El Taco Taco

blackbird claw, raven wing [ closed for El Taco Taco && Nemaisare ]

The manthing sensed her weakness, sprinted past too quick for sight, its power monstrous. The manthing was like iron, snapping down the slope, as if it meant to drag her. Samaire redirected the chains rushing out, strafing to catch the steel around a tree. It lent her a strength beyond her frame, friction and oak snapping taut. The manthing was heavy, but it was not like the fallen trees or the endless hours of labor she’d known this past year.

It had slumped into mud and rain and ruined earth, trying to clear its face for precious air. Samaire held firm for a long moment, regaining her breath. Her heart beat like the thunder maiden’s drum echoing in the heavens. But they had to keep moving. They had to leave this lands and find somewhere new. Find something.

Samaire wished she knew what that something was.

She let the mud ease her journey down the slope. The manthing had stilled, cowed perhaps. Cowed was good. It would overwhelm her without cleverness and leverage, but it didn’t seem to realise that. Yet. It would though. And maybe it would kill her before she could skewer it. But she couldn’t—it was what she’d been trying to find, wandering woods that teemed with wishes and nightmares. She needed a nightmare to find the masters of glass eyed men.

A nightmare was the only thing that could slay them. She hoped. Spirits, she hoped.

They reached the road before the manthing toppled over. Perhaps it had been wounded—but when she looked back, it was not marked by broken limbs. It bled, but it had fallen down a slope of mud and rock and sticks. She expected that. For a moment, she wondered if she should find its pulse, but then it began to rumble.

It was a keen, perhaps of mourning, although she wasn’t sure that the manthing knew such a thing. Did manthings feel? Was there enough of thought in its head? Or was it too much a thing? Things wished into existence did not feel. They did not laugh or love. Sometimes they pretended, and sometimes they did a fair job of it. But this manthing bled. Wishes didn’t bleed. Only the strongest of dreams and hopes could make things with such muscle and power.

Samaire tugged sharply, but it did not respond. Her temper flared in curses drowned by thunder. She needed to find cover, lest the thunder be followed by arcs of fire, drawn to steel.

“Uylpora,” she repeated sharply, viciously. It had worked before. But perhaps the manthing was too tired to respond. Perhaps it knew that she was no nymph. Samaire was not forged from river or trees. The earth did not sing when she walked. The wind did not shield her from driving rain, did not lighten her footsteps. She was slim and pale and stained with mud.
Samaire swore again, hitching the chain across an armored shoulder, winding tighter, and staggered forward. The mud was both a boon and a hindrance. It eased the thing through the ruined road, but it was difficult to keep her footing.

She pushed on.

Time was monstrously slow. The manthing wore on her strength.

Samaire kept walked, deeper into the woods. Deeper, deeper, and the path slowly grew more stable. Shielded by heavy trees from the worst of the storms, it was easier to keep her head high as she dragged her prize. It did not feel like a prize. It was a burden. But she deserved such a thing. She had hid for too long, too frightened to reclaim her honor.

She might have spent her whole life in that fort, if she had not found the stag. The thought shamed her, fire hot in her belly. Gritting her teeth, she pulled more sharply, deeper.

When she could feel her thighs and shoulders shaking, Samaire turned sharply off the road, deeper into the mess of trees. It was harder to drag the thing here, in brambles and roots, but she was stubborn and spurred by a little grove. A grove that, for the briefest of breaths, reminded her of home. Their groves were warmer, their waters clear and the air hot with skyfire. She remembered oasis and woods that bled into dunes beyond the borders of their lands, could almost feel the heat on her skin now.

It gave her a bitter sort of strength, to wind the chain around a stout tree, to knot it with numb fingers and secure the post. Her arms trembled with exertion and cold, but she did not voice her complaints. She dropped beneath a large tree, in dry earth, shrugging her oiled cloak aside. She was almost dry, and with a fire she could perhaps stave off the toe-rot.

The manthing was soaked through, and she edged away, judging distance more carefully. There was no steel cage between them now. For a long moment, Samaire watched it, before slowly rising away, to dig through her pack. A length of rope met her gloved hands, and she strung her oiled pack, suspending it on a lower branch.

She knew how to survive. It had taken her a season to find her way to the Zarnofskys, across deserts and woods, and she’d learned the changing lands. Death was a strong motivator.

Crackling flames soon lit the clearing, flickering against shadows, fanned by a heavy glove until it could withstand the raindrops that survived the tree cover. Gold and red and beautiful heat answered her hands. It was a golden shield, and Samaire was careful to keep it between her and the manthing. She watched it, lit by flame, and tried to recall the tongues she’d once known. As a girl, she had spoken more to nymphs than people, but she had not been a girl in years.

“<Dry yourself>,” the words were clumsy, but she spoke clearly, watching the manthing carefully, her hand never far from her blade.

Please Stay

I had totes forgotten that yesterday was Pathfinder. OOPS.

Have a short Kates post! I sort of god moded and I am so sorry, but Quidditch is just too fast paced. Feel free to put Katie wherever and injure her as much as you fancy.

Please Stay

It was So. Fucking. Weird. to be playing quidditch with Marcus Fucking Flint. Every instinct Katie had told her to block his passes, to get in his face and return fire for years of brutal play at Hogwarts. How many times had he broken her nose? How many times had he fouled on her? It only seemed fair to give him a taste of his own potion.

Except she couldn’t. This was too important. If she didn’t make the team, her career was as good as over. What would she have left? Katie lived and breathed quidditch, and if this was taken from her, the dream she’d chased since she first rode a broom at four…It wasn’t an option.

Instead of getting up in Flint’s grill, she focused on her role. She had to take point, had to keep Miller and Perth busy and out of the way. Which was proving a little difficult. The three of them had been playing together recently, and Katie had to rethink her tactics when Miller dodged her elbow. She turned sharply, grazing his face with the tail of her broom, shooting forward.

Flint—they caught eyes—the quaffle was coming to her, she had to arc up to snag it, pull it flush, slip it to her other arm, Perth was there and a bludger, drop elevation sharply, the world falling away from her, that rush of exhilaration as she plummeted down ten metres, sprinting away, loop past a bludger—Pucey was traveling, Davies close on him before a bludger nearly unseated him from his broom.

The pass connected, Miller sweeping in from the right, but Pucey shoulder checked him, anticipating, snapping out of Perth’s range, he and Flint snapping the quaffle between them through the pitch. They were good together. Katie was already weaving out of Davies’ path, spiraling upwards to push towards the goal, the world a blur. Tabtiang’s bludger caught her in the ribs, but Katie knew pain, knew how to block it out, and she redirected the momentum to avoid Weller. She heard the crack of a bat, Llewellyn’s blow missing the bludger entirely but catching Weller’s chest and sending him towards the ground.

Katie didn’t bother to watch. Falling off a broom wasn’t something that stopped the Falcons. He’d be caught and return to play before long. She was too busy following Miller. His reach was longer, but she was lighter, faster, and though his elbow found home in her ribs, she’d tackled the quaffle away from him, the pair of them tumbling. A wayward kick and she was free to chase the goal.

Meza was a problem, but Flint, fucking Flint was there, and his arm was stronger. It pained her to admit it, and Pucey was on her right, running interference. The wind was too loud to hear any shouts and Katie turned on a dime, slinging the quaffle towards Flint. Catch it, you son of a bitch.

blackbird claw, raven wing [ closed for El Taco Taco && Nemaisare ]

<3!

blackbird claw, raven wing [ closed for El Taco Taco && Nemaisare ]

NEM AAAHHHHH ILY Y R U SO PATIENT WITH ME I AM ACTUAL TRASh

also kinda drunk

ALSO I WILL HAVE A POST FOR U THIS WEEKEND K I LOVE YUOUUUUUU

Vanish Into Light

WOOOSH! ;D

RIGHT YES.

Yeah, the Moonstars are legit like, THA GREATER GOOD!!1!! Blackstaff was kind of an asshole, but whatever.

Ooooh, yes, totes for Maura gettin' scoped by the Moonstars.

There are a bajillion reasons for Chamera to be watched. The girl gets in trouble errwhere.

HMMM I think the three threats are distinct from the other things. I think ourselves refers to the elves that made the prophecy, so like, maybe hella elitist elves (sun ellllveeesss wut wut) have a Big Plan To Regain Lost Glory. The darkness could be legit anything, altho maybe it refers to like, Shar?? She has a shadow weave, which could be the source of all the weird ass magic goin' on in Shadowdale. Matter meets antimatter, shit annihilates and things get weird??

The prefects could be like literally anything in power. Some magistrate? I'm going to have to do research. There's always corrupt government officials in league with evil people in the realms, tho.

As long as Pan's getting paid, Pan's a happy human. Of course, the Harpers might not be so willing to give Chamera money considering they pretty much just destroyed Shadowdale... but he doesn't have to know that yet. >.> But yeah, gurlfren is going to get hella chewed out for being so bad at her job.

Please Stay

AH OKAY

Final papers are done, my brain is recovered and WOOSH.
I'm going to get you your posts tomorrow. Sorry for the delay my love!

[Rare] Dragon Age: Downfall [El Taco Taco]

She had come to help and they had shoved her face in the dirt and bound her in chains. In retrospect, she had been naïve. But the Tower had become a nightmare and she had been desperate for help. Twenty years she had lived in the Circle, and for twenty years she had believed the lie that the Templars were there to protect them. She had trusted their judgment when she helped drew blood for phylacteries. When her young apprentices expressed distaste for their watchers, she had urged understanding of their situation. Magic exists to serve man and never to rule him, she had sung, using both the Chant and cleverness to teach the children she’d once thought so misguided.

Kneeling in the dirt, with the Knight Commander’s contempt ringing in her pointed ears, Senior Enchanter Zayra Melthene decided that her young wards had been in the right. They had kept arrows trained on her breast and drained her magic the instant she had slipped into the courtyard, ignored every plea that fell from her lips. There were children—children—who could barely conjure sparks and breezes, in the broken tower. Children who were of no use to the First Enchanter but as beating hearts and veins to tap. She had believed, where no others had, that the Templars could not be so callous. She had known many of their number since she had been a child. The Knight Commander himself had once presided over her own Harrowing. He had nearly smiled at her, and praised her force of will. Now he kept her in chains, like a beast.

They had voted for neutrality, all of them except First Enchanter Dmitry Talonhand. Kirkwall had rebelled—so he had decreed that Ostwick would follow. Zayra had been among the first to call him on his madness. They were not so foolish, to declare war on the chantry. Ostwick mages were more careful and their tower was not the Gallows. They were treated well. Abuses were found and punished here. Their Knight Commander, although stern, had been no fanatic.

She had not expected Dmitry to slash his wrist and turn on them. He had been her mentor and she had loved him like a father. Yet he had turned on her when their council refused to submit. He had killed three of their number, three of her family, and enslaved another four. She and Senior Enchanter Uriah had turned and gathered those who loved their Circle, who loved their home, and barricaded themselves in the libraries. She had spent five days subsisting on lyrium potions and stale bread to keep the traitors at bay. They had begged through the door to those who were supposed to shield them, only to find that the Templars had called for the Rite of Annulment.

So Zayra had found another way out of the tower. She was a master of force magic, after all, and there had been a window. Against Uriah’s protests, she had jumped four stories. Instead of finding support, she had been branded a traitor. Her only saving grace had been that the Rite of Annulment had not yet arrived. Saved by their obsessive need for ceremony; it was not mercy.

“We are not all lost,” she pleaded, trying to make the Knight Commander see sense. “Dmitry has gone mad, but we voted against him! We dinnae wan' this, there are children who have done nothin' wrong, please—“

The Knight Commander deigned her words worthy of the back of his armored hand and left her on the ground. Zayra’s eyes swam, her mouth filling with coppery blood. She spat it out, swearing at the tightening of bows and blades. She was not so base as to surrender to the whispers in her head. Twenty years of magic and nine as a girl in the Alienage had taught her to give not an inch to the purrs of demons. She was not a monster. She was not Dmitry, inspired by madness. Kirkwall had started something monstrous. Mages everywhere would die, and for what? What freedom was there in apostasy? Nothing good ever came from blood magic.

The reinforcements they’d spoken of were arriving, it seemed. Zayra tried not to hope. It would be too cruel to hope just before she died. She worked herself back to her knees from the cobbled ground, tossing cropped black hair out of her face. Her arms ached, pinned behind her, hands clamped out of casting position. As if she would ever have turned her magic on them—so many of them had been her friends. Or so she had thought. She’d never spat at them, even as a terrified little girl, the soot covered elf who had every reason to hate the shem in armor.

Zayra had once thought that the Templars had saved her. They had brought her home. No one had beaten her for dropping plates in the Circle. No one had caressed her ears and dragged her to their bed chambers. She'd been given shoes and robes and taught how to read. The boy who had called her knife-ear… Dmitry had once made him apologise and put him to cleaning the privies for a month. Over the years, that boy had become a man and Uriah had become one of her closest friends. Her eyes stung, but she would not weep. Not like this. Not when those she had trusted had turned on her and her family so completely.

The Knight Commander returned with strangers; she had banked on years of living together to make Ostwick’s Templars see reason. She couldn’t hope these reinforcements would show mercy. But she had to try—for the twenty eight children she and Uriah had sheltered in the lower library, she had to fight.

An explosion echoed through the courtyard, dust raining down on their number. A wail of shuddering agony ripped through her throat as her green eyes saw a flare of fire but a level above the library. No. She had left them weakened and if Dmitry’s thralls touched even a single child, she would unleash every hell imaginable.

“Knight Corporal,” she spoke in a desperate rush, recognizing the rank insignia of their guest, “Please, you have to listen to me, we haven' all turned. The First Enchanter has gone mad—he’s killed so many of us, he took the upper third of the tower, but we’ve resisted. We dinnae want to rebel, this is our home. There are nearly thirty children in the library, but we couldnae keep them out on our own—please—those children only have six Enchanters to help keep them safe, and the First has blood magic and demons.”

Her voice had broken, but her eyes burned, shoulders trembling. If she could only touch her magic, slow their arrows and get back to the tower. She needed to be there, to be an immovable object when they came for the children. The First would not stop until he’d bled every one of them dry, and Zayra would sooner die than lose even one.

Please Stay

WHO WAS KISHIMOTO KIDDING We had all figured it out a bajillion years before the big reveal. What a butt I never got into the Uchiha storyline. I was just so bored by it. ): ): ): Ahhhhhh, writing Katie is always fun. She's so delightfully violent <3

Vanish Into Light

Aww, Jeeroooooon bby! ;A; SO. We have a little bit of in game time to figure it out, since Chamera's not a magical expert. BUT. ON MY HUNT THROUGH THE WIKI, I FOUND SOMETHING PERFECTLY VAGUE Brief history lesson, woosh! So, the Harpers, who Elminster helps lead, had a member, Khelban Blackstaff. He ended up feeling like the Harpers weren't doing enough and broke off to form the Moonstars (also known as The Tell'Teukiira). He and his wife wanted to control their agents more closely, be more secretive, and be less discerning in who they let into the group and such. They legit had an evil aligned vampire in their ranks because he was useful. BUT!! Khelben found an ancient elven prophecy, that only he really understood and DUDE. DUDE IT IS SO VAGUE AND PERFECT. LIKE DAMN.

The Tel'Teukiira will come hidden and in many guises and faces. They dwell in shadow and speak in omens, yet they shall bring about waking dreams and save us from the Three Threats Who Wait in Darkness, the Prefects, and ourselves.

LIKE BAM EPIC PROPHECY QUEST TIME