All of Morrowind seemed to be silent the day Vivec emerged from the Clockword City with the bodies of his fellow Tribunes.
The Living God walked in a dignified stride in front of the few Buoyant Armigers who had accompanied hir. Lady Almalexia and Lord Sotha Sil draped lifeless over the arms of the two uncomfortable mer stationed behind Vivec. Holding the corpse of your deity was not ideal to the soldiers, but they had little choice but obey when Vivec told them to carry them. Crowds of nobles and peasants alike parted to allow the procession to pass through on their way to pyre where the Tribunes would be honorably cremated. Young children hid behind legs, while their mothers stared wide-eyed. Men looked to the ground with lumps in their throat as older, thoroughly religious women quietly wailed into the arms of their sons.
The Dunmer were terrified. The Blight, though over, still weighed heavy on their souls. When the news that not one, but two of their gods had perished, chaos ensued. The Great Houses, Indoril especially, panicked. What did this mean? House Dunmer culture was rooted in their faith, how would this affect politics? Day to day life? Would the citizens turn their back on the Temple? Morrowind would surely perish without the Tribunes protection and wisdom.
Their Lord Vivec’s expression was unreadable as ze took his god-siblings and placed them on the pyre. Deep inside hir, ze felt hir supposedly lost mortality flare in anger at the sight of the Nerevarine solemnly standing with her head bowed. But hir composure was kept as ze turned to face the fearful crowd. Hir speech was swift and short, unlike the usual beguiling words his people expected from hir. An uncomfortable grief had made itself home in hir, now was not the time to use metaphors and a magical tongue to confuse and reassure hir subjects. Ze allowed the Nerevarine to tell the story of the Tribunes’ demise- how a powerful sorceress had murdered the Clockwork God and released his mechanisms into Almalexia’s beloved city to lure her in and drive a sword through her heart. Ignoring the people’s bewildered expressions(how had one woman defeated two gods?), Vivec sent a subtle nod of thanks to the Nerevarine for her deception, for ze knew her words were fabricated without having been told. “Lady Almalexia and Lord Sotha Sil were once heroes, let them be remembered as such,” the Hortator would later tell hir. The irony of those words being spoken by Nerevar-reborn was not lost on hir.
Vivec saw how hir subjects looked towards hir for guidance. The Nerevarine was their hero of legend, and her presence was of great significance, but Vivec was their God. Ze was meant to be their guidance in trying times, to lead them to the next great chapter of Morrowind’s story. Ze had been there through terrible wars and occupations. Hir sharp tongue blessed them with laughter and hope and hir riddles gave them motivation to love and care for their homeland more than any race on Tamriel (even at the expense of others). Today, ze offered them nothing.
The Living God was weary, and hir weariness was continuing to grow into exhaustion. Divine power being drained out of you like a cosmic vacuum was not a pleasant nor an easy experience. Hir empire, once greater than the warriors of Yokuda, was dying. Hir Divine Brother and Sister (who he once called his friends, long ago) had fallen. Everything they’d built from the ashes of a troubled land had perished.
And ze’d known the day would come. Ze was a god, after all. Ze knew everything and nothing all at once. What ze didn’t know was the grief that would follow. The aching sensation of a long forgotten feeling, deep in hir body, squeezing hir lungs and pounding on hir stomach. What was ze meant to do now? How could ze console an entire province, keep an entire race stable when ze can’t even predict hir own reaction to an event ze’d already foreseen?
The Nerevarine followed hir with a watchful eye as ze retreated from the ceremony prematurely, dismissing the Armigers who attempted to follow hir. The crowd of Dunmer now hardly noticed hir absence in their mourning. She felt what ze was feeling, to an extent. Someone inside of her, someone she didn’t know but was a part of her, felt the same sadness; the same longing for a different time. A happier time.
The Great Temple meant to house the remains of Mother Morrowind and Clockwork God took four months to build, from Rain’s Hand to Last Seed. Located in the heart of Necrom, it was a great temple of lava rock and stone, crafted by the finest materials Morrowind had to offer, guarded by the fiercest Dunmeri warriors. The magister’s of House Telvanni assisted in the construction, as the magic used to build this holy place could only be done by those adept in ancient Dunmeri practices, of course. House Indoril nobles bickered over schematics and design, and even House Hlaalu offered their finest craftsmen for the construction. All the while, Vivec stayed holed in hir chambers for most of this time, only accepting the occasional pilgrim. Ze never dared visit the temporary temple the Tribune’s ashes were being held during the construction. Did ze even dare visit the Great Temple after it’s construction?
Ze did. After a long while, of laying in piles of crumpled up parchment with failed poetry, ze made the trek to Necrom to visit hir friends. The temple was grandeur, far from hir own humble beginnings. The inside was littered with candles and offerings of all sorts; flowers and fruit and clockwork gears and unlit incense. Large, intricate statues of the ALMSIVI reached the ceiling. In the center sat the ash pit of Almalexia, Mother Morrowind, the heart of the Dunmer. To the left, Sotha Sil, and to the right, at Vivec’s request, an empty ashpit, meant for hir.
“How sad of a sight this is, old friend,” Vivec spoke to Sotha Sil as if he were there, pouring a part of hir bottle of flin in the ash and settling hirself on the stone floor. “We’d spoken of this moment. What the other would have wanted of the temple. You, Ayem,” A memory of a smile ghosted across hir face and ze turned to Almalexia’s statue. “What a handful you are. You sent the Houses in circles trying their best to fulfill your wishes. But you deserve nothing less, my queen.”
Silence, again. Such a quiet and cold room for them to rest in. Their souls were too bright for this.
“We spoke of it often,” Ze continued. “However, we never considered that one, but not three, that two, but not all of us would go. What else am I to do now? How am I to look over our people without the other halves of me? I am unwhole.”
Vivec sighed. A sound that carried through the whole temple. A mouse in the corner scurried into its hide.
“They still love us, they still follow our teachings, but how long will that last? Time changes culture and tradition quickly and you are not here to help me guide it,” Ze whispered the next part quietly. “How long will Ilast?”
Somewhere, in a land unknown by anyone but herself, the Nerevarine woke with a start. An unbearable sadness settled through her and tears welled in her eyes.
“There is nothing left for me in Morrowind, my dearest friends. I must leave.”
Vivec was standing now, slowly making hir way to the temple door. Hir legs ached and hir eyes were sunken. Ze was sickly.
“Don’t be mistaken, this is not the end of us. We will not die out to history.”
The Nerevarine held her head in her hands, breathing harsh and fast.
Morrowind was not a pleasant place. Seyrena had known that even before the prison ship had docked in the waters of Seyda Neen. Even the other Dunmer in Cyrodiil spoke of the ashy air, unpleasant patrons, and the lingering scent of tar that followed wherever one went. The province was disagreeable even at its best, and on nights like tonight she longed for rolling hills and sweet-smelling lavender fields of Cyrodiil.
Because… well, Cyrodiil was her home, was it not? It was the only place she ever remembered being. Cyrodiil was where she grew up, where she learned her trade and fell in love for the first time and where she’d made her mistakes. Mistakes that had landed her here. In Morrowind. A hot, unfamiliar, wretched land.
It should be unfamiliar, at least. Recently it had felt more and more like home. She did not want Morrowind to feel like home. She never asked for any of this. She never asked to be the savior of an ancestral land she’d never even been to. She never asked to be the incarnate of a man who’d died so long ago his existence was unfathomable. Never asked to be forced to bring the downfall of three fervently worshipped gods, one of whom had given her a welcome she did not deserve. Never asked to have to stand over the corpses of two mer who she apparently once called friends in a life she didn’t remember. Never asked tofeel like she’d killed her own friends.
Seyrena sighed deeply and took another swig of the unknown drink. It tasted like guar piss but it got her intoxicated and that was all she cared about. That, and the fact that the patrons of the small tavern in Pelagiad hadn’t a clue who she was. If she had to hear the title ‘Nerevarine’ one more time she would certainly slice the fingers off of whatever poor soul it was who’d said it.
No, to the Dunmer of the Halfway Tavern she was just any old Empire-assimilated Dunmer. An outlander; a term she’d hated when she first arrived in Morrowind but longed to be called again. She was an outlander. Her own personal feelings of the Empire aside, she was of the Empire. Raised in Cyrodiil. There was nothing else she knew and nothing else she wanted to know.
A year ago that was how it had been. The alcohol in her hand let her pretend that’s how it still was.
“If you’re not careful there, elf, you’ll drink yourself to death with that,” A voice mumbled from a few feet beside her. She looked up from the corner she was sitting in. A grizzly-looking Nord man sat on the bench to the right of her, watching the bard sing and swing with harsh eyes. His clothes were splattered with dirt and grime and his hand gripped a large wooden mug. The stench of alcohol filled her nose even with his distance from her and she wondered how he was one to talk.
“I can handle my drinks just fine, Nord,” She replied coolly, also averting her eyes to the bard. A pretty young Breton woman playing the lute and singing tales of dragons. Seyrena was glad there were no songs written about her feats just yet.
The man laughed a hearty but mocking laugh and she scowled at him. She hadn’t said anything funny.
“You Dark Elves wouldn’t know drink if it slapped you in the arse,” He was looking at her now with a dangerously mocking smile.
“Well, I grew up in Cyrodiil so I’d wager I know more than you think I do,” She took another sip of her drink as if to prove a point. “And whatever this is, it’s certainly better than that poor excuse for alcohol you call mead.”
He laughed again, and again she did not know what she said that was so funny.
“Imperials are even worse!” He managed to breathe out between howling laughs. He was obviously very drunk if he found a conversation about beverages so hilarious. Seyrena turned away from him and went back to festering in her own misery and regret and longing for a life that no longer existed. She’d rather that than any sort of conversation with a drunken man.
Apparently the gods were again, not on her side and Nords were unable to take obvious hints, because he continued speaking to her. Spoke to her about his homeland(“If this were Skyrim I’d teach you a thing or two about mead, lass”), about how he was grateful the Empire was reigning in the uncivilized Dunmer(“Imperials are good for something, at least”), and finally, about the pretty little Breton girl dancing along to her tunes.
“They don’t make them like that in Skyrim,” He grunted, watching the bard with a look that made Seyrena’s stomach twist. “We Nords are beasts of men, good for fighting and drinking. But it makes for unflattering women at the very least.”
Her anger was only growing at this point, fingertips clenching into her own fists. The young woman was simply trying to make coin, perform, and havefun. She didn’t need some malodorous man twice her age commenting on her appearance. If Skyrim was so much better then maybe he should return.
“Is that why you’re here instead of Skyrim? Because of the unflatteringwomen?” Her tone was cold but the man was too drunk to notice.
“Ha! No, despite her flaws I’d return in a heartbeat, if I could. I’ve been exiled for one reason or another.”
Well, wasn’t that poetic.
The Nord stood, steadying himself on a wooden post and slamming his mug on the table. Seyrena narrowed her eyes.
“Well, I’d best be off. Better if I talk to the bard before some other skeever can get his hands on- hey! W-What’re ‘ya doin’?”
Perhaps it was the alcohol, or her desire to protect the Breton girl, or maybe it was just because she’d had the worst year of her life. But Seyrena found herself with her longsword drawn and pointed to the Nord’s throat, his eyes wide with fear and hands up in surrender. So much for the mighty warrior.
She was also, suddenly, very aware of the people in the room with her; as they’d all turned to stare at the quiet Dunmer in the corner with her sword to a man. Pelagiad was a quiet and no-nonsense settlement. They weren’t quite sure what to make of the scene. And then, her voice rang out from the crowd.
“Rena? What on Nirn-“
Mehra pushed her way to the front of the forming crowd. She looked as beautiful as ever, dressed in a quaint traveler’s garb with her hickory-colored hair let loose to fall over her shoulders. She looked quite different from the Temple-apprentice Seyrena had met what felt like so long ago; older, only by a year, but her eyes held the same burden Seyrena’s did. Seyrena swallowed. Mehra didn’t deserve to be weighed down by her troubles.
Mehra pulled her ash-cover down from over her face, looking incredulously at the scene Seyrena had created. Seyrena couldn’t fully tell if the look on her face was one of disappointment or defeat.
Before her lover could even get a word out, Drelasa came marching over, huffing something about outlanders. Seyrena rolled her eyes.
“Mehra, I am fond of you but if your friend is going to cause scenes in my tavern you’ll never see the inside of it again!” Drelasa wagged her finger in Mehra’s face and Seyrena had the impulse to swing her sword and cut it off.
“I know, Publican, I-“ Mehra turned to Seyrena, her eyes pleading. “Rena, please. It’s a day long trip back to Seyda Neen.”
Seyrena scoffed and looked back to the Nord who was now backed up against the wall. “You leave that girl alone or I’ll cut off your hands and stitch your lips shut.”
The Nord nodded, and she lowered her sword. He scurried off like a mouse out of the Inn to the border of the Ascadian Isles and the Bitter Coast.
She defeatedly let Mehra take her sword from her and place it back in its sheath on her back. The Publican was still watching them, arms crossed and tapping her foot.
“It won’t happen again, Drelasa. I apologize on behalf of both of us.” Mehra sounded sincerely sorry and Seyrena felt a pang of guilt.
“You’re damn right it won’t happen again. B’vehk, it’s every other night with you two.”
Mehra took Seyrena’s hand and led her to their room. The latter Dunmer’s head was held low, not out of shame but in an effort to keep any patron from doing a double-take on her. “Hey, aren’t you that…”
When the two reached privacy, Mehra’s fist promptly collided with Seyrena’s shoulder. Much harder than she’d expected the mage would’ve been capable of.
“Ow,” She muttered, rubbing the raw skin. Mehra’s gaze was as fiery as her palms in battle, and Seyrena found herself unable to meet it.
“Why do you do these things to us? Do you want to have to walk miles in ash to find a new place to stay again?”
“He was being a s’wit,” She silently cursed herself for using the Dunmeris term. This was not her home.
“So was the Imperial Guardsman in Suran, and the Telvanni Noble in Sadrith Mora, oh! And, of course, the poor fellow who simply wanted your autograph in-“
“Alright! Alright, I get it. I ruin everything I touch. I’m sorry.”
Seyrena took a seat on the bed and pulled Mehra to stand in front of her. Apologies weren’t her strong suit. It was hard to apologize to someone else for your actions when you couldn’t forgive yourself for them. So, she intertwined their hands and looked up at her with the most apologetic eyes she could muster, her actions speaking the words that got lost in her throat.
Mehra sighed. “You don’t ruin everything.”
“I do.”
“You don’t. In fact, you make many things quite grand,” She smiled and Seyrena, who smiled back despite herself. “You saved me, for instance. You saved Morrowind. Twice.”
Seyrena’s smile dropped and she moved away from the other woman, laying down on the bed and turning the other way. She wished Morrowind just did not exist at this moment.
“I doomed it, more like,” She said. “Doomed to it to a future of political discourse and perhaps even religious wars.”
“That is inevitable for this country.”
Seyrena made a sound of exasperation and sat up again. “You don’t understand, Mehra. I know what is good for Morrowind. I don’t know how and I truly wish I didn’t, but I do. And this was not. Yes, Dagoth Ur had to die. The Blight had to end. But how can you diminish everything a country believes in, how can you kill-“ Her voice caught and tears threatened to spill from her eyes, which she absolutely would not allow. “How can you kill a goddess who has spent thousands of years keeping a country and it’s people afloat and expect everything to be the same, or better?”
“Almalexia went mad. It wasn’t your fault.”
“But she wouldn’t have!” Seyrena cried, frustrated that Mehra couldn’t understand what she was saying. “She wouldn’t have if it wasn’t for my existence! Everyone keeps telling me I am a blessing, that this prophecy Azura created is a blessing; it’s a curse, Mehra. It’s a curse of vengeance and I don’t want to be a part of it. I never did. I don’t want this,” The Moon-And-Star ring slipped off her finger and was thrown across the room. The tears were now falling freely from Seyrena’s face. “I’d rather have been executed for my crimes in Cyrodiil. It would’ve been merciful.”
Mehra was quiet, and now she was the one who couldn’t look at Seyrena. It was silent for what could’ve been hours.
“There’s so much blood on my hands and no matter how often I wash them it won’t go away. Please, just make it go away.”
Still not speaking, Mehra pulled the Nerevarine into her arms and held her as she sobbed. There were no words that could be spoken to comfort her at that moment, she knew that. But it broke her heart to watch the woman who she viewed as a hero come undone before her.
Eventually Seyrena pulled away from her, dried tears stuck to her face. Her eyes were wide and bright and Mehra wanted to latch onto her before she realized the vulnerability she’d showed and promptly went to bed.
“I want to go east,” She said, surprising Mehra.
“East? Like, back to Azura’s Coast? I suppose-“
The Nerevarine shook her head. “No. Farther. I want to leave Tamriel. I want to see something else, anything else.”
Mehra’s mouth opened and closed a few times. “But-“ She’d heard stories of other continents on Nirn, and none of them were good.
For a moment she believed her beloved had lost her mind right there and then. That the stress was too much to handle. But Seyrena’s eyes were dead serious and her composure was eerily calm.
FINALLY finished this thing! I started working on it in January before I got overwhelmed by new job and commissions. But now it’s done! My made up cover for Bloodstorm, the second book in the Malus Darkblade chronicles. Watercolour and gouache on cold press paper.
Some more pages from my scrapped comic project. I’ll have to leave these two boys here though, as this will (probably) be the last of this comic. I only finished 3-5 more pages before I realised it was in need of a big make over. In fact, I had kinda realised it way before, but I didn’t want to feel like I had wasted all this work. x’D Of course it wasn’t really wasted, considering where I was when I first strated drawing it, and just like with artwork, the second draft will be way better. But I decided to put this here anyway, because I still like some of the pages.
Made a little cover for the comic. I’m planning to make it into a fanzine, so now I need to think up a title. And it has to be short so I can fit it on the side of the bath to the left of dorn’s leg (feel free to give me suggestions if you have any, coming up with titles is like, the worst x’D).
Continuation from these pages.Was looking over thems again, and hey, they’re not too bad. So thought I’d put them here since I have very little to show these days. I’m still drawing my new version of this, but it’s just sketches for now.
Drow city from sometime last summer. It’s also a page from my scrapped comic, but thought it worked well enough on its own. I had never drawn this detailed of a cityscape before so considering that, I’m quite happy with it.
First pages of a comic I started working on last summer, as a way to keep me drawing while working full-time and practice digital art. While I’m happy with the progress I’ve made with the art, I won’t pursue this in its current form. Instead I’m re-writing the setting and the majority of the plot to make it more of my own, and less DnD-drow (this is like, just my DnD character’s backstory). Though, might still upload what I have here, just because.
Summary:In the realm of Alfheim, political tensions are rising as a new group of elves are gaining traction in the courts of the capital city, Ljosalfgard. When tension become conflict and conflict becomes life-threatening, Fenrien and his friends are forced to run. Though their options are limited, the quick wit and mind of Fenrien Augustino De Antillion offer them an escape, bringing the band of refugees to the glittering gates of Asgard…
A/N:Here we go, the final chapter! It’s a little short but packs a punch. Brynjolf’s backstory is up next - so I’m super pumped. After that, I can get started the sequel itself! Let me know what you think. :3
“And so, I was thrown into Asgard’s prison where I waited for my demise or my release, whichever came first,” Fenrien smiled wearily, running the edge of his finger around the rim of his empty wine mug. For some reason, the effect of the alcohol had worn off. He could feel the grizzly pain of his tale raking across the chambers of his heart. It had been a while since he’d thought about Frida; he now remembered why he’d tried to forget. Jarle tucked a piece of hair behind his lover’s ear fondly, and for a minute he could see the tufts of darkened hair where his cut hair hadn’t quite grown back yet.
Thor had excused himself a few moments ago, upon mention of palace horses arriving at the scene. He gripped the windowsill and bowed his head between his shoulders. Yet another mistake, he scolded himself…
You excused yourself from Loki’s side so that you could follow him, and Loki watched as you wrapped your arms around the sovereign’s waist and held on as tightly as you could, cheek pressed into his spine. He patted your clasped hands before using the same hand to wipe away a tear from his cheek.
“If nobody has anything to say,” Fenrien said. “I think I shall retire to bed. It has been… a long time coming. Thank you for listening to me.”
Fenrien had not been gone long before Jarle excused himself and followed. Thor was still by the window, accepting words of support from you and then Brynjolf. This left Loki on his own. That was always dangerous.
His mind couldn’t help but wander, sinking further into the depths of his despaired mind and tormenting him with images of an all too familiar face. His own.
Who are you to judge? The voices whispered. You mourn for the child – for the elf – because you know them. You know their names. What about those you didn’t know? The ones who died in a city called New York? The children. The caravan owner may have been a con man but he had to pay the bills; you con yourself if you are think you are above him, better than him. You are nothing more than a–
“Loki?”
He heard your voice breaking through the water, like the beacon of a lighthouse, dragging him away from the siren’s call. However, as his focus cleared, he realised why you’d done so. The clenching of his fist was fierce, the expression on his face even more so. His fingers had wrapped themselves around the neck of his glass – and snapped it cleanly in two.
You edged closer to his frozen form. “Are you… alright?” Loki turned away. When he felt your fingers touch his shoulders, he realised how tense they were. How high up. Even Thor watched his brother with concern. Had the story touched him so deeply?
“I fear I am not alright.” “Well, we can see that, pebbles,” Brynjolf chuckled morbidly. He was hyper aware that you were stood next to the man whose face indicated he was about ready to explode. “We’s asking why.” “Because I should be in the cell next to that man. I have killed thrice as many in even more horrific ways. I am the poison in the powder that she ate. I am the fire that burned their homes. I am-” “-a drama queen and an attention whore,” you interrupted, moving your left hand from Loki’s shoulder blade to his hair and ruffling it manically.
Loki blinked and, along with everyone else in the room, glared at you. A stupid smile was on your face. “Did you forget the bit where you didsit in a cell for however long? Before being moved to an even bigger, even worse one?” Thor’s mouth parted marginally. “In penance for what you did, there were many who wanted to see you rot. And when I found you, that’s what you’d done. You were a shell of a person, all but withered away. Hollow. Rotten. The part of you capable of murder perished with it, or you’d never have been able to get out.”
Thor’s eyes narrowed and Loki could feel his brother’s stare. You still didn’t know about the bandits in the woods. But that was different surely! ‘Twas simply vengeance. He was defending your honour! Loki knew the second that he thought it where Thor would stand on the subject; your honour could have just as easily been defended by throwing them in prison. Perhaps he was a drama queen.
When Loki bowed his head, you leaned down to kiss it. “The story was not about you, nor was it for you. Twisting it to earn a little sympathy is not a habit to get into. Let Fenrien make his peace and do so with him.”
It wasn’t helping him feel better, but Loki knew you were right. He resolved to tell you what he’d done to the bandits, hoping that doing so would allow him to ‘make peace’ with it, as you’d said.
“You’re right, love. I will let this go and hold onto something else.” Grinning wickedly, Loki leapt up, grabbed your waist, and threw you over his shoulder. You kicked, and yelled, and beat him with your fists; over the sound of their laughter, Loki bid Thor and Brynjolf goodnight on both of your behalves before swiftly exiting the room.
The sound of your protests could be heard all the way down the corridor.
Summary:In the realm of Alfheim, political tensions are rising as a new group of elves are gaining traction in the courts of the capital city, Ljosalfgard. When tension become conflict and conflict becomes life-threatening, Fenrien and his friends are forced to run. Though their options are limited, the quick wit and mind of Fenrien Augustino De Antillion offer them an escape, bringing the band of refugees to the glittering gates of Asgard…
A/N:Penultimate chapter, my fellow humans. :3 Shit is about to hit the fan so hold onto your butts. Next chapter will tie everything together nicely. Enjoy!
For two days the group trekked through the woods. Despite the shade, there was sweat on their brows; despite their pace, they panted like dogs; all of this due to their new leader. “Fenrien,” Elandor moaned. Fenrien wasn’t listening, marching forward like he knew exactly where he was going, like he wasn’t on the brink of exhaustion.
“Fenrien, please. We’ve got blisters on our blisters. Let us rest.” “We’ll find help soon, I’m sure of it.” Fenrien stopped next to a tree with low-hanging branches. He considered climbing it to re-navigate from a height. Elandor ducked under the branch and popped up on the other side, placing his hand over Fenrien’s. “My friend, look at our people.”
Reeus and Inreus, the twins, had taken the momentary pause to collapse onto the cool earth, closing their eyes and sucking in some large, steady breaths. Reeus’ hand slid into his brother’s and squeezed. Mytris too sat down, about two feet from the snoozing twins. She pulled her left boot of and began to rub the sole of her bare foot. Rosy pink blisters were indeed visible. She winced when she waggled her toes, but bit her lip and returned her threadbare shoe to her foot. Sylphine had been a doctor back in Alfheim. She’d been carrying Frida ever since her coughing fit had started up again. Syl placed her down to tend others. Frida looked positively exhausted.
There were plenty who looked much the same, but it only took the sight of those faces for Elan’s point to sink in. Fenrien’s head dropped. So caught up had he been in securing his group’s safety that he’d forgotten to think about the short-term. “I just…” “I know,” Elan said, squeezing Fenrien’s hand slightly.
After finishing her examinations, Sylphine wandered over to the tree as Fenrien began to climb up it. She watched him for a moment before requesting a quiet word with Elan. “She’s not well.” “Who? The girl.” “Aye. Without treatment, I…” Sylphine rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand. “I… can’t fathom how much worse her condition will become.”
They continued to discuss the situation until Fenrien’s feet hit the ground. “There’s… a city… Oh, a glorious city,” he panted, stretching as he stood up. “It’s not far. Perhaps a day’s walk at best.”
Sylphine shot Elan a pointed look and he placated her with a hand gesture. “Fenrien, please. We are all exhausted. Frida is unwell. Not all have your energy. We must make camp here for a while.”
When Sylphine returned to Frida, who was now sitting up against a tree, coughing gently, Fenrien sighed. He spoke softly, to Elan alone. “Rest then. I will trek ahead on our behalf. I will return as soon as I can with supplies or support, whichever I discover first.”
Fenrien walked like a man reborn. He couldn’t say quite what spurred him on in particular; in part it was Frida’s declining health, but equally it was the proximity of the glistening capital city. The elusive culprit for his lifted spirits had nonetheless put a skip in his step, a lightness in his heart, and a smile on his face. He whistled in tune with strange foreign birds as he stepped into the sunshine at the edge of the forestry.
A road! Fenrien bent down and touched the gravel path with his hand, running the sediment through his fingers. If he could lead the party here, they’d no doubt feel as much hope as he.
And if his mood had been bright before, it consequently doubled at the sight of the caravan not 20 yards from where he currently crouched. It was old and battered, bent metal making a triangular roof that was attached to the bowing base. The strange technology that powered the vehicle allowed it to hover a few inches above the ground, floating gently in the air. A small canvas awning protruded from the side, bathing the owner in shade as he rocked casually in his hook-like chair. A trail of smoke rose from the end of the long, silver pipe sat between his lips.
Checking both ways, Fenrien crossed over and positioned himself in front of the snoozing gentleman. It was only after clearing his throat a third time that he awoke with a cough and a snort. “Who are you? Whaddya want?!” “I wish… I wish to make a purchase,” Fenrien stammered, wondering what sort of manners this place sported.
Immediately the businessman’s demeanour changed. It made him looked much younger than he sounded, fierce sideburns trailing down his face, and greasy brown hair pulled into a braided rat tail. “Well, why didn’t you say so, young man? How can I help? What are you in the market for? Exotic bugs? Rare jewels? Weaponry forged in cold fires?” “Food,” Fenrien said. “And medicine, something to help cure frailty.”
“Right this way, right this way,” the shop owner grinned, gripping Fenrien’s elbow and steering him to the front of the caravan. He yanked a panel out from the side of the caravan and heaved out a drawer containing bread, fruit, and vegetables, beautifully arranged in rows. Another drawer just below it contained several silver foil pouches. “‘Fraid I got no fresh meat for you, but-” “This is perfect, truly,” Fenrien exclaimed, shaking the man’s hand. “I’ll take it.”
“Well, now, hold on, you haven’t paid for it yet!” He chuckled, beginning to load things into a brown satchel. “What have you by way of coin?”
Rummaging through his pockets, Fenrien’s heart suddenly fell. No, no, no, no… “One gold… and- and- and a few silvers.” He pulled the money from his pockets and held it on flat, begging palms. The businessman rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head. “That won’t do, I’m afraid. It’ll cover the food, or the medicine, but not both.” “Please, good sir, we need both. We’ve been travelling for days and my… my daughter, she grows sicker by the hour. My people are starving.”
“Then your people ought to pay for it,” the businessman growled, placing the satchel down behind his feet. Folding his arms, he then looked up at Fenrien, scowling, until he seemed to notice something. His expression swiftly changed. “Unless…” “Unless what? What will it take?”
Frida slowly forced her eyes open. She could feel someone shaking her gently; it was rattling the pebbles in her brain. She wished the rattling would stop, she was very, very tired…
“Hey, little one,” Fenrien whispered, stroking the hair on top of her head. “It’s me. I’m back.” Frida groaned and tried to roll over. “No, no, no, come on, it’s time for you to wake up. I have medicine for you, see?”
Sitting up, Frida rubbed her eyes and blinked sleepily. When her eyes fell upon Fenrien, she gasped. “Your hair is gone,” she whispered, reaching up to touch the shaved remains on one side of Fenrien’s scalp. It was true that the payment for Frida’s medicine had been steep. “It is?” He smiled. “Well, that’s not good, is it? I must’ve dropped it somewhere! Tell you what, once you’re back on your feet, we’ll go hunting and try to find some more for me, yes?” “Maybe we could glue some straw on it,” she yawned, before opening her mouth so Fenrien could tip the contents of one of the sachets onto her tongue. “Hey now, I’ve been told that my hair is…” Fenrien looked away morbidly. “I’ve been told it’s very valuable. Beautiful and rare. Can we do no better than straw?”
Frida grimaced as she swallowed the medicine down. That was far too salty. Much worse than what she normally took. If this was the medicine of their new home, she didn’t think much of it. “Fine. Then I will learn to use a wheel and spin the straw into gold.” “Much better,” he smiled, planting a kiss on Frida’s forehead and settling her back onto the makeshift bedroll of leaves and moss. “Get some sleep. I’ll wake you when I’ve cooked something to eat.”
The fire crackled and spit, filling the forest with gorgeous golden hues. The smell of roasting food filled the nostrils of the elves who dozed around the flames, the warmth lulling them to blissful sleep. For some it would be a calm night; for others it would be riddled with nightmares of rubble. Blood.
Fenrien finished sharpening a stick and plunged an apple onto the end of it. He rolled the knots out of his shoulders before settling onto the soil and holding the spear over the fire. Sylphine stood up and handed her own stick over. “I’m just going to give Frida her second dose of medicine. Can you keep cooking this?” “Sure. Take some water from the pale over there for her to wash it down with. Apparently, she’s not keen on the taste of this new stuff.”
Sylphine picked up the pale, accepted a pouch of medicine, and wandered over to Frida’s sleeping form. Despite her one bout of treatment already, she was no better. It was likely the severity of their current predicament that had worsened her condition. Both Sykphine and Fenrien were hopeful that the second sachet would have a more noticeable effect.
And it did.
Frida began to wretch and gag, before rolling over and vomiting horrifically onto the earth. Her little body quivered; Sylphine began to panic as she scraped the girl’s hair out of her face. Immediately, Fenrien was on his feet, discarding the semi-cooked food onto the floor and scrambling closer.
There was no way this was a side-effect of the medicine. Fenrien snatched up the empty foil pouch and dipped his finger inside. He sniffed. Nothing out of the ordinary. It was only when he touched the powder to his tongue that he recoiled. “What? What is it?” Sylphine asked when Frida had stopped vomiting. She still shook horribly, further depleted of the vital nutrients and hydration that she already lacked before.
“It’s… It’s salt,” Fenrien growled. The pouch was crumpled in his clenched fist. “The bastard sold me salt.”
A horrific wave of realisation washed over Fenrien suddenly. His stomach plunged. He stormed back to the campfire and seized one of the spears. He took a large bite from the bubbling apple – and immediately spat it back out. “It’s rotten. The food is rotten, and the medicine is fake.” Fenrien ran a hand over the shaved side of his head. “We’ve… I’ve been conned.”
Frida began to cry suddenly, and, honestly, Fenrien felt like joining her. Sylphine gathered the child up into her arms, shushing her in vain. Frida wept more and more, clutching her tummy and sobbing about the pain. “What’s going on?” Elandor mumbled sleepily, sitting up and stretching. The sound of a child’s crying was not the way to be awoken. It raised concern and questions, answers to which he wasn’t getting forthwith. Fenrien was pacing the floor like an agitated bull. “That bastard… That rat bastard… I’ll– I’ll go back. I will. I’ll go back and I will… do something. The fool must have his own means of survival, living on the road, so I’ll take the bread from his table if I have to!”
Elandor was understandably confused. Between the weeping women and Fenrien’s ramblings, there weren’t many clues as to what the hell was going on. However, he was soon beginning to wish that he hadn’t wondered.
Frida hadn’t stopped coughing between her wretched sobs. No longer was it cute little spluttering, but horrific wretched hacking. Globules of blood hit the floor, and Sylphine – completely unphased – continuously wiped the edges of the girl’s mouth with her sleeve.
Suddenly the coughing stopped.
Fenrien’s head whipped round. Frida lay limp in Sylphine’s arms. No matter how much the nurse shook her, the girl wouldn’t wake. A trickle of blood was still coming from the corner of her mouth.
“No…” Fenrien whispered. He strode over and picked up the child. Sylphine was crying and crawled towards Elandor. He’d woken up to another massacre. “Wake up,” Fenrien said, stroking Frida’s hair with growing frenzy. “Come on, little one, wake up. It’s alright, I’m going to fix this, I promise. You can… You can wake up now.”
It took an hour for Elandor to pry the corpse from Fenrien’s person. That night the forest filled with the sound of a foreign lullaby, as six lost souls sang an angel to sleep.
When the song had finally ended, Fenrien stood. The dying embers of the fire cast red hot shadows across his face. Another shadow, infinitely more frightening, was also visible in his eyes. “Bury her please,” he snarled. “She should be with her parents.”
When he turned on his heel and stormed into the forest, Elandor was quick to follow. “What are you going to do?” He asked. “What is necessary.” “That’s ominous… What are we to do in the meantime?” “At first light, head for the city I saw and seek the asylum we came for. Do not wait for me.”
“What?” Elan scoffed. “Why?” “Because if what I intend to do goes well, I’ll be arrested, exiled, or shot.”
Summary:In the realm of Alfheim, political tensions are rising as a new group of elves are gaining traction in the courts of the capital city, Ljosalfgard. When tension become conflict and conflict becomes life-threatening, Fenrien and his friends are forced to run. Though their options are limited, the quick wit and mind of Fenrien Augustino De Antillion offer them an escape, bringing the band of refugees to the glittering gates of Asgard…
A/N:Hoo boy, prepare for feels. I’ve started on Brynjolf’s backstory too so that is now in the works, and hell am I excited. Why? Because once that’s out the way, I will be starting on The Tower 2! And releasing the winner to the competition. :3 Enjoy, peeps!
After a few minutes, Fenrien’s lungs were beginning to burn. His legs ached, and his neck stung. “Why do they not venture inside?” Solmund wondered aloud, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of the floating black swarm with masks that hunted them. “If I had to guess?” Fenrien replied between deep breaths. “To uphold the ultimatum. Currently we are cornered between fire and the blade. If they pursue us any further, they remove one of those risks. They’d give us a chance at escape.”
Frida was getting heavier in Solmund’s arms. Her head rested on her father’s shoulder, her forehead tucked into his neck. She continued to cough, the thin entrails of smoke burrowing in through her nose and tickling her throat. “Daddy, are we okay?”
Solmund looked worryingly at Fenrien. “Uh, yes, pickle, yes. We’re okay. Are you okay?” “I’m… I’m a little tired.” “Okay, pickle.” “Are you tired? Do you want me to walk?” “No, pickle. I should carry you for now.”
Fenrien ran a hand through his hair, the sound of Solmund’s conversation breaking his heart. He had no solution to this. He’d asked these people to run, he’d given them hope, the kindling that their passions currently burned on. If he couldn’t figure things out soon, however, he’d have their blood on his hands. He’d have simply delayed the inevitable and led his flock of lambs to slaughter.
“Are…” Frida yawned. “Are we going through the secret door?” “What’s that, pickle?” “The secret door. In the woods. In the tree. It’s where I hide for…” Frida yawned again. “For hide and seek.”
Solmund looked around and shrugged in bewilderment. “Perhaps it is a fairytale of some kind,” Elandor offered, having caught up for the latter part of the conversation. “Or a story!” “Not one I’ve told her, if it is.”
Fenrien knew better than the guesses of his counterparts. This was real. A real door. Perhaps their ticket out of here. “Hey, little one,” he said, slowing down to a jog. Placing his hands under her armpits, he lifted the little girl onto his hip. “Do you want to play hide and seek now? You and I, versus your old man?” “Right now?” She yawned. “Right now?” Solmund agreed. Was this really the time to be following up on fairytales. The Dark Elves had slowed to a halt next to them. No doubt they wondered what the rebellion had in store; however, they’d only wait for so long before they lit their final grenade.
“Right this very second,” Fen grinned, placing his hand over the infantile fist which now clung to his shirt. “I bet if we find this secret door of yours, we’ll win in a heartbeat!”
Frida pondered the proposition for a second, blissfully unaware she held the lives of her family in whatever response she gave. “Okay,” she said, before coughing frightfully once again. “Let’s play.”
Leaning upwards, directions were whispered into Fenrien’s ear. When he rushed into the cloud of smoke that built around them, his followers wasted no time in following him.
Though nobody could see it, the leader of the Dark Elves smiled wickedly behind his mask. Finally. They’d decided. Death by fire after all. He pulled a grenade from his belt, lit it, and heaved. The sphere exploded not ten feet from their faces, spitting fire like a newly woken dragon. No matter what happened now, Alfheim was no longer home to the light elves.
“Where to?” Fenrien asked, covering his mouth with his sleeve as the bitter taste of ash settled onto his tongue. He’d let Frida down so that she could lead the way, her energy seemingly returned by the promise of play. She toddled forward insistently, dragging Fenrien forward until she decided that he was a dead weight. Wrenching her hand free, Frida shot off on her own.
She launched herself at a particularly thickly-trunked tree – and disappeared out of sight.
Solmund blinked and shook his head fervently. His surprise was shared by everyone in the current party. “It’s… It’s real,” Elan whispered, slowly growing a smile and beginning to laugh with disbelief. “It’s real! It’s a way out, it’s-” “-suspicious.” Sol folded his arms and approached the tree. “I mean, this thing just swallowed my daughter whole and who knows where it goes! How can we trust it?” “Are you asking because you think I know?” Fenrien chuckled, placing his hands on his friend’s shoulders and attempting to rub the tension out of them. “Wherever it leads will be better than this place, I dare say. She discovered this sometime ago and, by the sounds of it, has ventured back many times since. So, who will be the first to follow her, hm?”
One by one, the last surviving members of the Light Elves stepped into the bark of the tree and disappeared out of sight. The would-be rebellion leader, Elandor, firmly shook Fenrien’s hand before following, determined to express his heartfelt gratitude. It was clear to Elan that he was no longer the sole leader of these survivors.
Finally, it was only Solmund and Fenrien left to depart. “After you, my friend,” Sol grinned, gesturing to the wooden portal. The blaze was almost upon them, golden heat warming their faces to an uncomfortable degree. The scorching light illuminated the change in Fenrien’s eyes, which Sol noticed all too late. “Actually, I… I think I will stay,” he said.
Solmund scoffed. “I’m sorry?” “If we go through there, all we shall do is bring a war to whomever resides on the other side. They can just as simply follow us if they find our path but not our bodies. No, someone must stay to ensure that this tree is destroyed by the fire once its purpose is fulfilled. You have a daughter to protect so it must be me.” “But Fen, there-” “-is no other option. It must be me.”
For a moment, Solmund considered fighting. He considered shouting, and screaming, and even pushing his neighbour through the tree’s trunk just so that he’d save his own skin. But ultimately, he knew he was right. He admitted as much aloud. “I usually am about these sorts of things,” Fenrien chuckled morbidly, crossing his arms.
They hadn’t much time to say goodbye, but he’d be damned if that stopped him. The two men embraced suddenly and tightly, holding onto each other as though it were the last chance they’d ever have to do so. Because it was.
A small tear escaped the corner of Fenrien’s eye as the weight of the situation finally settled in. He didn’t want to die. If it meant that his family would live, however… “Iwillprotect Frida,” Sol said firmly. “It is a father’s job to protect their child.” “I know, my friend.” “Which is why it cannot be you who does this.” “What?”
“Look after her for me,” Sol sniffed, grabbing Fenrien’s shirt suddenly and throwing him towards the tree’s think trunk. Fenrien saw a flash of blue as a sudden weightlessness overcame him. It ended just as soon as it had started and suddenly he’d hit hot, dry soil on the other side of nowhere.
Scrambling to his feet, Fenrien yelled in protest and threw himself at the bark from whence he’d just emerged. To no avail… This time, his flesh met only solidity. The fire had swallowed the tree; the portal was gone. Solmund was gone.
“Why, my friend, did you do such a thing…”
Fenrien felt warm tears spill thick and fast, streaming down his cheeks. The crowd of survivors gathered around to watch as he bowed his head and pressed it into the rough wood. It took a moment but eventually he calmed, if in the way that a sea calms after the storm. Angry. Seething. Ever as dangerous as before. The fight was over, but the war was lost. Emotions swum through the air as the waters settled. Rage, upset, and grief all amongst them. Some were simply tired and grateful for an end. Others would have spilled blood at a second chance to change things.
No, Fenrien soon realised. It was over now. All that could be done now was tend to the survivors. Survivors like–
Summary: In the realm of Alfheim, political tensions are rising as a new group of elves are gaining traction in the courts of the capital city, Ljosalfgard. When tension become conflict and conflict becomes life-threatening, Fenrien and his friends are forced to run. Though their options are limited, the quick wit and mind of Fenrien Augustino De Antillion offer them an escape, bringing the band of refugees to the glittering gates of Asgard…
A/N:Sorry this took so long to get up guys. First week of my new job, after a big ol’ moving house, and then no internet for the longest time. Luckily, I’ve got a bit of time to kill now - hence the upload. New Loki x Reader in the works, too.
“We have to get out of here,” Sol mumbled, over and over, his hands in his hair. His long braid was frayed and wild. “We… We have to get out of here.”
Frida was on the ground now, stood by Fenrien’s side. She slid her hand into his and squeezed. “Daddy, you’re… you’re scaring me,” she said. Fenrien picked her up and put her on his hip. She coughed harshly and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
There was a knock at the door that put everybody in the room on edge. It bore a strange rhythm to it, made up of 7 successive knocks. Sol, however, seemed to heave a sigh of relief. He swung the door open. “Where in all the realms have you been?” Sol hissed. “There is no time for dialogue, friend,” replied the stranger. “They’re moving faster than I feared without resistance. Gather your loved ones and let’s go.”
Fenrien’s heartbeat thundered against his ribcage; an earthquake in his chest. Every breath out of his lungs was red raw. They stung his throat and dried his mouth. No matter how much he licked his lips, they felt like a desert without an oasis. Not even a mirage of moisture on his tongue.
Everything was on fire. Fenrien’s eyes had become coins, brassy spheres, as his eyes were filled with images of the world he called home going up in flames. Seas of people swum amongst the carnage, screaming in fear as their home crumbled around them.
Frida quivered on Fenrien’s hip, coughing more and more often as time went on. Her health had never been perfect, but the blood-stained smoke that swirled above her head undoubtedly didn’t help.
The Dark Elves were not far behind. The sounds of their destruction rained like a terrible thundercloud from behind. They’d swept the nation of Alfheim with fire, explosions, and dark, dangerous magic. Carnage and fear followed in their wake. Explosions erupted around them every so often, littering the ground with debris – and sometimes limbs.
A bespectacled man was one of those fleeing from Ljosalfgard. With no children in his arms, the man was faster that Fenrien but careless. When an explosion to their left drew screams from the masses, the man misplaced his footing. He hit the ground. Hard. The building to his left groaned suddenly, and the bespectacled man looked up in time to see it topple.
Fenrien turned away at the last minute. He shielded Frida’s eyes and crouched down. Brickwork and rubble showered his back. Frida buried her face into his chest, whimpering quietly. Even Fenrien couldn’t deny the shake that had set into his bones. He was panting hard, staring fiercely at the ground under his feet, trying not to shed a tear.
When he finally stood and looked up again, there was nothing left to see expect a pile of stone, a growing crimson puddle, and a pair of broken glasses.
“D-Don’t look, little one,” Fenrien said, keeping his hand on the back of Frida’s head. “Keep your eyes closed. Head down. Don’t look.”
No sooner had he turned a circle, staring in wide-eyed disbelief at all the carnage, did he feel a hand on his shoulder. “You can mourn later,” said the stranger from his front door. “But now we must run.” And so Fenrien returned to his state of disarray. Earthquake in his chest. Sandpaper in his throat. Desert on his lips.
The stranger, a man by the name of Elandor, guided Fenrien by the shoulder towards the other rebels. Solmund could be seen in the distance, ushering frightened citizens towards the forest’s edge. “Quickly, quickly, deeper inside, go!”
The shadows engulfed Fenrien, bathing him in shade and a welcoming change in temperature from that of the village’s burning corpse. He took a moment’s respite and looked behind him.
The Dark Elves were truly terrifying, formidable foes. Their pallid, expressionless masks struck fear into the very blood that pumped readily through his veins. He watched them cut their way closer, striking down all who opposed them and all who were simply in the way. They moved like a single organism, terrifying swiftness and uniformity bringing them closer and closer to Fenrien’s quivering form. He felt like a hunted animal; petrified at the sight of his predator.
“The forest will not stop them,” Fenrien whispered. Elandor’s head turned and his expression hid nothing. “Perhaps not, but it may conceal us well enough that we are not so easy to slaughter.”
It was as if the Dark Elves had heard them. The hoards of marching men, swathed in black, halted at the border of the Wysteria Woods. Their masks stared forward, blind and unfeeling, as someone pierced the crowd and stepped forward. A leader. Members of the rebellion gathered around Elan and Fenrien. Confusion-riddled faces watched with confusion as the trees seemingly forbade entrance to the mysterious army.
However, as these things often go, it was too good to be true. Fenrien narrowed his eyes when the leader pulled a strangely shaped orb from his hip. Only too late did it sink in that it was an explosive. A grenade. Foreign to the eyes of Alfheim, but unequivocally lethal in the hands of these villains. It seemed so effortless. With as little as a flick of their wrists, death was wrought upon the shadows. The distant canopy slowly grew into a canvas of amber as the woods were set alight with infuriating efficacy.
The cacophony of fleeing footsteps was gradually outmatched by the sound of the screams that penetrated the darkness. Weeping; shrieking; crackling fire. Fenrien winced as the noise filled his ears. He could feel Frida shaking his arms. Solmund’s face was fear-stricken. Even Elandor looked out of his depth.
They had survived… simply by choosing the left half of the forest to flee into over the right. The entire eastern woodland perished, along with all those hiding within. Fenrien knew it wouldn’t be long before the Dark Elves turned their attentions elsewhere. They weren’t so stupid as to only half-finish a job.
Sooner came rather than later when Frida’s coughing fit began again.
The leader of the Dark Elves turned his head fiercely – and something inside Fenrien snapped. He felt his back straightening, his chin rising. Not the child, he thought to himself. Take what you have already got, because you will not have her.Over my dead body.
“Run,” he commanded calmly, as the hoard turned in his direction. The survivors surrounding him took heed of his words. “Stick to the edge if you can. Though frightening, it will protect us. They wouldn’t ignite the kindling so close to their face.”
Solmund appeared at his side shortly after the chase had begun, finally taking Frida back into his care. The elves were already pursuing, though they’d admittedly got a head start. Even the fire from the first grenade had begun to chase them, licking at their heels like a viper. “We cannot outrun this, my friend,” Solmund hissed. “We cannot stay in the forest forever, but we cannot leave it either. We are to die by fire or die by the blade. It is simply a matter of choosing!”
“I have already chosen,” Fenrien replied smoothly. “I choose to live.”
