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The Shadow of the Serpent - Celtic-Medieval role-play. (Interest Check)

OOC:

[So I'd like to write this Celtic-Medieval story about Nathair and Aoife, two warriors of a Celtic-Irish clan who're about to undergo a radical change in their lives. I will be playing Nathair and you would play Aoife (and you're welcome to change her name/or represent her however you'd like! My prompt is only there to set the stage).

As you can likely tell from the story so far, Nathair's brother is planning to oust Nathair from the clan. It's likely the story will lead into a political-military struggle where Nathair goes to live with his Uncle following his banishment (in which Aoife will join him). From there, the plot remains fairly open. The end goal would be for Nathair to get revenge on his brother/retake control of the clan, but the struggle will be whether or not Nathair can come to terms with fighting one of his own family members for the prize.

tl;dr: "Us against the world/ride or die" plot set in a medieval/realistic landscape with hints of Celtic lore, magic, and light fantasy elements (dreams, prophecies, seers, animal spirits, ghosts, etc). Bravery/honour/clan are the core themes. Aoife serves as Nathair's rock.

You could represent Aoife as a huntress, warrior, or sorceress, I don't really mind provided she cares for MC and treats him like a good friend from the very beginning!

This' a very strong, grounded, worldly plot. I would really like to include a lot of Celtic elements: whether it is druidism/folklore/or rituals, etc. I see Nathair as being hesitant to step into his role as leader of the clan and Aoife being his catalyst. She would perform rituals around him to invoke his ancestor's spirits and together they'd become a power-couple. So I see it as a bit of a Saga. Like History Channel's "Vikings" or something. Our characters would be represented in different stages of their lives, starting from when they're quite young. e.g. Nathair could be 18 here and Aoife might only be a little older. Keeping in mind that people came of age a lot sooner in these times, so they've already been classified as adults for a few years. This would really be their transformative period where they find themselves or die trying.

Thanks! Leave a comment or message if you're interested!]

The Shadow of the Serpent - Celtic-Medieval role-play. (Interest Check)

The kindred mountains speak in whispered tongues about the man called "Nathair," born of the snake in the Celtic language. Since birth, he has stood out among his three brothers for his bravery and cunning. At ten, called to war, he led a charge on a neighbouring village when seasoned warriors would not take the risk. He claimed three ears that day and has since become a man. Now he stands on his father's council, addressing the matter of his brother's initiation into Chieftaincy. But even as the mountains still whisper of betrayal, his friends begin to arrive to take part in the aonach. One of them, a young woman and good friend of Nathair's since childhood, sees the warning signs in the bitter smoke and intends to alert Nathair of the coming storm...

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"Alas, perhaps I am cursed. After all, there is little honor in striking down your own brother..." — Nathair to Aoife.

◢▬▭▭▭▭▭▬▟ 𖣂 ▙▬▭▭▭▭▭▬◣

Nathair awoke from a bad dream. He was abed in his family's long hall. He turned over restlessly and heard his uncle and brothers snoring in the adjacent stalls. It must have still been early morning, for the cracks in the walls were dark. He reached up and wiped the sweat from his face, then thought back to the vision that had disturbed his sleep.

He and his brother had been talking in the barley fields. They had been but children. Nathair had mentioned to him how his dream had always been to cross the isles and see the lands of the English and Scottish and perhaps marry a Scot bride and inherit a castle. Perhaps then he could retire a great warrior and be spoken of in the ballads, like Cú Chulainn. His brother had listened whilst playing with the head of a javelin they'd found down by the brook. They carried it as a token of their friendship. The gae was made of bronze and shone half-green in the sunlight. His brother had frowned whilst he told him about his hopes and dreams. Then once his back was turned, he'd felt a sudden pain in his left shoulder, and he'd turned about to see his brother standing there--a grown man, looking down at him with the illest contempt. He thought he heard the words: "We can't both be the heroes of our clan, Nathair." Though he wasn't sure. He had awoken to a stiff banging on the doors of the hall, and the dream had become muddy in the way that dreams often did when they were too frightening and unsavoury to remember....

Bundling himself into his léine and brat, Nathair dragged himself out of bed and made his way over to the doors and keeled them open. A low song greeted him--drunk and gay--and he saw his three friends standing there. Rían, Tahdg and Aoife; each none-too-sober and all of them mud-speckled from travel. They grinned when they saw him and came inside, embracing him around the shoulders.

"Ready for the aonach are you?" Rían said, whispering so as not to wake the hall.

"As ready as I can be under the circumstances. It's not often your brother becomes Chieftain," Nathair replied sheepishly. He then laughed as Tahdg passed him a horn of ale and bundled himself around the fire. Nathair stoked the flames for them all, and they got settled around the hearth where bulbs of garlic and dried perch hung from the shelves.

"Bah! It should've been you, Nathair. The bloody line of succession is a beggar's prize. You might as well challenge him to a game of steel and take the title for yourself," Rían said as he tossed his wool cloak over an empty hook. He then rubbed his hands together and came and joined them.

Nathair smiled grimly and tried not to think of the dream. He could've sworn Aoife was watching him carefully. She'd had a sort of restless energy about her since entering the hall. Her eyes often sought his, and she hadn't yet removed her warm things. He avoided her gaze deftly and tried to focus upon his cups. When she saw this, her hand came and settled upon his knee. "Is something the matter, Nathair?" she said, as if she could yet see the dream playing out in his mind.

"Strange dreams," was all he said, giving her a reassuring glance and a feigned smile. That did not reassure her any and he could tell as much. In fact, it only seemed to unsettle her further. She looked longly into his eyes, as if she could sense his apprehension and darkening mood, and even with Rían and Tadhg making arses of themselves, her eyes never left his.

"We should talk," she said eventually, and he sighed wearily as she stood up. He knew she would pester him all morning if he did not come along. And with a glance across the room, Aoife hinted him to come with her and leave the fire behind....

My space.

///

My space.

Raymond lay there kissing Reni on the fingertips. She giggled. She giggled each time he did it, looking right up into his eyes from down on her back with her hair tied into twin pigtails in a quasi-ironic bid at the fact she was his "baby." She was not his "baby." She was twenty five years old. Yet sometimes they liked to play at this. He would slump around the house in a too-large t-shirt and baggy jeans and no socks and cook her food and she would hug at his leg and ask him to feed her and he would shove strawberry toast into her mouth. She would gulp and say muffled words around it, something to the tune of "thank you," but it would usually sound more like "sausage."

Now and then they'd drift around the garden, always with her holding his hand. If she was not holding his hand she would say: "Raymond, why aren't you holding my hand?" And it would sort of go on like that for several minutes until he did, in fact, hold her hand. She was apparently a sucker for hand-holding.

Now and then she'd stand by the gnome. Upon standing by the gnome, Raymond would groan. He'd say, "Please, Reni, not again--" and yet she'd look him dead in the eye and shout: "I'm a gnome!" And then she would refuse to leave that spot.

"Gnomes don't walk!"

"Gnomes don't talk!"

"Gnomes don't leave the place you put them!"

Until eventually he'd scream (of course): "You're not a gnome!?"

And it would sort of go on like that with the two of them refusing to believe one another. She would say in an exacerbated tone how she could've been a gnome in a past life, and Raymond would groan. He would swipe his hand across his face and sort of look at Reni like she was completely mad. Then she'd simply smile at him prettily and he'd forget all about how annoyed he'd been at her and they'd go on walking through the garden.

Sometimes they'd go down to the stream, and in a rare show of very real intimacy they would sit down on the bank and hold one another. She would lay her head against his chest and sigh about how tired she was from work, and how Mr. Peddler was bothering her again. And her small hands would spread across his chest, taking kitten-licks at his hair. And something would bumble from her lips to the tune of: "I love you..." And he would simply roll his chin against her hair. She would then say: "Say I love you..." to which he'd quickly utter: "Love--" and she would cut him off with: "Not as much as I do."

Sometimes it would rain, and Reni would cry for hours.

These short inescapably lonely moments were the upheaval of his heart. Reni would stand in the garden watching as the rain washed away the end of the garden for perhaps the third time that month. All the plots she'd worked so hard to cultivate would once again slide into the stream. He had tried to build rocks to make a more sturdy landscape, but in all honesty the garden just wasn't meant for it. The hill was simply too steep and the river too wide and--well, Reni wouldn't accept it. She had grown plants at the top of the garden and she longed for a square hedgerow of little apple trees and nice little hedges. But all she had was a sloping, muddy view of a stream; and she would lie against his chest sobbing and sniffling and watching as all her hard work was washed away. In his pity and genuine defeat he would hold her close and tell her everything would be okay. They would try again, even though it was the third time that month.

Sometimes they would make love. Hotly, mostly in the middle of the night. In the night they were adults. He would wake up to her on the couch and feel across her socks and she would stir, murmuring simple words to his voice as he breathed hard into her mouth. He was relentless; a soft stroke of her nipple or a gentle touch of her womanhood and she would open up to him. And soft and wet, he would put himself inside her; and then her eyes would half-open and she'd stare up at him heavy-lidded as he made love to her. Always the same. With his hands about her cheeks and his lips claiming her mouth. They always came. Both.

You see there is a love so elegant and pure out there in the world that sometimes all you have to do is be truly honest with the one you love and there is a hope that if they are the one they will accept you. That no matter the topic or the complicatedness of your spirit if you truly belong together then they will understand. That was Reni and Raymond. He was lazy and unkempt and passionate and creative. She was strict and worried and sweet and well-organized. They fit each other like a glove yet seemed like complete and total opposites. Sometimes when they were out people thought they were best friends until they kissed; and it was not odd or unusual, it was simply love. They were comfortable enough to be around each other with or without romance but they were always better for it. Their house was a little orange house at the end of the lane and they lived in it for many years and Raymond painted all the time in the basement. Remi went to work at the local shop and was by all accounts a florist. He painted landscapes and she worked weddings. They were unmarried, but very much in love, and their friends were musicians and artists; sometimes photographers and sometimes students. More often university professors or teachers from the local schools. In quiet moments, Raymond often checked himself and wondered how he could be so lucky, and thought he perhaps didn't deserve someone as sweet and loving as Reni. Reni mainly worried. Worried for Raymond, worried for herself, worried for the garden; but she never thought that she belonged with anyone else other than him. To her, Raymond was a certainty. A part of her life that she never questioned nor doubted. She loved him in an inescapably pure way that was to her, over and done with. She was simply waiting for him to propose and realise it himself. In all likelihood, she would be the one to propose. She would do it on a hot summer's day, perhaps during a picnic, and present the topic as something airy and ill-thought of.

"Raymond. What do you think about us getting married?"

"Well I think it a lot of fuss?"

"Yes but don't you think we should, for our parents?"

"What? For them and not for us?"

"Well we could do it for us."

"Now that's a thought...."

And then he would slowly smile; and she would slowly smile. And then she would sit there with her feet out in front of her, curling her toes whilst licking at her icecream, quite unable to take her eyes off've him. He would then grin in that cocksure way he often did and lean back on his elbow like the Buddha; and in her madness and elatement she would suddenly leap at him, throwing away her icecream as she landed upon his lap.

"Truly!?" She'd beg.

"Truly."

"You wouldn't joke about it would you...? Oh! That would be so cruel!"

"I wouldn't joke you. Not about this. Not ever."

She would press her kitten lips to his like the final notes of a piano score. She would stare into his eyes longingly; her pupils like small black pebbles waiting to be rescued from a shallow pond. She would breathe and her lungs would seize and she'd wait for him to give her one last breath; and then they would be married.

Reni collected herself and sighed. She was arranging flowers in Mr. Peddler's shop. She put a stop to her imagination and ceased to let it run wild.

Those were her hopes. Her girlish hopes for the future; that she might one day marry Raymond, that they might one day be husband and wife. That they might go to honeymoon in Spain and she would see the bullfights and festivals and have sangrias like Hemingway out on the Mediterranean. She wished to transform. To no longer be a girl but a woman. To have a ring on her finger and answer only to him, her peers and definitely not her parents. She arranged the flower basket still. It seemed to need a lot of arranging. Then suddenly she heard Mr. Peddler calling and she let out a hurried sigh. "Coming...!"

If only Raymond would notice...

1x1. MxF. Action. Cyberpunk. Dark Victorian. Taboo. Historical-Fantasy.

Bump.

My space.

It's raining tonight.

The garage was made up of four walls and a steel skeleton for jacking up cars. There was a tool cabinet and the chassis of an old Volkswagen Beetle in there. He was dressed in a baggy grey t-shirt and black sweats. She was in a tight crop-top and matching black leggings. They both wore sneakers; hers red and white, his green and blue.

He took her hand and lightly led her around the garage. She kept up, postured, but kept looking at his shoes. She couldn't help but stare at his movements; she'd never seen them before.

''Look at my eyes,'' he said, indicating at himself.

She raised her eyes and did so.

They started again. He took her hand and led her around the garage. She kept up, postured, staring at his eyes. They were in sync. He led her around the car, then turning with her hand, guided her to slip beneath his arm.

She struck back, bending at the waist; and dipping herself into a dive, allowed the breath to leave her lungs. Then, taking her by the hand, he pulled her back into him.

They started moving with each other around the garage, in and out, back and forth, slipping in and out of each other's arms; her in a tight black vest which showed her abs, him in a grey t-shirt that was slightly too baggy for his heavy build. He ran his hands up and down her as she wove around him. He was the pole; she was the dancer. She would coil her legs up around his hard body and dangle from him, sliding across the concrete with her fingernails. She would skim dirt. She would let her teeth show past her too-thick lips as she concentrated on the music. He would step into her, then force her to bend; and she would bend for him and weave with her hips, moving with the beat.

They came together and she pressed herself back against him. She ducked and wove with her hips beneath his groin; and him, tight-lipped and shaggy-haired, moved with her. His hands slipped up on her. She cast them away. Then he grabbed at her, and she cast him away. She stepped back and twirled three times—twirled—and on each twirl met him in the eyes. He stood there, thoughtful, then when the beat resumed, he came after her.

She slid over the bonnet. He moved along it, wrestling it with his hands. She sat on top of the car. He went to climb it. She put out her foot and set it to his chin; and stunned, he rolled his face against it. The two of them slid onto their backs along the car, panting.

Then when they were ready, they got up again. Her sliding down the bonnet; him pushing off it. He came after her.

Against the door. Against the corner-wall. He looked into her eyes as she stood helpless up against it, staring into his eyes. Then beneath his arm she went, rushing, hitting the tool-case on the sheath-rack and making it all rumble. He lifted a heavy wrench into his hand. She saw it and grabbed at a trash can, throwing it in his way; and putting his foot up on it, he shoved it aside and hissed.

She let out a restless little rasp as she turned towards him, cornered inside the car door which she'd pulled open to throw herself behind. And like that, they both stared at each other—him weighing the wrench in his hand. She let her eyes simper, and he leaned in slowly, clenching the rung of the door. She looked at his lips—then staring for half a moment, she slipped into the back of the car.

The music continued as he got in after her. He pulled the door closed and locked them both in. Then a moment later, through the back windows, her hands spread like butterfly wings on both sides, feathering the air. Then it was her and him in the back seat, wrestling with each other. Her on top, turning her head away from him towards the wing mirror to fix her makeup—then it was him in her neck, pretending to kiss on her as she fixed her hair.

They moved to the front seat. Him driving, her talking at him. But he wasn't looking. He was just glaring into the wing mirror while pretending to turn the steering wheel; and a moment later, she shook her head and got out of the car.

She mimicked yelling at him. He staggered out of the car, banging on it with his fist. And kicking at the dust of the garage, she walked towards the end of the garage with her arms crossed, pouting in annoyance; and sighing, he hung in the car door with his head down, panting. His eyes searched the wing mirror. His gaze grew dilated and heavy.

Then restlessly, he sighed. Because she was feeling up his stomach from behind. She'd walked all the way around the car and started to touch his abs. He grew very still. Her hands clutched the hard muscles of his chest, then spread out across his biceps, caressing the hard veins in his arms; and him, standing, turned and went to face her furiously—but she just went toe-to-toe with him as he forced her to back up.

They walked like that through the garage, her hands inside his shirt, his feet scuffing up dirt. She got him all the way to the tool cabinet, which she bumped into. Then staring heavily into his eyes, she glared him into submission. And staring down at her, he lifted his hand up and delicately touched her face. She melted, easing into the tool cabinet; and taking his hand in both of hers, she shoved it up against her face... then sighing, she pulled him along.

They began dancing again, but this time, more slowly. She guided him around. She wore him down. She took his hands and put them on her stomach to hold her; then against the car bonnet, she made him sit down. And over his lap she dipped her back and hung there in his arms as he swept her at a 90-degree angle. A sharp crescent. She sprawled with her hands, swiping them over her head, letting herself be tossed. And then at the end of that crescent, he lifted her up heavily into his arms; and she hung her arms around his neck.

For a moment, they both just sort of looked at each other. And with his hands on her waist, he held her there, staring back at her silently, his lips very thin. She then hesitated, and leaning over his lips—

She didn't kiss him, and neither did he kiss her.

''Thanks. See you next time,'' she said, breaking the spell. She then got out from under his arms and ran towards the end of the garage, slamming the door behind her.

He slipped off the end of the car, then went and threw a sweat towel around his neck. A moment later, he stood there, deep in thought. Then shaking his head, he took his car keys and stepped outside, cursing.

"... What is it with this girl?"

My space.

To tell you the truth,
The peace is broken by the bitterest shade
The sun shining down fades to grey
I know now that I'm no starlit son
That my crystals have all ran dry
Bled out, like cracked tourmaline, foaming-white
All my darkness has ended this rite
There's no potion for my pain
Only shrines of black magic and wretched lines
I draw with chalk, but the Gods don't answer
My meditation provides no sweet ties
To the demon inside
So let me burn, let me burn

1x1. MxF. Action. Cyberpunk. Dark Victorian. Taboo. Historical-Fantasy.

Still looking.

My space.

THE SLAYER

Lorcan opened his eyes and stared at the stillness of the cellar. He had been thrown awake, and yet he felt no sense of drowsiness as he quickly scanned the room, sensing something was wrong.

A brief inspection revealed that the gravedigger was gone. The cellar door had been thrown wide open, and yet Margrave was sleeping soundly in her cot. He turned himself over and frowned, looking at the hearth. The flames were smoldering and only a small bundle of wood remained. The room felt unnaturally cold, and he noticed that the dripping had stopped.

Turning over in the bed, he put his legs down on the floor and wondered what time it was. Then glancing at the hallway, he saw that the dark light had faded from the end of the hall. The way to the Iron Keep was steeped in darkness. He could not see more than a foot beyond the kitchen door.

‘’What’s going on?’’ He whispered.

Standing, Lorcan limped across the cellar, frowning vaguely at the hearth. He then knelt down to break up the last bit of kindle. In moments, the fire was going stronger; and the darkness of the room lessened somewhat. Then he heard a scuffle behind him, and he turned his head to welcome the gravedigger back to the cellar.

''You’re just in time. It was about to go out. I hope you fetched some wood—'' Lorcan started, then felt his voice catch in his throat.

A man stood in the hallway. Though it wasn’t the gravedigger. It wasn't like any man Lorcan had ever seen. His hair was curly, lapping against his cheekbones, the colour of fire, and his eyes were red-rimmed and severe as he stared at the hearth. All he did was stare at the hearth, though his hand groped at the corner of the kitchen door introspectively. His fingers were long and sensuous. Very pale, with sharp nails and muscular veins rippling across the knuckles. He moved with ancient, primordial grace as he slipped into the room, almost like a serpent, and across his back a pair of wings ditched, collecting across his spine. Lorcan saw the muscles and tendons rippling inside them and knew they were made of skin and bone; and they were as much a part of him as his heart and mind. It was an angel, Lorcan realised.

He fell against the hearth and went very still. Beside him, the bucket that held the drinking water rumbled as it swished from side to side.

A low hissing sound filled the room as the angel glanced towards him. He watched the creature, for it seemed to stare straight through him. It did not blink. It simply stood there, listening, waiting for him to move again—and when he didn't, the angel took another step towards the fire. It walked through the kitchen and past the cutting board, its fingers drifting over the handle of a knife, and then stopped before the hearth and stared into the flames.

Lorcan dared to raise his head, and above him he saw the forceful body of the angel towering over him. Its feet were porcelain-white, with strict tendons, large calves, and a pair of powerful thighs. Its skin resembled marble; its eyes—carved into its face. They were judgemental, full of wisdom, and yet laced with anger and sadness.

''Lorcan...?'' came a voice from across the room, and a shadow climbed the wall as Margrave sat up in her cot. She rubbed at her eyes, clearly disturbed from her sleep.

''Margrave! Stay there, don't move!'' Lorcan hissed at her.

The angel spun around, and Margrave gasped as she clutched a hand over her mouth. He saw how she looked at it; the same way he had. The angel was both beautiful and terrible, like the morning and the night. Its eyes were wide and distrusting. But when neither of them said anything, it quickly seemed to forget about them.

''What does it want...?'' Margrave whispered as the angel began searching the kitchen.

''I don't know,'' Lorcan whispered as the angel ran its hand across the shelves. Pots and pans clattered as he quietly reached towards his father's sword. The blade was standing next to the cellar door. If he lunged for it, he could likely reach it in time.

''Where's the gravedigger?'' Margrave whispered frightfully as Lorcan crawled across the floor. The angel had found the water barrel and was examining it at length.

Lunging at his father's sword, Lorcan unsheathed it and glanced at the blade. It was dark and wet. The gravedigger must have serviced it whilst he'd slept. That, at least, gave him courage. Gathering himself, he then quickly stood up and made himself known. He soon realised, however, that the angel had no more interest in him than a python would a child. It simply continued what it was doing with the water barrel as if he wasn’t even there.

‘’Hey!'' Lorcan shouted, feeling how his knees had turned weak. He could hardly stand for the fear. ‘’I said hey!'' He shouted again, this time with more body. And at last, the angel stopped what it was doing and turned towards him.

Holding the barrel in its arms, the angel stood there, studying him with maleficence. It then glanced towards the sword and into his eyes, as if realising his intentions. Then parting its lips, it spoke at length.

A thought came over Lorcan, honest and pure. The gravedigger had lied to them both. He was protecting the last hearth out of guilt. He had allowed this world to fall to the Shadow, and the responsibility was all his. He was so-far fallen, in fact, that he would keep him and Margrave trapped here for an eternity, filling them with pretensions of hope. Their best hope was to defile this sanctum whilst they still had the chance, for he would not allow them to leave otherwise. The angel would assist them in this before leading them to salvation.

The angel's mouth moved slowly, spelling out this realisation, and despite the ugly nature of the truth, Lorcan realised he could not look away. The angel's lips were gorgeous in their sincerity as they told him what had to be done.

''Lorcan!'' Margrave shouted across the room, looking nervous. ''What's it saying!?''

''It says... that the gravedigger lied to us,'' Lorcan said as he studied the angel at length, pausing for thought. ''That he's responsible for the priests and the shepherds abandoning the hearths. It says that if we put out the fire... then it will escort us through the keep.’’

The angel offered him the water barrel and he instinctively came closer, putting the sword aside.

‘’Lorcan,’’ Margrave said doubtfully, shuffling with her feet against the cot. She looked ready to run. The fear in her face was palpable, and yet she did not move; the angel’s influence over the room was so great.

‘’It’s alright, Margrave,’’ Lorcan said, and taking a spare bucket, he knelt before the angel and allowed it to fill the pale with water. He felt the angel's sincerity once the bucket was full. It made way, gesturing towards the hearth, and as it did so, its eyes were pure poison.

''Lorcan... I'm not sure about this?'' Margrave whispered, leaning further against the wall. She then glanced towards the angel with dread. ‘’We should wait for the gravedigger to get back.’’

''We don’t have time, Margrave. It's the only way,'' he said as he lifted the bucket in his arms. He eyed the twilight flames crackling in the hearth, then felt the angel securing its hand across his shoulder. Its grip was firm and imperious, telling him what needed to be done. And he knew that it was right. He then drew back the bucket and prepared to cast it into the fire.

The cellar doors exploded as the gravedigger burst inside. The bundle of wood he’d been holding spilled across the floor when he saw what was happening, and then with a shout, he leaped across the room and threw himself between Lorcan and the angel.

‘’No!’’ The man bellowed with a voice like thunder. ‘’Don’t listen to it! Cover your ears!’’

Several things happened at once. The gravedigger yanked Lorcan’s arm away from the fire, knocking the bucket aside. In the same moment, he tore Lorcan's blade from its sheath—he had collected it whilst lunging across the room—and drew it upon the angel. The creature seemed to recoil, and with a hiss, it swung out for him with a back-handed blow. The steely muscle of its arm should've splintered brain and bone as it struck, but instead, the gravedigger heaved the sword across his body and parried the blow; and the fire spat and hissed in retort as the very air thinned about the room.

''Lorcan!'' Margrave shouted as she made a grab for him. He'd landed on the floor before her cot. Protectively, she threw her arms around him.

A struggle fraught the kitchen barracks. The angel twisted, lunging across the table and back towards the hallway, and the Gravedigger heaved with the blade, cutting through pots and pans, sacks of flour and raw garlands. The angel ducked the blow, lightning-fast, moving so quick its face remained a still image in two places at once. Its eyes wept with betrayal on one side. The other—an expression of the illest contempt. Yet it was retreating back towards the hall. It was attempting to speak to the gravedigger, but the fold across the man's eyes winced in response, and with a last effort, the man tossed a handful of ashes from the fire, and this time the angel screamed in agony and took off in flight. It neither ran so much as it walked, it neither walked so much as it hovered; it struck the walls and rebounded, its wings carrying it the rest of the way. And then it was gone, black wings in a monotone hallway, laughing and sobbing as it went, both fretful for the fate of man and anguished by a desire to extinguish the sacred fire and bring about the end of Mankind.

In the aftermath, the gravedigger breathed heavily, leaning against the sword. His robes had torn during the struggle, and across his back the occult depiction of a dragonslayer was tattooed across his shoulders. A barbarian, cleaving his way through a long black drake. Lorcan took one look at him, then heaving himself up from the floor, he whispered in surprise:

‘’... Dad?’’

My space.

Leon woke up and turned over and looked at her.

She was sleek, with sound muscles, a long body, and neat little hands that were folding back in the duvet above her head. She was twisting softly into the nook of his arm, taking a moment to breathe in his skin as she slept. There was a soft musk to the undersides of her arms; and he could taste it on the air as he leaned in and pressed against her with his lips.

Gemini inhaled, then exhaled; and the exhale was much louder than what came before.

Her gentle rasp sped up as he started to kiss her more quickly; and in turn, her body came alive.

Electronic signals danced beneath her skin. The gentle thrum of butterfly wings upside the windows reverberated around the room. The TV flickered on and off. She was a live wire. Behind her eyes, a few LEDs lit up, and then she looked at him head-on.

He was on top of her in seconds, pinning her, clenching her, holding her down with his thighs. Her lips raced his. Her hands--deep in his hair already. She was tugging and pulling, clenching and biting with her nails. She threw her head back, shook, struck, wound her groin against his. He was breathing so hard into her chest that he couldn't focus; and then, just as soon as it began, it ended.

"Love you," he said.

"Love you," she said, in almost the same instant. They continued to kiss. Soft, cloying kisses that never ended. They couldn't get enough of each other. Outside, across the city, a police helicopter roiled in search of them; and Leon came down and tucked her to his chest and she lay there quietly, staring out at the unimaginably hostile heights.

What happens when you steal the first conscious android from its creator? The world roils to find her. Except... she's the One you love. Leon knew this, and he wouldn't let her go. Even if they came to find her, even if the whole server rose up against them...