the words were barely loud enough to be heard, the gunmetal eyes trained on the island were hard as Seastone. And as easy for him to fight.

“Fine. It's your head after all.”

pegunicent: Default Setting (Default)
Seiko despises this 'tournament'. Just as he does the entirety of the Makai and the idiot demi-deity who brokered for him to be here. As soon as they stepped through the portal he felt it, the dark energies of Hollows. Not a single, or even a pack, but an entire world comprised of negative energy, and all the creatures that had evolved to thrive there. 

She loves this place. It promises Her endless amusement, limitless strength and constant, overwhelming violence if She can just get past his iron guard. 

"This is a bad place, deza goro yo." Himura murmurs and taps his sword hilt. "The faster we are through this thing, the faster we can go home."

Seiko wonders that his student has so quickly adopted Serietai as 'home'. he'd thought that a few centuries would have to pass before the red-head lost his needy emotions for the human world. Perhaps the responsibilities of captaining Fourth have grounded him to his new existence.
 
"So you guys are like Botan right? Taking the dead on to wherever? Why are you here to teach *us*?" One of their new 'pupils' asks, voice full of the rough arrogance of youth. A minion of Koenma's, like Ichigo a soul with unique and difficult circumstances. Unlike Ichigo, he is no Shinigami, yet. Seiko doubts that one will ever bear another's spirit alongside his own. Still, unique souls are dangerous, unpredictable, so Seiko marks him as one to watch very carefully if he continues to survive. 
 
Aji thankfully knows how to speak 'thug' very well. "Botan? Oh you mean the little oar girl? Naaaaa she's not a Shinigami, man, she wouldn't pass the first week in academy. We are *Gotei* 13! Three captains and a fifth seat from 11th Division which is just as good says *my* captain. We don't ferry people anywhere. We beat their asses for going the wrong way in the first place." he proclaims with a grin. Bright as flame, fierce as eagles, Seiko hopes Aji can temper himself to a minimum of damage. 

//Please don't get hurt Aji. Don't give me an *excuse*...//

"Sometimes we deal with spirits and demons but not often, Koenma's... people are *supposed* to be handling this sort of thing." Haikada's gruff reply is characteristically democratic. Still trying to be politically correct with an insulting edge. "I suppose he got too many of you killed to be efficient any more."

Seiko wants to grin at the stunned silence and rising hostility, the young are so *easy* to rile... but Her voice is too loud, words almost distinct though he's turned his mind as far from Her as he dares. 

Aji shakes his finger, drawing their attention and ire. "So, here we are, ready to give you guys an impromptu education! Pay attention cause we're not gonna repeat anything!"

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

Hiei grunts at Aji's fire. "He's good. Very good. Probably *not* up to the Black Flame yet."
 
"You can't tell?"
 
"Shinigami aren't like demons. They rely on their sword spirits too much for me to tell who's spirit strength is which without using the Jagan."
 
"Interesting. So the sword should be a weak point."
 
He snorted "Sure. As weak a point as stealing your rose whip Fox." They both grin at the memory of the last idiot who tried that and ended up the whips meal.

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

"This one is very sorry to have to hurt you, that he is. This one does not enjoy killing, or causing more pain than needed, so please surrender quickly."

"Captain Himura, stop wasting your breath and aim for the nads, they'll surrender fast enough!"

"That is a vulgar blow!"

"But it works!"

"Only if their genitalia are in the same place, Aji-san. That is not something you can count on with Makai creatures." The tiny girl rebuked lightly from the book she was reading.

"What really?"

"This is why you should read the mission notes Aji-san."

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

He can't block Her words now. Three days of mindless violence, blood shed as a sport for *entertainment*. He tucks himself in close to his companions, tries to focus on their voices and the steady, supportive touch of their hands. Aji plays with his hair, Haikada grips his arm or shoulder, sometimes the nape of his neck. 

Tamashihane tries to drown her out with her own soothing songs. Cool breeze lullabies and the chilling howls of wind through stone. His sword is fond of him, she finds him worthy despite Her presence and he is ever so grateful of that connection. Aji takes most of the fights, it is his gift. Haikada steps in when he decides that it would be prudent to give Aji a rest, or when he wants a particular opponent to live. In chains. Himura volunteers when he is sure he can win with little blood loss at all. 

Seiko they let sit, and read. Sometimes he takes out his kit and patches up whatever has become ripped or bruised, but Himura is the healer, Seiko is there... Seiko is there. She is so. Loud. 

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

"Did he actually *arrest* one of his combatants?"

"There *is* a warrant out for Rikudo..."

"There's warrants out for almost everyone *in* this stadium!"

Koenma rubs his face while the female Shinigami Seiko happily binds the demon up in Kido chains and the announcer's voice fills the stadium.

"Well... uh, that round goes to the... Shinigami... I guess..." A shushed whisper over the microphone to the another announcer makes everyone sweatdrop. "Is taking prisoners *allowed*? It is?!" then louder she continues "Shinigami team are advancing! They're advancing Rikudo... right on out of the arena! Don't get lost guys you have a few more rounds left! Now, our next match up is... team Urumeshi's Kuwabara against Team Gensuo's... Frogget? Frogget!"

"About time I'm up! Semi-finals here we come!"

"Be careful Kazuma-san, they know you're only human."

"So what? I can take on anyone!"

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

The call him by name, he has to fight. He dare not call his blade, Tama is strained enough keeping Her at bay. He must be quick, he must be precise, he must *not* give Her a single negative emotion to use against him. 

"Hello! Thank you for being my opponent today, I will be as merciful as possible!"

Somewhere many souls are either laughing hysterically or shuddering in terror. The creature he faces only grins mockingly from a face built like an alligator. 

"Fight!"

He spins with his hands free and empty, shaping the Kido more with instinct and Will than the actual incantation. Fast, precise. "Disintegrate, you black dog of Rondanini! Look upon yourself with horror and then claw out your own throat!" 

His opponent has no time to escape, the red violence of the spell takes hold of every muscle, paralyzing. Seiko is Force. There is nothing that withstands. 

She screams for more, for blood and pain. She wants him to kill. With a shuddery breath he bows, then walks away with a smile. It's a gritted smile, She is sandpaper under his skin, but he smiles. He can still defy Her for now. 

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

"So she *can* fight."

"Did you really doubt?"

"I wasn't sure. They might have just needed another member. She has been acting as a healer until now."

"That doesn't preclude knowing how to take someone apart."

"True enough I suppose. Though why hold her in reserve for so long? Even if three out of four don't want to kill, and I'm not so sure how true that is, it's suspicious."

"Maybe they're waiting for a big enough target to unleash her on."

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

He makes sure to only use Kido. Kido are teachable, even the demons could learn Kido if they worked at it long enough. 

Himura pulls his hair. It's a dull pain, compared to the one *inside* his head, but it is Himura and that means he's worrying his student and he mustn't do that. Not more than the younger soul can bear. Aji's arm is around him but he has stopped feeling it, his nerves are dulled to anything but pain and he knows this is dangerous because sooner or later he will stop feeling even that. The agony inside will blind him to *every* sensation beyond his mind and leave him a vulnerable, hollow shell She can easily take over. She does not need to convince him, or strike him down all at once, She can wear him down and grind him to dust if She just has enough time. Tama can not hold her at bay forever. 

He uses Kido to buy Tama time, for himself and everyone else alive.

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

"Seiko... you're reading that backwards."

"And upside down deza goro yo."

"It's a challenge." She's too loud, he has to drown her out somehow.

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

"Just stay *down* dezo goro yo!"

"Like *hell*, I can take you old man!"

Kenshin sighs because it is so familiar, he's faced so *many* young men filled with drive and power and rage and always they think they can win by sheer brute force. By being in the *right*. The right has nothing to do with who wins. But it is a lesson he must teach, time and time and time again. 

A lesson he'd had to learn himself, more than once. 

Seiko-sama had been a *thorough* teacher, unafraid to break his student if it meant the lesson was absorbed. In that regard at least he'd been superior to Hiko-sama, who somehow expected an angry teenager to just *grasp* what a grown man had known for so long. Oh if only Hiko-sama had taken him by the scruff so many years ago and *shaken* and refused to let *go*... there would have been resentment of course, and possibly hatred and rebellion, Kenshin was aware enough to acknowledge that, but perhaps lives could have been spared. 

He would not take Yusuke's life, but he *would* show him his own limits. Otherwise he'd be a poor teacher indeed, wouldn't he?

"This one is sorry deza goro. Truly. Ryukansen Kogarashi!"

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

"Urumeshi-san be *still*. Please. You need to rest..."

"Old... hag...."

"There's nothing you can do for her now. Please.... Yusuke.... you need to heal. After you can avenge her."

"Bastard.... cheated...."

"No, Urumeshi-san... no he didn't. He tried very hard to leave you *alive*. He wanted you to *live*."

"Why?"

"I don't know... but I think.... because that was Justice. I'm not sure. Human motives are still a bit strange to me."

"You're more... human... than you... know..."

-sad smile- "No Urumeshi-san. But humans are closer to demons than they'd like to admit."

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

 Aji likes brawling as much as the next guy from 11th, but even he's getting a bit bored of the constant smack down on demons. The guys are decent against themselves, but not all that inspiring facing trained killers. For all the hype that the Makai is full of dangerous feral madman and berserk barbarians intent on cannibalism... the place isn't all that bad. 

He saw the same kind of bloodshed in Rukongai, they were just better at hiding the bodies in back allies instead of scattering pieces all over a sports arena. 

He hasn't even had to pull his sword yet. His fists are working just *fine*. Okay, so they aren't in the final rounds yet, just the semi-finals finishing off the riffraff, but he'd hoped to at least break a sweat. The Spirit Detective and his gang hold their own pretty well, but Aji's not so sure how much they're really *learning*. A tournament isn't the place to *train*, they should be hauling these kiddies back to the Academy for a decade or two but the PTB swear there's no time or maybe no funding....

One thing's for sure they haven't learned *humility*. Himura *said* he was sorry, the twit should have just taken his beating like a man and stayed down!

"Here come the Toguro brothers!"

Those two give Aji the creeps. Something about the way the big one never smiles, and the little one never *stops* just makes his teeth grind. That, and the way they keep giving everyone stare downs like they want to *eat* someone. Aji gets some demons do that but those two *were* human. Gross!

The big one points a finger across the space of the stadium and Aji smirks, feeling the fire in his veins flare up. "You want a piece of this tough guy?"

Except the finger, he realizes, isn't pointed at him. his voice is the only one in the air but the words are lost and meaningless, unheard. 

Seiko flips another page in his book. "Did you know, there's over 900 distinct demon races listed in the Makai census? And that's before you get into clan varieties and inter-marriage offspring? Sadly there's no specific identification class for humans that achieve racial symbiosis. I'll just have to vivisect one and write a paper for the scientific journals." 

There's a cold wind tamping down Aji's fire. His girl shouldn't sound like that. Like she's *enjoying* the thought. 

The rough swell of jeers and cheers and screaming fans is nearly deafening but Aji's too busy worrying to listen.

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

 

pegunicent: Zoro makes the Devil cry (Keep Knocking)

Though Sephiroth grated a bit at leaving his Pet at home, he needed Strife to focus. For whatever reason the other Blondy despite his penchant for *gratuitously* female Pets, had a fascination with Zack that bordered on rude obsession. 

Strife was JENOVA's key breeding program specialist for the betterment of non-Blondy races. While that meant he was shunned in the higher circles for his daily involvement in the slum reproduction center Guardian, he had more knowledge about the workings and runnings of the mongrel populace than nearly any other Blondy. He was the final decider for which males down there were left fertile, and which were sterilized before reproductive age. Many attempts had been made on his life and property, in order to ascertain the lists and criteria filters he used, and to prevent JENOVA's steely grip on the future of the Cere's population. 

Under Strife's guidance, the mongrels of Ceres were steadily loosing their more tedious and unflattering qualities, and the lighter shades of brunette and carmine had flourished to nearly a forty percent mark. It was impossible even for JENOVA to completely prevent unwanted male specimens from making their way in to Guardian, but fewer undesirable products were coming *out* of it. 

Bright blue eyes regarded Sephiroth curiously from beneath nearly golden blond spikes. "General. What brings you down to the labs?"

"A threat to the security of Midas." he replied, ignoring the scantily clad mongrel Pet Strife currently favored. "A terrorist cell known as 'Garden'." 

"Garden?" Strife blinked and stood up from his desk. Though not of Sephiroth's height or build, he was still the best of his generation, intelligent enough for a direct wetware interface and strong enough to bend titanosteel. "You're sure that's the name?"

"It was the name given to me by Rufus, who seemed certain enough."

Strife snorted, idly stroking the long black strands of his Pet. "Well, he would know, wouldn't he? I haven't heard of a *cell* by that name, and I hear all *sorts* of things from the Clans..."

"But you have heard of it." Sephiroth pressed.

"You know of Ceres's 'wealth' don't you?" Strife asked, arching a pale brow. 

Tanagura. The reason Ceres was allowed to exist at all, its only true value in the eyes of JENOVA. Sephiroth tilted his head in acknowledgement of the grotesque lab beneath the city. While he'd never been there himself, he'd read the reports from the likes of Muraki to get a good idea what 'experiments' went on. 

"There's a little song going around the Clans, about Guardian and its Garden. Tifa, why don't you sing it for us?" Strife murmured with a smile that failed to reach the ice in his eyes. 

The female's voice was low and husky, any emotional inflection long beaten or brainwashed out. "Guardian spreads its seeds and roots to make a garden. From the tears and blood shall grow, all the colors of a rainbow. Guardian spreads and conquers with life and death. From the shit and piss shall the blossoms unfurl. Guardian beats and breathes and dies so the Garden will rise."

Sephiroth arched a brow of his own. As far as *music* went it was probably the best a bunch of mongrels could manage, but for a terrorist rallying cry... "You say this is spreading?"

"It's very popular. Makes one wonder if the wealth of Ceres's Guardian isn't being spent inappropriately. None of the Clan's have come forward though, and the Kugars, well they're almost bred right *out*." Strife sighed, pacing a bit. "There's just so *few* breeding females down there."

So, not just mongrels, mongrels that had been 'improved' by the science of the lab. Mongrels that could, perhaps, be so improved as to pass for Blondies? Or, if not that far, to effectively disguise themselves as citizens of Midas. But without PAM's how would they get access into Midas? 

Could a PAM be faked?

"Thank you for the enlightening discussion Strife."

"Of course, anything to help JENOVA's favorite." Strife's smile still didn't reach his eyes. "Next time bring that pretty Pet of yours, I wouldn't mind checking him for compatibility with my Tifa here."

"Perhaps." If ever he needed to *replace* Strife, he'd have to burn everything the Blondy touched. 
pegunicent: Default Setting (Default)
Sometimes in the nightmares he smells burning wood so strongly the campfires the next day make him dry heave. He makes sure he wakes earlier than the others so no one sees. They rustle up well, soldiers must he supposes, but he thinks he beats them all still. The captain is usually last to nod off, the large silver-maned Nord reluctant to sleep with work still to do and without a bottle of mead at ready hand. 
 
Idhronn has smelled the stuff. They claim it's made of fermented honey and water, but he has his doubts. Mostly he doubts there is anything a human would make that *could* be Pact worthy. The captain is a good man though, hard and fair by the elf's reckoning and after those first few frustrating weeks they've reached an accord. The captain requires only his skills, his loyalty, and his actions to the letter of the law. Accommodating Idhronn's religious stipulations is easy enough, and means that the elf is the one bringing in the game he's so picky about consuming.
 
It takes much more game to feed an Imperial unit than a lone wood elf, but Idhronn is one of the best archers in the Empire. He's a Bosmer in his thirties, barely out of the Vale. He still files his teeth to sharp points, and has a rack of fine antlers kept polished and sharp though he knows he'll likely never bother making a true headdress. 
 
 
 
"I have a question about your Qun." The Iron Bull doesn't quite have to strain to hear the words, but he almost asks the Inquisitor to repeat himself anyway. Idhronn of Bosmer doesn't go around *asking* questions when he can let the answers come to him in their own damned time Bull has observed. 
 
"What do you want to know Boss?"
 
"Have any of you ever *spoken* to a dragon? Even in legend?"
 
The Iron Bull blinks and wonders if any qunari was ever so brain dead as to try. They'd likely be culled from the creches and smothered before their insanity had a chance to grow to puberty. "Not to my knowledge Boss, we're not suicidal. Have the Chargers given you that impression? Really, it's just enthusiasm for the battle."
 
"Hm." The elf breathed what could have been a sigh of frustration or sorrow and shook his head, coarse curls shifting behind the pointy ears. "Your language, qunari, it's almost Dhov, so I wondered."
 
"Dhov... Your word for dragon right? Huh." Bull scratched at one horn, pondering that. "The oldest legends say we're descended from dragons, a kind of kin I suppose, hense the horns. Don't really see how that would work though and we've massacred pretty much all the dragons we've come across since." he grinned fiercely. "Those are the Best fights Boss."
 
"A whole race of dhovakin..." Bull's blood tried to head straight for his pants but he forced himself to breathe and walk normally as the tiny Inquisitor murmured to himself, head bent just enough to bare up the lovely bronze nape of his neck. "...but with no history of the Thu'um and your mages can not speak..."
 
"They do plenty of damage anyway Boss, the saarebas aren't to be underestimated." The Iron Bull warned, trying to figure out what was going on in the elf's head. 
 
"With magic, yes. Not with Thu'um."
 
The Iron Bull parsed what he knew about mages, the saarebas, and the Inquisitor and felt a dangerous notion forming. "Never heard of thume. That your word for Lyrium?"
 
"Thu'um is why I am dhovakin." Idhronn replied, in a tone that told Bull the brief conversation was over. Which was alright by the mercenary captain, really, he had a lot to think about. Like how many pieces they'd find the first guy in who tried to gag the inquisitor.
 
 
 
 
The Iron Bull doesn't often need to find his pleasure alone, there are always those willing and adventurous enough to try and ride him if he provides half an offer. Despite that, often times he sleeps alone, more frequently now that he has joined the Inquisition. 
 
Dorian is proving himself a pleasant challenge to break down, but The Iron Bull finds that at least part of him isn't really invested in the affair. A part that has never given him any issue before. He writes his reports to the Qun while absently rubbing at his chest and when he realizes he's tracing the scars there, gives up entirely with a frustrated snort. 
 
The Inquisitor is barely taller than the dwarves working in the forge and half as heavy. Even if Bull could entice him to an illicit encounter, he's not sure he could *fit* and while there's plenty of other ways to go about things... It's not what he wants. It's certainly not what the elf wants.
 
Idhronn of Bosmer is a terrible liar. Bull knows Asala-taar, he was in Seheron. The Inquisitor is healing, slowly, but he carries the scars and Bull knows that at least one of them has a name. A few quick fucks, rough and dirty sex the likes of which The Iron Bull is famous for, won't ease the ache of loss. The elf is looking for someone who *isn't* going to leave him alone again, and Bull can't make that sort of commitment. 
 
Neither can anyone else in Skyhold, except maybe Cole. 
 
When Bull thinks about the Qun, his mind rushes back to that first dragon together. The sound of its wings pounding the air and the rush of its breath as it prepared to flash fry them all, right as Idhronn snarled. The sharp world twisting crack of the elf's voice sang through The Iron Bull's nerves. The power of that sound yanked the lizard right from the sky, where they could lay into it with ax, sword and spell. 
 
He'd been too focused on the fight to bother thinking much about *how* it all happened. Later he wasn't sure what he'd seen or felt. The Qun didn't worry so much about things that couldn't be proven, and until Bull had another Qunari around to tell him he wasn't a maddened pervert... 
 
But he couldn't promise he'd be able to stay after this business with the Veil was done. He was a Ben-hasrath, he would go where he was sent. 
 
Maybe though... he could convince the touch starved and lonely elf to throw in his lot with the Chargers when it was over. He'd even offer to still call him Boss in private.
 
 
 
 
"So what's with the wolf and bear talk?" The Iron Bull asks Cole, because it's been bugging him a bit and the spirit child is *there*, strange and incongruous and making Bulls horns itch. 
 
Pale eyes peer at him from under the shade of Cole's hat. "They don't like you." 
 
Bull arches a brow. He knows he doesn't get along with Everyone, but so far no one in the Inquisition has been bold enough to come right out and tell him where to shove his ax. "Because I'm a Qunari spy?" 
 
Cole carefully relocated the spider he'd caught in Leilana's rooms to a bare tree branch. "They trust you to take care of him, so they rest, but the bear doesn't like sharing. He doesn't like the way you look at him." 
 
"I haven't seen any bears around to be looking at kid, but I *would* be staring if one found it's way into the hold without ending up a rug,"

"The way you look at Idhronn." Cole says, tone never changing from his slow, soft acceptance. It's a tone Bull associates with the dead and dying. "He wants Idhronn to be happy, he doesn't like that you help. I've tried to talk to him, but he always fades when I get too close."
 
"Wait." The Iron Bull thinks he ought to be commended for not going straight for a drink at the idea trying to hammer it's way into his head, but he *is* standing in front of a Spirit possessing the corpse of a murdered mage. "You're saying that the inquisitor is being *haunted* and the ghosts have opinions on how the elf should conduct his life?"
 
"Yes." Cole seems surprised that Bull is surprised, in as much as Cole seems surprised by everything else a body and people present to him. 
 
Mages are closer to the Veil of course, they have to deal with the Fade in their dreams and demons whispering in their ears but while Bull had nightmares enough of some strange malevolent power taking control and destroying him from the inside out, the *dead* had never given him much worry as long as their bodies weren't still shambling around. Now he was going to wonder how his employer kept anything like sanity at all. 
 
 
 
The Inquisitor didn't often slow *down*, much less stop whatever he set about doing just because one of his advisers got in the way. They were there to *advise* and Idhronn listened. When he felt like it. The Iron Bull respected that. The Qun chose their leaders based on who could make the hard decisions and live with them for the better of the Qun. The Inquisitor's decisions were for the better of the *world*, and the elf wasn't afraid to make the hard calls. 
 
All the same he wasn't a complete hard *ass*. It wasn't like Bull had set out to eavesdrop, but since he was in the best location anyway...
 
"Herald..."
 
"You're doubting yourself. People are not arrows, you can't just make more of them when you need them. You did the right thing, ordering retreat."
 
"At what cost to the greater good?"
 
"There is no 'greater good' at the price of wasted blood. It's all well and good to *pray* for guidance but the choices are still your own to make. This was a good one."
 
"....Thank you."
 
"You're welcome, now stop looking at me like I have all the answers. I'm just an elf."
 
"You're not 'just' anything, High Inquisitor Idhronn of Bosmer."
 
"Hmph."
 
Yeah, Bull respected the guy for making the hard decisions and standing by them, but he was also glad those hard decisions weren't played out like some nobles chess game. The elf didn't just see the larger picture, but all the little detailed pieces that made it up. If he decided that Bull and the Chargers were going on a suicide run, he'd do it because there just wasn't any other option to save the world, and that warmed a bit of The Iron Bull's heart. Among other body parts. 
 
 
 
 
Taking care of the Inquisitor during his 'glut' was far more educational than Bull had first presumed. He'd figured the elf would be completely vulnerable, which was the leading cause for him to force himself to forego the entire thing as long as possible. The second main reason being he'd be completely *useless* for at least four days and who knew what would cause the entire place to fall apart around his pointy ears when that happened. 
 
The Iron Bull hadn't been sure even on the day of the feast come competition that he'd get the elf to agree. The Inquisitor liked him, respected him, took him out to hunt down dragons and drank with the Chargers frequently but he still didn't seem to *trust* anyone. Not that much. 
 
Except, apparently, he did. Or the sight and smell of all that meat had finally tipped the scales of perpetual starvation and the elf couldn't restrain his own hunger anymore. Only Bull had seen Idhronn face down demons so his own stomach couldn't have overridden his brain that much. He was trusting The Iron Bull to be the body guard he'd claimed, to watch over him and keep him safe and above all *not* try to subvert him and manipulate him for the Qun while he was defenseless and pliable. 
 
The Iron Bull was many things, but even he found the idea of breaking the powerless to be disgusting. He had a lot of things to think about, a lot of feelings to categorize and put in their place about the tiny archer and those four long days gave him the time and opportunity while he watched the soft distended belly slowly contract, the dark brown flesh bulk and fill out as muscle and fat layered themselves over the thin bones. The Inquisitor is a confusing guy.
 
He's scarred from a long life of dragon hunting and who knows what, the skin of his back is a slick waxy mantle shades lighter than the rest. It could have been dragon flame, but for a hint of curling green vine near the elf's sharp hip bone. The Bull knows a thing or two about removing identifying marks. There's a few easier ways to do it of course, than have yourself flambe'd. At the very least the elf could have used a decent healer on hand to make sure his range of motion didn't end up compromised by the scar tissue. 
 
He burrows under the blankets even as he rages fever hot, like he's forgotten what it means to be warm. Besides the bone beads woven into his hair and the ring on his thumb of antler, the elf sleeps naked. Mostly naked. A leather cord holds a ring about his neck, usually hidden and safe. Its sized to fit the thin fingers, of a dark red banded metal Bull first thought was stone. There's no engravings, no sign it's ever been worn. Archers rarely wear jewels on their hands of course, the thumb ring is a means to protect from the biting tension on his bowstring. 
 
It's a mystery, that band of metal. One that The Bull thinks might end up unraveling more than just a tragic story. 
 
 
 
The Bull sighed as low growls and a frantic female voice rapidly uttering apologies came over the courtyard. He liked Sera, wouldn't mind having her in the Chargers if she could learn to take orders. Her pranks were hilarious, and Idhronn actually unbent from his savior of the world stoicism to laugh and play merry havoc with her on occasion which could only be good for the elf's blood pressure. However, sometimes she failed to plan for just how pissed her victims would be and when it was the Inquisitor....
 
"Where. Is. It." 

"I'm sorry, geeze, it's hidden in your room I swear I didn't *take* it I just hid it!"

"WHERE?!"
 
Boss sounded fit to kill, which meant that he was a few hairs short of blasting someone off the mountain. Bull couldn't remember ever hearing that tone out of the Inquisitor and hoped they wouldn't loose anyone they couldn't spare. 
 
 
 
 
Holding the trembling form close, Bull stroked over dark hair the way he would a wounded animal. Whatever terrible magics he'd wrought on the apostate, they'd very nearly broken him. Idhronn of Bosmer was no frail mage to collapse after a battle. Then there was the screaming to consider. 
 
Cole had made himself scarce after Bull's growl. The spirit child had been part of the mess, Bull didn't trust him not to see Mercy in ending Idhronn's pain forever. 
 
The elf lay tucked under Bull's chin, wrapped tight in the warmest, furriest blanket the Qunari had. At full sprawl he'd still resemble a sea star latched onto a whale, but now Bull's mind ran more to the image of abandoned kittens. 
 
The hitched, wrecked sobs had died down leaving the copper cheeks tear stained and blotchy. 
 
Stroking slowly over Idhronn's tense back, The Iron Bull made a discovery that set his already foul mood nearly murderous. Beneath the waxy sheath of warm scars, his callused fingers felt two long, deep pockets. The kind of fluid filled hollow muscles made when they'd been torn apart and not stitched back together. Trying not to pay any more attention to them than the rest of the elf, he casually and carefully mapped them out. Beneath the shoulder blades, four inches or so long, bone deep if he had to guess. The Ben-Hassrath knew what made wounds like that, and why. 
 
Someone, at some point, had put *his* boss on meat hooks and let him hang like a waiting roast. 
 
 
 
Tal-Vashoth. Cut loose and left to run wild, of no use or importance. The Iron Bull lived for the Qun and without it... he still had the Chargers. He still had a duty to the Inquisition, and one stubborn, confusing, frustratingly enticing elf in particular. The Inquisitor wasn't much for giving orders but when he did Bull felt something settle in ease. 
 
He may not have the words and faith of his people to fall back on anymore, but he had Idhronn of Bosmer to guide his way and if the guy was reluctant and uncomfortable as the Herald of Andraste, he was still the best damned leader they had. Without the Qun to provide a sense of order, Idhronn is all that stands between Bull and madness.
 
Bull had followed him into the damned Fade after all. He'd do it again if called to. Who needed the Qun for purpose, when he had men to lead and a feral, beautiful, terrifying elf to follow?
 
 
 
The green and gray woolen coat hugged the Inquisitor's trim form, the leather pants cut tight enough Bull could tell which way the elf hung without said coat in the way.  The painted vasselin was strange, kept catching Bull's eyes and making him frown. He was used to seeing the elf serene, or smiling that dangerous little smirk that bared so many sharply filed teeth. Dolled up and poised, he seemed more like a prop than a person. 
 
"Boss. You look good."
 
"How are you a spy, you're a horrible liar." Idhronn muttered, clawed toes wriggling in his open toed heels. They added a whole inch to his height and put him still at Bull's sternum. 
 
"Aww Boss, don't be like that. The makeup is a bit much but otherwise you're very pretty." Bull grinned at the flick of thin fingers telling him to do something physically improbable. 
 
 
 
 
He's never felt possessive over a lover before. Of course, he's also never *thought* of them as a lover, as opposed to a friendly bit of fun or a target for seduction. What he feels for Idhronn is closer to the tangled emotions he has for his men than any mark for his bed. Protective, defensive, and proud, but with a charge of animalistic lust and the primitive draconic urge to *hoard* the elf. He found himself dreaming of tight leather straps and locked doors when he went to bed sober enough. 
 
Those were the dreams that had him waking up hard and leaking, imagining hot hard hands like a vice on his dick and a voice whispering power straight into his blood.



Idhronn's slight weight only makes Bull more aware of the elf's position on his lap. 



"Qunari do not marry." It's not a question, even in tone, but Bull knows what the Inquisitor is asking. Ever since the debacle with Sera hiding his ring, the elf has been pensive and snappish. The Iron Bull gets it, Idhronn was starting to trust, to let himself really get attached to the unlikely band of followers called the Inquisition, and now he's back to thinking maybe living alone in the cold desolate mountains was the better idea. 

"Nah, that's not our style. Doesn't mean we don't have the same kind of feelings, but the Qun comes first. Besides, marriage is supposed to be about raising kids right? That's the Tamassran's job." Waving his mug for a refill, The Iron Bull watched the elf sip at the gruesome concoction he'd pulled down from a secret stash in the Skyhold rafters. Rotmeth, Idhronn called it. To Bull it looked like something scooped from a latrine and smelled like a mass grave packed into a pickle jar. 

"How do you tell the other person how you feel then, if not with a ceremony?" 

Bull shrugged. "Screw them through the floor a few times and say it?"

"Says the professional liar." The elf was quirking that smile that didn't meet his eyes and Bull laid odds he was thinking about who ever he'd buried wearing a matching band of red banded metal. 

The Bull grinned as Krem's favorite barmaid (and thus the only one Bull was reluctant to lure in for a tumble) swished over and refilled his mug with a wink. Krem had excellent taste of course, pretty polite thing didn't even bat an eye or wrinkle her nose at the Inquisitor's fermented sepsis. "Want a bottle of mead Inquisitor?"

"Not tonight, thanks."

"No problem, you need anything just wave me over okay?" She managed not to ruffle the elf's hair, but it looked like a near thing before meandering over to the next rowdy table. 

"To answer the question you're not really asking there Boss... we have something of a tradition ourselves. More private than what you guys get up to I guess." The Iron Bull drank down some of his ale and leaned back in his chair casually. "When we want to tell someone they're our Kadan, we go out, hunt down a dragon, take one of its teeth and split it in two. Then we give half to the person we want to know is at the center of our chest. It's not a promise or anything, just a reminder, something to hold onto when you have to go your separate ways." 

The inquisitor seemed to ponder that over as he drank, quiet as ever in the chaotic company of the Chargers. After he'd eaten and chewed about half his pickling jar he gave Bull a look that called pure nugshit. "I think you just want me to take you after another dragon."

Bull let himself laugh uproariously, because it got the elf to finally smile and *mean* it. "Well I'll never turn *that* down Boss!"
pegunicent: Default Setting (Default)
 Sydney is working on his homework (Roosevelt's first term in reflection) when the Young avengers descend on the Tower. He idly note's their progress through the community kitchen and 'den' while highlighting a passage about the 'pit of proposed taxation' the famous president had set forth. He's AFK on the joint modded server he shares with Boro, Ash and a few of their selected friends. He's helping one of them stress test the server by keeping the most particle heavy chunk loaded. 

Teddy and Billy are not so much hanging on each other as propping each other up, exhausted and stressed. They take up one of the love seats and promptly curl into each other the way of the emotionally bruised. 





He is not what they want in a Padawan. He is not easily calmed, he does not accept their rhetorical answers; little pleasures are not reward enough nor extra chores punishment enough to stop him thinking. Questioning. Fighting. 

He runs away from his lessons often. He hides from the creche minders and basks in sunlight filtered through smog and cloud bank. He ruins his tunics with dirt and green plant stains whenever he can find something growing strong enough. 

They sheer off his hair, trim away his claws and lose pair after pair of shoes that he tosses out the tower windows. 

He refuses to acknowledge the name they give him. He is more than a string of round vowels and hard consonants. His name is a reflection of himself, and he finds it in the harsh, soothing growls of Shri-Wook. 

He is not what they want, but they are not what he *needs* either, and until the day a man smelling of death and sour sickness and Force comes through the creche. The Force sings around him, even as the air gets fouler and fouler. When neither the man nor the care takers seem in any mood to do something *about* the stench, he does the honors himself of giving the man a bath from the vase of Alderan lilies. 

This is how he comes to know Knight Auron, who shows him the truth of what it means to be a Padawan and a Jedi. He is fearless and wild compared to his creche siblings. Reckless, impulsive, *animalistic*. He is more than they desire in their city-planet but he is still a Jedi. 

He is Hope. 






Her parents were sensible people, in a sensible town in a country known mostly for its goats, rope and weavers. Her sisters wove rugs from wool and made cheese from goat milk while her brothers herded the goats and hunted rabbits and foxes. 
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