Dragonologist's Writings @dragonologist-writings - Tumblr Blog | Tumlook (2024)

Hello, all!

This is a sideblog to post/organize my many writing posts, because tumblr search is a struggle and I'm trying to make it easier on myself to find things in the future.

You can find my main blog, along with OC posting and misc ramblings, over at @dragonologist-phd

You can find also find all my fics over on AO3 (which I would recommend over tumblr, because tumblr formatting is my mortal enemy)

And if you do want to find something here, you can find my organizational tags below!

(more will be added as I start adding things here)

Fandoms:

Baldur's Gate 3

Dragon Age

The Outer Worlds

Pathfinder: Kingmaker

Pathfinder: Wrath of the Righteous

Pillars of Eternity

Title: Her Tongue So MeanFandom: Pathfinder: Wrath of the RighteousRating: EStatus: One-ShotMain Characters: Knight-Commander Lilith, WenduagShips: Lilith/WenduagAdditional Notes: Smut, Short & Sweet, TeasingWord Count: 1.4kSummary:Lilith is busy. Wenduag is bored. A battle of wills ensues.

read below or here on ao3

The candle on Lilith’s desk burns low, casting flickering shadows across the neatly ordered stacks of letters that cover her desk. The hour is late, but the work never stops- not for the Knight-Commander. There are too many requisitions in need of categorization, too many council letters in need of response, too many field reports in need of tactical analysis. And despite the time-bending powers of the Aeon, there are somehow still too few hours in the day.

Truthfully, Lilith does not mind the work. The powers of the Aeon have sharpened her focus- which she must say was quite impressive to begin with- and having spent far too many nights trudging through the field herself, she can testify that by comparison this is a perfectly pleasant way to spend an evening.

The mongrel woman waiting in Lilith’s bed clearly begs to differ.

“Would you give it a rest already?” Wenduag groans. She’s splayed out in Lilith’s bedsheets, clothes already shed, picking at her nails with a bored frown. Ever since their fraternization began, Wenduag has taken to slithering into Lilith’s chambers whenever the mood strikes her. Most nights, Lilith is more than willing to entertain her lover.

This is not such a night, much to Wenduag’s outspoken disappointment.

“If I’d known you were going to be so dull tonight,” she says, “I’d have sought out more satisfying company.”

“Is that so?” Lilith asks without looking up from her reading. Sheets rustle behind her, and Lilith knows Wenduag is growing ever more irritated at the lack of attention.

“Why are you even doing this dredge work? You have underlings. Put them to work,” Wenduag grouses. Lilith can practically hear the smile curling across the woman’s face as she adds, “And then come put me to work.”

“And who would I trust with this?” Lilith poses. “Konomi? Please. I’d rather not all my correspondence be filtered through her.”

She anticipates another derisive remark in return, especially considering her lack of reaction to Wenduag’s increasingly transparent attempts at seduction. She’s even half looking forward to whatever scathing comment Wenduag comes up with. But when Wenduag does reply, her voice is honey-smooth and sickly sweet. “True. You’ve always been so sharp and shrewd, Mistress. So relentless in your pursuits.”

A pause, and Lilith senses Wenduag’s presence against the back of her chair. The woman has always moved with quiet grace; Lilith hadn’t even heard footsteps as she crossed the room. Even now, her touch is light as she leans low to Lilith’s ear and whispers, “But so am I. And it’s impossible that any of those scribbles are more enticing than what I have in mind tonight.”

Wenduag’s breath is warm against Lilith’s neck, and Lilith’s skin prickles in response to her teasing. But Lilith keeps her focus on the papers in her hands as she says, “How would you know? You can’t even read these scribbles.”

“Why would I want to? I’m not some weak old crone stuck inside sniffing parchment all day. I’m a warrior, and I don’t waste my time on words. I take action.” The light touch turns sharp as Wenduag traces her nails down Lilith’s collarbone, and Lilith bites her lip to keep from humming her approval.

“And you’re impatient,” she says instead.

“I just know what I want.”

“Impatient,” Lilith repeats, but that’s as far as she gets before Wenduag’s arms wrap around her shoulders. Her warmth presses in all around, and her fingers pluck tauntingly at the laces holding together the front of Lilith’s robe.

It is an impressive battle of wills: Wenduag’s persistent determination and cloying touches set against the Aeon’s innate disapproval of any mortal distraction from her duty. Lilith allows the battle to rage within her for a moment, then with some effort finds her voice again. “I’m busy. You’ll have to entertain yourself for once.”

But Wenduag would not be Wenduag if she gave in so easily.

“Oh, I intend to,” she purrs as she presses even closer. Her chin dips to rest on Lilith’s shoulder and her fingers pull more firmly at her laces. The silk comes loose completely, and Wenduag’s touch leaves traces of fire across Lilith’s skin.

A pointed smile flits across Lilith’s face. If it’s to be a war of attrition…well, two can play at the game, and Lilith is not yet ready to concede. If Wenduag wants the satisfaction of her acknowledgment, she’ll have to well and truly earn it. Lilith leans closer to her desk, fully ignoring the woman draped around her as she returns to the papers laid out in their neat and orderly rows.

Scouting parties from the northeast have returned with reports of increased activity-

Wenduag parts the top of Lilith’s robe, and she slides the fabric off her shoulders. The silk falls like water down her skin, gathering at her waist.

-increased activity of demonic movement, mainly focused on the mountain passes-

She brushes Lilith’s hair out of the way with surprising gentleness, her breath tickling over Lilith’s ear and down the back of her neck. Her hands roam lower, one pausing to rake her nails tauntingly over Lilith’s breast while the other skirts over her stomach.

-the mountain passes, which may provide the Crusade’s armies the advantage of surprise if scouts are authorized-

Her mouth finally presses into the crook of Lilith’s throat, her kisses grazing across sensitive skin as calloused hands at last slip downwards, teasing at Lilith’s thighs. And she does tease, with clever fingers that promise pleasure once Lilith’s disrobing is at last complete.

But it’s not until Wenduag’s kisses are punctuated by the bite of her teeth that Lilith’s resolve finally cracks.

The flickering candle on the desk flares to sudden, blazing life in response to the rushing of Lilith’s blood. She rises from her seat with such force that her chair topples over, and she kicks it out of the way as she turns to face Wenduag’s smug, hungry grin. Before Wenduag can say a word, Lilith pushes her backwards, and in a few strides the mongrel woman is back on the bed- this time with Lilith hovering over her.

Lilith’s discarded papers flutter to the floor behind them, falling in a cascade to pile on top of the robe laying forgotten on the floor. Wenduag’s eyes shine up at the Commander in ecstatic, golden victory. “There you are. I knew you couldn’t resist me.”

“Keep gloating, and I swear I’ll go right back to reading field reports. Now...what was that you said about being put to work?”

Her threat earns a snort of disbelief, but Wenduag doesn’t press her luck. She simply lifts herself up from the bed to press her lips again on Lilith’s neck, nipping at the same spot she marked before. She moves downward with wicked speed, her nails dragging paths along Lilith’s body until she once again finds the heat between Lilith’s legs.

This time, however, it’s not fingers teasing at her entrance. This time, a short huff of breath is all the warning she receives before Wenduag’s mouth presses against her cl*t.

And this time, Lilith does not restrain herself; she moans, and her hand grips at Wenduag’s hair, holding her close. Her veins are on fire now, scorching white-hot beneath her skin. It’s a wonder Wenduag doesn’t burn herself as she lets her tongue roam against Lilith’s folds.

Or maybe she does burn, and she simply doesn’t care.

Those musings are driven from Lilith’s mind as Wenduag continues with her work. Her nails dig into Lilith’s waist, and her tongue and teeth take their turns lapping at her cl*t and nibbling at her thighs. Throaty chuckles reverberate in her breath as Lilith arches under her attention, the fire building within her until finally-

Lilith does not cry out when she comes; even in these moments, she is not so untethered. But she moans loudly, the breath rushing from her lungs as a shiver runs through her body. Her grip on Wenduag tightens, then loosens, and when her climax has faded she sinks down into the bedsheets, pulling her lover along with her.

The look of victory has not left Wenduag’s eyes; if anything, it shines brighter now. She licks her lips and purrs, “Better than parchment and scribbles, aren’t I, Mistress?”

“Shut up,” Lilith murmurs, not unkindly. She takes Wenduag’s hand and lifts her knuckles to her lips- the closes thing to a real kiss Wenduag will tolerate. “But yes. You’re better than parchment and scribbles.”

Title: Burn CleanFandom: Pathfinder: Wrath of the RighteousRating: MStatus: One-ShotMain Characters: Queen Galfrey, Knight-Commander Lilith de MarcShips: One-Sided Galfrey/LilithAdditional Notes: Angst, Manipulation, Devil Mythic Path & Galfrey Corruption, Character Death, Canon-Typical ThemesWord Count: 5.2kSummary:

How could you go so far?How could you let this happen?How could you- our queen, our icon, our picture of golden perfection- sell your soul?

read below or here on ao3

How could you?

That is the question you’re left with, when all is said and done. It is the cry you hear from those few paladins who linger in Mendev, as they wail and clutch their useless holy symbols to their chests. It is the accusation Irahai flings at you, when you meet again in Nerosyan and all the lies she’s used to comfort herself can no longer be believed. It is the last wordless plea you see in Laya’s eyes, the one that plays in your mind over and over again, however much you try to forget.

How could you go so far?

How could you let this happen?

How could you- our queen, our icon, our picture of golden perfection- sell your soul?

You hate the question. You’ve always hated how these people think they can know you, how they have granted themselves the right to judge. As if they have answers. As if carrying the weight of the world is something easily done. As if a soul is something pure and whole that can be handed away yet never damaged.

The truth is this: yes, you did sell your soul. But that was hardly the moment your soul was lost to you.

No, that happened long before the contract, long before pen met paper. And it did not happen all at once, in some swooping, dramatic moment worthy of being put to the stage.

No. It happened slowly.

Piece by broken piece.

You feel the beginnings of loss after the Battle of Iz. The expedition was a success…but the success was not yours. It was the Knight-Commander who emerged victorious, after coming to your rescue and besting Deskari and once more securing the Sword of Valor. It was her name the people chanted upon the army’s return.

It is her voice that cuts through your thoughts as you stand on the citadel balcony, looking out over the city.

“You’ve been out here a while,” she says, with a faint note of disapproval- but then, she always sounds like that, unwavering and cold and revealing just enough emotion to let you know she considers you beneath her. It’s one of the many, many traits of Lilith de Marc which has always caused you grief.

Lilith’s eyes are still on you; you can feel her gaze, piercing as ever, even after the transformation of her mythic powers. Perhaps some trace of the Aeon still remains, buried beneath her devilry and hellfire.

“It has been a long few days,” you say, and you wish your own voice were not as weary as it is. “I am reflecting.”

“You’re brooding.”

You close your eyes. Take a deep breath. She is right, you know this. For all your flaws, you do know when you have been wrong. You know when you have been unfair. You know that she has every right to harbor a grudge, a right which you simply do not share.

“…I suppose I am. I apologize, I should not be so…despondent. It is not good for morale.” Another deep breath, but you cannot keep the bitterness from slipping through. “I should be lifting people’s spirits, not worsening the gloom. Heaven knows they’ve lost enough faith after the defeats we have suffered.”

“I believe you mean the defeats you have suffered. The people still have plenty of faith in me…or they did, before you exiled me to the Abyss.”

Your eyes snap open and you whirl on her without thinking. But your indignation catches in your throat when you meet her eyes- sharp and judgmental, just as you expected, but also flecked with gold from some inner fire. The gold is mirrored in her veins, visibly shining through her porcelain skin, lit by the telltale aasimar glow. Her burnt-red hair is long and loose, and she wears simple dark robes.

When she spoke to the people of the city, she’d done so in her Devil form; now, she forgoes those mythic trappings to stand before you in her mortal guise. It is the first time she has made such a gesture, and you do not know what to make of it.

Your surprise has smothered your anger, and without it you cannot deny the truth of her words. “That was a mistake. Yet another mistake. I made the wrong decision. I admit it. What more can I do?”

It is a demand made in frustration, yet Lilith takes it as seriously as she does everything else. Her lips press together as she thinks, and you wonder what she sees when she scrutinizes you so. You quickly decide it is better not to know.

Finally, she sighs and approaches to stand at your side; the scent of smoke thickens the air.

“You could be less eager to expose your own faults,” she says coolly. “A ruler should exude strength. You betray your own doubts far too easily.”

“You yourself called me arrogant not one day ago.”

“And I was correct then, too. Arrogance is not the equivalent of confidence, and in attempting to correct yourself you have become insecure in a manner not befitting a leader of anything. The Crusaders have lost faith in you, Your Majesty. Cease your moaning and reclaim it. Remind them that you are their Queen.”

Conflicting reactions whirl inside you, all fighting to be acknowledged: anger, grief, blame, guilt. In the end, you are simply tired, and you know there is no use in hiding it. “Such things are more easily said than done.”

Lilith steps closer, the gold in her veins flashing brightly. “Allow me to aid you, then.”

You cannot help the disbelieving laugh which falls from your lips. “You? Why?”

She does not flinch in the face of your skepticism. “We are not friends, you and I. But we are, unfortunately, allies. If I could win this war alone, I would…but I cannot. Without a strong hand to guide it, this Crusade will fail.” Her voice hardens; her eyes practically glow. “And I do not allow failure.”

She regards you again, her chin tilted high, and you find yourself wishing you could exude such certainty. You did once, you are certain; but lately such a feeling has been impossible to grasp.

That is why all this happened, isn’t it? Your insecurity, your jealousy. You. The icon who slipped from her pedestal and almost lost everything in the panicked scramble that followed.

So when Lilith leans in and whispers, “Let me help you,” you do not deny her.

She tells you her plan: a hunting party, a trapped demon, a victory. A small win, but one which could easily be maneuvered to buoy the sinking morale of the Crusaders. Not a lie, of course, she says when you protest. A persuasion. An opportunity, one which Mendev desperately needs and which you cannot afford to set aside. And then, at the end of it all, a renewal of the Knight-Commander’s declaration of fealty to Mendev and her Queen.

It is a convenient offer. Too convenient, and you are not a fool. You do not trust Lilith. You never have.

But you realize now that you trust yourself even less.

“Very well,” you say, despite the doubt which sits like lead in your stomach. “We shall put this plan into motion.”

And the first piece of your soul cracks away.

The cracks continue to spread. Every time you push away your questions, every time you wrestle with your conscience, every time you tell yourself this deception must be made: another chip, another chink, another tiny piece lost.

And it is a deception, no matter what Lilith says. As you approach the demon’s lair, you do not feel like a Queen or a Paladin on a noble quest; you feel like an actor on a stage.

But it is too late to turn back now.

You feel your new squire’s eyes on you as you ride, so different from Lilith’s probing gaze. Laya Linkers reminds you of yourself, so many decades ago- young and brave and idealistic.

And alone. Her family has all fallen to demons, and she is now the last of the Linkers line. She has been in your service since Iz, where she proved herself a formidable knight and indomitable spirit.

You wish to do right by her. She deserves the kind of queen Lilith speaks of, one who is strong and certain of her path. So you continue to ignore the whispers of doubt playing in your mind, and you charge with sword drawn into the demon’s cave.

You are not prepared for what you find.

The demon has your Crusaders- your people. Their screams echo off the walls, their blood colors the floor. Disbelief screams inside your head- how did this happen, how many, how long, how- but there is no time for that as the demon attacks.

The battle is a flurry, a slaughter, a mistake. It is Iz all over again, down to the moment when your endurance falters, your weapon slips, and you watch the demon’s killing blow descend.

In Iz, there had been some strange solace in the moment. If you’d died then, at least you would have died a martyr, doing something you believed in. To die here, in this desperate farce…

The last thing you feel is shame.

And then: relief. A blast of fire overtakes your vision, aimed not at you but at your attacker. Cheers rise from your soldiers as suddenly Lilith is standing in front of you, the demon lying dead behind her. Reinforcements have arrived to flank the target, and this is just what the two of you had planned, and yet…

Lilith takes your arm and pulls you to her feet, hellfire burning in her eyes. As always, the smell of smoke hangs around her, clouding your head.

“What happened to you?” she demands.

Your stomach sinks. Your chest aches. You cannot answer. Never did you imagine that the plan you two concocted would end in the bodies that surround you now.

“What did you do?” You ask hoarsely, and Lilith’s grip tightens.

“Are you to blame this on me, then?” She hisses. “I did as we agreed. Tell me- does the fault belong to me, or to the one who attacked before the time was right?”

The heat on your arm increases, Lilith’s fingers warming like embers against your skin. In a low voice, she warns, “Do not repeat the mistakes of Midnight Fane, Your Majesty.”

Laya raises her voice in protest, but you hold up your hand to silence her. You are still reeling; the destruction around you makes it difficult to think straight. How did this go so wrong?

You cannot look Lilith in the eyes. You don’t notice when she releases your arm, but you do hear her voice when she calls out to the soldiers.

At this point, you expect nothing more than her final coup; the revelation that this was all some trap of her design, the final move on her chessboard as she wrests control away from you for good. Yet you find yourself unable to move as you wait for her treachery to reveal itself.

“Sacrifices were made today,” she declares loudly. She turns to you, her intentions unreadable. “Yet…we emerged victorious under the leadership of our Queen.”

And then Lilith kneels. She recites the oath, just as planned, and despite all that has happened gratitude and relief threaten to overwhelm you.

Soldiers behind you grumble. One shouts out, indignant, and relief turns to fury because you know they are right. Lilith led them to victory; you have only ever led them to their deaths. But you are still their Queen, and you cannot let what happened here have been for nothing. You turn to face the seditious knights but the shouts do not cease, not until-

“Enough.”

Lilith barely raises her voice, but the discontent quiets in an instant.

You are shaking. From anger or fear or humiliation- you cannot tell. Lilith moves to your side but you move away, biting out, “At least they listen to one of us. Linkers, collect the bodies of the fallen. We are leaving.”

Something in your chest breaks, just a little bit more.

Amid the new cracks and fractures, resentment creeps in.

You try not to allow it. Resentment is what got you into this mess, back when you used Lilith’s mission in the Abyss as a convenient excuse to eliminate what you knew to be a threat. You lost your footing upon your own shaky ground and that was nobody’s fault but your own. You have admitted as much time and time and time again.

But it is not Lilith at whom your ire now directs itself. You still do not trust her, but she did as she said she would and played her part. When you ask her about it after, she just gives you that inscrutable look of hers and says, as if it were obvious, “I said I would renew my vow of fealty, did I not?”

You still don’t understand, and she sighs, frustrated. “Say what you want of Devils, but we do keep to our promises.”

So, no- odd as it may seem, it is not Lilith whom you feel betrayed by.

It is your own people.

It started as the dissatisfied grumblings of those who’d witnessed the failure of your mission. They call you callous, as if you could have foreseen the lives that would be lost. They call you a tyrant, as if you had forced Lilith to bend her knee. They call you even worse, you are certain of it, even if the darkest whisperings are kept away from reports and the ears of your generals. You can see the truth of it in the looks of disdain and accusation thrown your way when you walk by the barracks.

Even Laya, that young, brave, idealistic girl…even she doubts you. She stays by your side and speaks in your favor, but she is no good at deceit, and there are times when she falters, when she hesitates to carry out your orders, when she looks away too quickly from your gaze. If these rumors have poisoned even her opinion of you, what hope do you have of swaying others?

“You do not need to sway them,” Lilith says when you confide these thoughts to her. “You need to nip this treason in the bud.”

“And how do you suggest I do that?” you snap back, but of course she has a ready answer.

“Arrest them. What else? So long as you leave them free, they will continue to spread their dissent. We have dungeons in Drezen for this very reason, so use them.”

It does not feel how you expected, to hear her say this. To let her give voice to your harsher impulses. To listen to her simple, straightforward solution and note how she shows not the slightest hint of shame or remorse.

You would think yourself capable of dismay. In reality, you find solace in her venom.

Even so… “They are not truly treasonous. It is only words. And how much more a tyrant would I look if I simply arrested whomever I please?”

“They are Crusaders who have sworn themselves to you. By sowing such discord, they have broken their vows. What is treason, if not that?” She shrugs, the motion sending ripples through her burnt-red hair. “Those who keep their faith are rewarded. Those who do not are punished. Is this not your creed?”

She truly is difficult to argue with, and you find it all too easy to loosen the grip on your exhausting nobility and agree. You still do not trust her…but you want to, and that is just as dangerous.

Once you give the orders, you are left with a gnawing guilt…but also an unanticipated satisfaction. You have attempted restraint, and that has clearly never worked. But you are a queen, and perhaps Lilith has a point.

For all of your very long life, you have always prioritized the duty you owe to Mendev. Perhaps it is time to remind the people of what they owe to you.

If you feel yourself suffer another crack, then at least it is not a painful one.

In the midst of it all, you start spending more time with Lilith. You can’t say why, but it’s suddenly easier with her than with others. She’s still playing her own game, but at least you know that about her- with the others, you can never be sure, and the second-guessing is wearing on your damaged soul.

So you keep your distance from those who would trap you with their questions and their criticisms, and you fall deeper into Lilith’s gravity. The two of you discuss diplomacy, strategy, allies; you watch her make deals with the Chelish dignitaries, and even as you despise her you must admit that there is something hypnotic in the way she treats the world as her own private chess game.

Laya is less enthralled.

“Couldn’t we order them to leave?” she asks one day, following another debate between Lilith and the Chelish general. Her dark brows are furrowed in disapproval as she watches the general’s unit march through the citadel. “The reports we’ve seen from these soldiers…the things they’ve done…”

“Are all for the Crusades, and therefore under the Knight-Commander’s purveyance,” you answer. “And besides, fighting the demons is enough of a task. We cannot afford to offend our neighbors, especially such powerful ones.”

Laya frowns, still disapproving, and you suppress a sigh. She is young, you remind yourself. Young and brave and idealistic and foolish.

Her concerns are not shared by the other soldiers and citizens. Of course not; the people may scowl at the Chelish in the streets, but they cheer at the news of every military victory, and when they do it is once again Lilith’s name on their lips.

It bothers you just as much as it ever did, more so now due to the traitors who continue to spread sedition against you. A handful of arrests have been made, but many more investigations are still ongoing, all while word against you spreads and darkens with each passing day. You see now that Lilith was right all along- your only choice is to find the cause of this trouble and yank it out by the roots.

You are conducting a meeting with Lilith in the library one night when this festering resentment slips out, and all too soon you are lost in bemoaning the entire state of events as Lilith listens on over a bottle of wine.

“They call me a tyrant and a despot, yet they love you.” You motion to Lilith, who takes in the gesture without reaction. “As if they don’t know what you are.”

What you wouldn’t give to peer behind that stoic mask and see her thoughts; as it is, you cannot tell if she is offended or intrigued. She simply raises an eyebrow and takes a drink from her glass. The dark red wine matches the color of her lips.

“You have them chanting for Hell,” you continue, and unlike Lilith you make no attempt to hide your own storming emotions. You don’t have the energy left for such an effort, and even if you did the wine has loosened your composure. “Why is it me they hate?”

Lilith takes another sip, then sets her wine aside and leans close. You’ve grown accustomed to the scent of smoke which follows her everywhere, and now you detect the faint undercurrent of incense as well. It reminds you, uselessly, of the days you used to spend in deep prayer. It reminds you that you haven’t stepped foot in a chapel since Iz, and that you don’t feel nearly as much guilt over that as you should.

“Love and hatred…” Lilith murmurs to herself, unaware of the effect she’s had on you. “Is that really what matters to a ruler?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean.”

Lilith scoffs and shakes her head. When she speaks, her voice carries something infuriatingly similar to pity. “They don’t love me.”

“Of course not,” you snap. You’ve been doing a lot of that lately. “They fear you. Forgive me, I assumed you were above such cliches.”

“They see my power. They want what I have. People like to be on the winning side. It’s as simple as that.”

You wish you had another retort in your arsenal, but you find yourself struck by the truth of what she has said. As loathe as you are to admit it- and oh, you are loathe- you cannot deny that when you see Lilith sweep out to the armies and command them with utter confidence, utter control, utter loyalty…you do want that.

She hums, as if she can see the gears turning in your head, and adds, “And yes; call it cliche if you must, but most of them do fear me as well. And I am better off for it.”

You wish you could ignore her words, but they stick in your mind for the rest of the night, just as the smell of smoke sticks to your clothes.

This strange equilibrium you’ve found does not last.

Inevitably, the simmering anger amongst the soldiers boils over, and the news of a traitor’s death at the hands of your guards has barely reached you before the mob is at your door.

Some part of you, you think, knew this would happen. That knowledge does nothing to quell your anger as you face the horde gathered outside the citadel- those belligerent, unfaithful, ungrateful soldiers who scream out your misdeeds and demand justice.

Justice! The word inflames you further, because what do they know of justice? You serve the goddess of justice, and this is precisely where her justice has led, and they have the nerve to hate you for it.

“Enough!” You shout, and there is no disguising your anger. You don’t want to disguise it, not anymore. “Fall back! All of you, fall back!”

They do not listen. Fury is etched on their faces, angry and ugly, as they scream back at you.

Killer. Monster. Tyrant.

They point at the bloodied body at their feet, that culmination of every choice you have made during this cursed Crusade. The cracks in your soul spread outward, turning everything brittle and sharp. Lilith is at your side, and you’re not certain how long she’s been here but you were always expecting her, weren’t you? Just like you’re expecting it when she leans close to hiss in your ear.

“How far will you let this go? Execute these traitors or you’ll never know peace again.”

At your other side is Laya, and no longer does she look so brave and idealistic. She just looks young- young and foolish and frightened.

Frightened of…you? Of you, when it is they who have driven things to this point?

And under this last bit of pressure, you break.

“Cease this at once! Disperse now!” Your voice is barely recognizable to yourself. Your hand is on the hilt of your sword. “Or else you shall all be labeled traitors and dealt with as needed!”

The chaos and the shouting increases. You draw your sword. “Laya, be ready to fight.”

“But, Your Majesty-”

“Laya.” Lilith’s voice cuts harshly through the increasing shouts. “Do as you must.”

For the briefest of moments, Laya wavers- and then a storm passes over her face, and she does indeed draw her sword.

And she points it straight as you.

“I will do as I must,” she declares in a hoarse voice. “The only enemy here is you. I was there. I heard you give the orders that led to bloodshed! Down with the traitor queen!”

She is so young. Against a warrior of your years, she does not stand a chance.

You cut her down as easily as you would any demon.

The sight of her blood on the stones of the courtyard shocks the onlookers, and their anger turns to panic. Above the screams, your voice rings out as you call for order and obedience. You are not even fully aware of the words you are saying, but you know that this time, they will listen to you.

You are their queen. You will remind them what this means. No matter the cost.

As this revelation sinks from your mind into your bones, a blinding light envelops the courtyard, and thunder roars.

Iomedae’s angels have arrived.

And oh, they make such a lovely sight, with their heavenly glow and their pretty words, and they ignite the sharpest, cruelest anger you have felt in decades.

Isolation. Contemplation. Redemption. This is what they offer, but you speak their language, and you know what they mean. They have come to take you prisoner- to whisk you away until you return to that golden shining beacon of faith they shaped you into so long ago.

How dare they?

And that is the moment you realize this did not start with Lilith. She has no claim to the first broken piece of your soul, not when you’ve been losing bits and pieces of yourself for years and years and years.

When your armies fell and you bared your heart in prayer, begging for aid, and only silence answered.

When you were handed a potion that would bind you to this life of duty and servitude with heavy, gilded chains.

When your god died, and you kept on living and living and living.

“Now you come?” You choke out. “Now? Where were you when I called? And even now, where is she? Could Iomedae not come down and face me herself?!”

They do not offer an answer. They never have. They only demand obedience, though they have the nerve to call it faith.

You have no faith left to give. When you tell them so, the angel draws his sword, and you know they will take it, just as they always have.

Lilith steps between you and the Angels, and you see that she has shed her mortal guise. She faces the Angels with fire-touched skin and curved horns, smoke billowing around her feet as dark wings stretch out behind her.

“The Queen has stated her intentions, and I will not allow you to take her by force.” She glances over her shoulder, and her blazing eyes sear into your skin. “She is under my protection now.”

Is it validation which blazes through you as your eyes meet? Solidarity? Or is it hatred, resentment, anger at what this woman has brought forth in you?

Is it something else entirely?

You have no time to decide before the Angles descend upon you, and so you decide on anger, and you unleash that anger upon these messengers from your former goddess. Every insult, every frustration, every shame- you let it flow through your sword as her blessing once did, and you feel more powerful than you ever have before.

With Lilith at your side, you are powerful enough to slay Angels.

The two of you stand side by side when the battle is over, and a maelstrom of emotions hits you all at once. Yet mostly you just feel empty- all that holy grace and duty which has sustained you through the years is gone, all those pieces of your soul scattered and shattered and lost.

And yet, you also feel something you haven’t felt in ages: you feel alive. Your heart races, your blood burns, your skin is hot with the rush of victory. You look down at the defeated Angel and you want to sing.

You look at Lilith, in all her blazing, devilish glory, and you want to ask: what have you done to me?

You don’t. Instead, you walk past the remnants of the slain Angels, past the body of the girl who once reminded you so much of yourself. You walk right up to Lilith and without a trace of doubt you say, “I am ready.”

She raises an eyebrow, but you refuse to take the bait. “Do not play coy now. You know of what I speak.”

And then she smiles, damn her. Damn you both, you suppose, for with a simple motion she unfurls a contract from her long sleeves.

“Then I won’t waste time with words. All you need do is sign.”

You’d been expecting it; hoping, really, because in this moment you are a crusader without a goddess and that is a very dangerous position to be in. You still have a war to fight and a nation to rule, and you are certain this will not be the last of Heaven’s efforts to ensnare you. You need the protection, the assurance, of some higher power. You always have, just as you have always given all of yourself to this war.

But where Heaven would take you for granted, where it softened its words and its promises, Hell would mark your sacrifices down for posterity and give you an oath forged in fire and iron.

You sign.

Let my soul belong to you, Lilith, and to Hell, so long as you uphold your side of the bargain.

And maybe you were wrong, again, when you claimed your soul was already as fractured as it could get. Because as the signature dries, you could swear you feel one last piece crack and splinter.

But the feeling is gone soon enough. Just like that, you have become something new.

The scroll vanishes up Lilith’s sleeve, and her eyes shine with undisguised victory. It may be the most emotion you’ve ever seen from her.

“I look forward to working with you,” she says. “I believe this is the beginning of a very fruitful…partnership.”

She lingers over the word, enjoying her own private joke, and you still cannot decide how you really feel about her. Even now, you want to wrap your hands around her throat. Even now, you want to wrap your arms around her waist.

Either way, you suppose, you’re already damned.

“Likewise,” you say, and she smiles again.

Somewhere beneath the distraction of Lilith, your mind is already at work. Everything is different now, and a new power is in your hands. There are many, many plans to be made.

When you turn and climb the steps back up to the citadel, the scent of smoke follows in your wake. Perhaps it always will.

How could you, they will ask you later, and the act of asking itself means they will never understand.

So you do not attempt to explain. You let them ask, and you allow the accusations to bounce harmlessly off that empty place inside your soul. They need no answer; they need only look at the results as you take back control of your kingdom. What almost slipped away from you is now forever yours, and you grip it tightly with your iron fist.

It does not matter how you got here, nor who you did this for.

You’ve done it, and there is no going back.

Title: She Falls in FlamesFandom: Pathfinder: Wrath of the RighteousRating: MStatus: One-Shot CollectionMain Characters: Knight-Commander Lilith de Marc, The Whole CrewShips: Lilith/WenduagAdditional Notes: Aeon to Devil Mythic Path, Ficlets and Short ScenesWord Count: 8kSummary:A collection of one-shots and small stories regarding Lilith de Marc - master of the arcane, Inquisitor of Asmodeus, Commander of the Fifth Crusade, and eventually, Mistress of Hell.

Title: A Mighty Mortal RageFandom: Pathfinder: Wrath of the RighteousRating: TStatus: One-Shot CollectionMain Characters: Knight-Commander Cleo Ironbark, The Whole CrewShips: Cleo/GalfreyAdditional Notes: Demon/Legend Mythic Path, Ficlets and Short ScenesWord Count: 3.8kSummary:Short tales and one-shots relating the story of the mortal turned demon turned legend, the barbarian tiefling who romanced the Queen - the one and only Cleo Ironbark.

Title: Songs of ElysiumFandom: Pathfinder: Wrath of the RighteousRating: GStatus: One-Shot CollectionMain Characters: Knight-Commander Piper Chanterelle, Aivu, The Whole Crew Ships: Piper/ArueshalaeAdditional Notes: Azata Mythic Path, Ficlets and Short ScenesWord Count: 10.8kSummary: A collection of small one-shots and stories woven into the tale of Piper Chanterelle- a tiefling bard who only ever wanted to survive, until she suddenly found the power of Elysium dancing at her fingertips.

Title: Of Diamonds And DustFandom: Dragon Age: OriginsRating: TStatus: Work in Progress (47/?)Characters: Marja Aeduca, Darvis Brosca, All CompanionsShips: Marja/Leliana, Darvis Brosca, Minor Alistair/ZevranAdditional Notes: Origins Novelization, All Origins Are True, Enemies to Found Family, Dwarves Deserve More Love, Ships As A Feature But Not The FocusWord Count: 226.5kSummary:

Marja Aeducan and Darvis Brosca lead lives as different as one could possibly imagine. Marja Aeducan, a member of the nobility and second in line for the throne, has spent her life maneuvering the dangerous political machinations of the Diamond Quarter. Meanwhile, Darvis Brosca, a Casteless dwarf rejected by society, does whatever it takes to survive on the streets of Dust Town.When a Grey Warden arrives in Orzammar, the lives of Marja and Darvis are forever changed. Driven from the city by misfortune and betrayal, the two must join the ranks of the Wardens in order to save their own lives. But the surface has far greater dangers than they realize. The noble and the thief will need to stand together if they're going to fight against the oncoming Blight, the brewing civil war, and the strange surface malady called "sunburn".

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Chapter 1 Below:

In the shining opulence of Orzammar’s Diamond Quarter, the birth of the second child of the Aeducan family is cause for great celebration. The nobility of Orzammar flood the palace with gifts of gems, ceremonial armor, and other such finery that does a better job of flattering the king than of serving any use to his newborn daughter. Favor is earned and alliances are evaluated as Marja Aeducan gurgles in her crib, oblivious to the fact that she is second in line to the throne her father sits upon.

In the tired streets of Orzammar’s Dust Town, the birth of the second child of the Brosca family passes with little notice. The people here have better things to do than fawn over yet another Casteless infant. An exception lies in the boy’s sister, still a child herself, who devotes her time to caring for her new sibling. Darvis Brosca sleeps contently in her arms, unaware of the mark on his face or the meaning it carries.

...

At seven years old, Marja is the darling of the palace and the favorite of the king. Most of her time is spent with her tutors, where she learns politics, culture, and history from the large tomes brought in from the Shaperate. Any time not spent at her lessons is spent at her father’s side, where she sees these concepts put into practice. Marja prefers the practical application; even at a young age she delights in reciting her knowledge before the attentive court, just as her father delights in showing her off.

Her only other companions in these times are her brothers. Bhelen, barely old enough to walk, trails after his sister whenever he can, and Marja loves spoiling him in return. Trian, the eldest, considers himself too mature to indulge his siblings in their childish games, but he's still Marja's brother, and she supposes she loves him anyway.

At seven years old, Darvis knows the alleys of Orzammar like the back of his hand. The pathways are dirty and dark, but they are hidden, and nobody yells at him for venturing past the limits of Dust Town. Occasionally he comes across others in the alley, people he instinctively knows to be dangerous, but they pay little mind to the scrawny boy with skinned knees scampering past.

This is where he meets Leske. Leske teaches him how to pick a spot and sit in wait until the moment is just right. Together, they dart into the street, Leske knocking over carts and stalls as a distraction while Darvis snatches coins from the hand of some unsuspecting citizen. It’s risky business, but the boys are small and quick and reckless, and at the end of the day the guard has more dangerous criminals to spend their time chasing. Rica has given up on telling him to stop and now merely tells him to be careful. Darvis knows she worries, but with their mother sinking ever deeper into her alcoholic haze, they must do whatever they can to provide for themselves. And the look of relief on his sister’s face when he hands her the coin is enough to make it worth the danger.

...

When Marja is thirteen, she meets her first assassin. She watches, stone-faced, as he is brought before her father and executed for the murder of the Queen. She had cried, when she was first told what happened to her mother. She knows better than to cry now, when people can see. You are an Aeducan, her father has said to her, and Aeducans remain strong. In the following days she attends court as she always does, smiling her usual well-practiced smile at the fellow nobility, and she never quite stops wondering if any among them were in on the plot.

Until then Marja has regarded her combat training as a mildly interesting subject, much like her history lessons. Now, she commits herself to the practice with greater vigor than ever before. Her trainer gives her a ceremonial sword and shield, all bright and polished and beautiful. Marja, however, prefers the large double-handed greatsword, even if some of the older warriors snicker at the sight of the young princess struggling to lift the large blade. Trian refuses to practice with her altogether, claiming it’s beneath him. Marja pays them all little mind. She seeks out someone who will spar with her- the son of one of her father’s Warriors, a boy her age named Gorim- and practices every day until she can wield the imposing weapon with ease. The weight of the sword carries some comfort, and with its heavy weight at her bedside she is able to sleep soundly again.

When Darvis is thirteen, he meets Beraht. He is returning home after a typical day, hoping that his mother will be passed out by now and that Rica has found enough food to make dinner. Instead, he finds Rica conversing with an imposing man he’s never seen before. The man, he learns, is Beraht, and he has come with a job offering. Rica’s face is pinched and worried, but she tries to inject some brightness into her voice as she talks about the opportunity Beraht has for her. The man has a predatory look that sets Darvis on edge, but it's too late to hide the stolen coins clutched in his fist. Beraht's eyes fix on the money immediately. And where did you get that from, he wonders. Darvis glares at him defiantly, and Beraht laughs. I just might have a job for this one, too.

Darvis already has his own knives, but the set of daggers he gets from Beraht is shiny and new. Darvis runs his fingers lightly over the edges, admiring the handiwork. He’s not stupid. He knows that Beraht can’t be trusted. The jobs Darvis gets from the Carta are far more dangerous than running through the streets and pick-pocketing strangers. But the money is good, and for now that’s all that matters.

...

By the time Marja is eighteen, she knows the intricacies of court inside and out. She studies each of her acquaintances carefully, taking note of the different ways each can be persuaded and the unique signs that mark their lies. They do the same to her, always searching for something which can be exploited. Marja keeps careful control of all she does, offering smiles and soothing words and nothing more to the circling Nobles that wish to win her favor and undermine her power in equal measure.

Fortunately, Marja has Bhelen and Gorim at her side. Bhelen rarely gets involved in the complex schemes of the nobility, and in fact finds amusem*nt in most of the mechanics of the court. Rarely does a ceremony go by without a sarcastic, under-the-breath comment from the young prince, and he is one of the few who can coax a sincere laugh from his sister.

Gorim is even better. He often jokes that Marja has no need for his services as her Second, but Marja is thankful for him all the same. Steadfast and loyal, he is everything a Warrior should be, and one of the few people Marja knows who truly possesses a warrior's honor.

Her relationship with Trian, however, only grows more strained. As time passes, his resentment of his sister festers. It comes to a boil on the day Marja finally convinces him to spar with her on the training grounds. Trian is highly skilled in combat, but he underestimates his sister, and to the surprise of them both Marja manages to knock him flat. The spectators laugh, and Trian has never liked to be laughed at. He leaps to his feet and glares at Marja, dark fire in his eyes. Don’t forget that I’m the one who’s going to be king, he spits. I’m going to rule, and you’re going to be married off to whichever House pays the most. He turns and stalks away, and Marja swallows her own angry words as she watches him go. She wants to fight back, but Trian is right about one thing; being the future king carries a certain power. For now, she has to hold her tongue.

By the time Darvis is eighteen, he’s well known as a thief and lackey of the Carta. He’s good with his daggers and his fists, and he can lift a purse as easy as breathing. In a way, he’s lucky. The Carta is respected and feared, and membership provides protection from the other Dust Town criminals. The job is simple. He follows orders, gets things done, and brings home just enough coin to ensure his family won’t starve. If the job is also unpleasant, well...most things in Dust Town are unpleasant. Darvis doesn’t expect anything else.

Rica, however, carries an endless optimism. She speaks of someday with a smile. Someday when she finds a wealthy patron. Someday when they pay off their debts. Someday when he’s free of the Carta and can become whatever he wants. Darvis doesn’t see the bright future she describes, but he can’t bear to tarnish her hope by arguing.

The Carta isn’t all that bad. Darvis is good at what he does, and he has Leske to watch his back. Leske is sarcastic and crude and smiles like he’s laughing at the world. They make a good team, and Darvis knows he would have landed in the Orzammar cells long ago if not for his friend.

Still, the city guard is not the only danger. The Carta may offer protection and payment, but it also doles out punishment. Darvis knows what happens to those who defy orders, so when Beraht visits he bites his tongue and smothers his temper. His family’s welfare is dependent on this man. It’s just hard to remember that when Beraht speaks to Rica the way he does. Once, Darvis leaps to her defense, until a blow from Beraht sends him to the ground. You’re useful, Beraht snarls, but you’re not the only lowlife for hire. Remember that, and be a little thankful for all I’ve done for you. There are a million things Darvis wants to say in response, but he sees Rica trembling in the corner, and he says none of them.

...

Marja is twenty-one when she hears that a Warden will be visiting Orzammar. The rumors say he is looking for aid against an upcoming Blight. The dwarves hold little sympathy for the Grey Wardens; darkspawn on the surface are no concern to them. But it is still tradition to honor such a visitor, and as dictated by tradition there will be a banquet, a Proving, and every other piece of ceremony the Nobles think will impress their ally from the surface.

The Warden’s visit is not the only reason for celebration and ceremony. Marja has at last been given her first moment of command- the first of many, she believes. Rumors are sweeping the nobility, saying that the king will pass over his eldest son and make Marja his heir. Marja has heard them all, and knows they are more than idle gossip. She has known for a long time that Trian would make for a terrible king. He is stubborn and callous, and the only favor he holds in the Assembly is with the staunch traditionalists.

It's an opportunity Marja can't pass up. The king will be looking to impress the Grey Warden, and her mission will provide the perfect opportunity. If all goes well, this will be the last push needed for her father to officially nameher as the future Queen of Orzammar.

Darvis is twenty-one when he hears that a Warden will be visiting Orzammar. The man’s arrival would not matter to him in the least if not for the Provings. But the Nobles never miss a chance to show off their favorite pastime to visitors, and Beraht makes a lot of money off of gamblers. He sends word to Darvis and Leske to ready themselves for an important task on the day of the Proving. No more details are given, but Darvis knows what to expect. For all the Nobles like to talk about honor and the favor of the ancestors, most Proving champions are decided by people like Beraht before the participants even step into the arena. Beraht simply needs some rogues that are good at not being noticed to make sure everything goes according to plan.

Like everything they do, the risk is significant. If Darvis and Leske are discovered, the Nobles will have their heads. But for once, Darvis has a good feeling about what the future holds. Rica is positive that she has a patron now, a wealthy man that is enamored with her. She needs a little more time, and then they’ll have enough coin to last them the rest of their lives.

It's an opportunity Darvis can't pass up. Beraht normally keeps eyes on Rica, but with the nobility flaunting their wealth for the Warden, he will have his hands full running a dozen different schemes. Darvis just needs to do his job and keep Beraht happy. With a little luck, Rica will have secured a spot alongside her Noble by the time the ceremony is over. Once that happens, they’ll never need to turn to Beraht for help again.

...

A Warden is visiting the grand city of Orzammar, and everything is about to change.

Title: Burn It DownFandom: Pathfinder: Wrath of the RighteousRating: GStatus: One-ShotMain Characters: Knight-Commander LilithAdditional Notes: Character Study, Aeon to Devil Mythic PathWord Count: 1.2kSummary:Hell hath no fury quite like Knight-Commander Lilith.

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The natural order of the world has been corrupted. Someone must put it right.

When Lilith first grasps the spirit of the Aeon, the power flows through her with ease and strength. With a glance, she can read a person’s soul. With a word, she can decide their fate. It is a natural extension of her role as an inquisitor, and she readily accepts both the honor and the burden.

Liar. Thief. Killer. Traitor. Criminal.

The accusations come to her easily, the bright indications of wrongdoing dancing behind her eyelids whenever she comes near a soul who has sinned against the balance of the universe. The ability to peer into a person in such a way is intoxicating, and it is as if Lilith has finally discovered her true purpose. Her destiny.

After all her years of training and lessons and sharpening herself into a weapon of Asmodeus…surely, such power was always meant to be placed in her hands.

And yet, with each decision Lilith makes, the shards of the Aeon’s judgement only dig deeper into her mind, carving into every evidence of imperfection. She stands by the sentences she hands out; for what is the use of justice, if not to serve for the betterment of their cause? Banishments and executions are rough, brutal solutions; suitable in some instances, certainly, but for most cases, true justice requires a bit more…finesse. It requires cunning.

But the Aeon do not see the flaws in their unmovable ways.

Rage. Pride. Arrogance. Greed.

Lilith grits her teeth through the rebukes from the Aeon in her mind, but she returns faithfully to the meditation at her mirror every day. This is her power; she will learn to wield and to control it. If she must curb her emotions and her desires even further, then so be it.

But she has never been able to curb her ambition; not for the sake of her mentors and masters, and not for the sake of the Aeon. Not even as the judgements of her very soul are burnt into her thoughts.

YouAreNotAnAeonYouAreASlaveToYourImpulsesYouMustBeColderYouMustBeStrongerYouMustBeBetterYouMustBeMoreYouMustBeLess.

The Abyss is even worse. Lilith’s power has been growing, yes, but the utter chaos of the plane is like a constant smother to her senses. She has never felt further from Asmodeus, has never felt her connection to his gifts weakened in such a way.

Once, she might have been intrigued by such a prospect, but the struggle to sort through her changing visions and the need to bring order to the chaos around her leaves her with little time to consider such things. Still, she somehow claws her way through the city of demons and emerges stronger than ever, even as her own mind screams at her that she is doing this wrong.

youshouldhavehelpedhimyoushouldhavekilledhimyoushouldhavebanishedthemalltheyrewrongyourewrongyoumustbefixedwoulditbebetterifyouneverexisted?

And yet, through all of this, Lilith emerges victorious. She returns to Drezen, burning triumphantly as she leads the charge to drive the demons from her city. She knows she is doing what is right; this is her Crusade, these are her people, and the demons who have invaded their lands do not belong here.

Once, that would have been enough. But now, when she reaches for the power of the Aeon inside of her, she is left only with an empty, helpless void and a condemnation.

You Are No True Aeon.

Lilith barely listens to Nocticula and Iomadae argue. For all their disagreements and bluster, there are hardly any differences between them; just two powerful people looking to make Lilith a pawn in their games. It is nothing Lilith has not encountered before.

What is new, however, is the doubt. What use is this power to her, if she has lost all ability to wield it? If the power threatens to overwhelm her rather than serve her purpose?

But when the time comes, and Iomadae descends in all her self-righteousness to demand she relinquish her abilities, Lilith can only grip them tighter than ever.

Let the gods judge her. Let the Aeon continue to whisper treachery into her mind. Lilith does not surrender so easily.

Days later, Lilith’s fingernails grind against the stone railing of her balcony, her knuckles bone-white as she examines her city. Even from up here, she can feel the wrongdoings of her citizens, trickling through the streets like poison. These days, constellations and arrows burn constantly at the edge of her vision, drawing her gaze to all the many, many things that must be fixed.

She will wrestle back her control of this power. She must. Whatever it takes.

Correct the distortions. Everything has been, and everything will be. But a true Aeon is forever.

Whatever it takes. Lilith’s insides twist at the memory of the words whispered into her mind. She doesn’t know what it means, and she hates that the mystery of it frightens her. Still, she will not let these beings scare her away from the powers that are rightfully hers.

Lilith knows she must do something, and soon; she just does not know what.

Not until Melies walks into the citadel with a smirk and a contract.

And Lilith almost laughs, because suddenly she is seventeen again, and the promise of power is at her fingertips, and all that is required in exchange is a promise of herself. It is both her own choice to make and no choice at all, just as it was then; this is how deals with the devil work.

Lilith is smarter now than she was at seventeen. She knows Melies would not make this offer without his own ulterior motives. And she is fine with that, because she knows how to play his games, and she would rather let her soul blaze in the fires of Hell than be ground away into nothing under the cold, hard stare of the Aeon.

Order must be restored.

Hang the Aeon’s order. Lilith has her own.

Better the devil you know, and all that.

We are Hell!

Lilith stands before the people of Drezen once more, now with clear eyes and a voice that is only her own.

They fear her now, with her dark curved horns and deep red skin, evidence of the deal she has made. This is perfectly acceptable. They feared her before, too, with her cold Aeon gaze that could pinpoint their every sin. But now, without the iron fetters on her mind, Lilith can sharpen that fear into a weapon to make the Abyss tremble before them.

We are Hell!

She speaks to her people about righteousness, about vengeance, about fury. These things are hers now, and with their power she will destroy every enemy that stands in her way.

We are Hell!

Her people cheer for her, and for themselves, and for the wrath they will unleash upon the Worldwound and all who would see it remain.

The Aeon claimed the sword of her mind was dull. But Lilith is no sword, certainly not one for the Aeon to yield.

Lilith is a storm. She is the fire and fury of Hell.

And the world will remember her name.

Title: Lessons LearnedFandom: Pathfinder: Wrath of the RighteousRating: TStatus: One-ShotMain Characters: Knight-Commander LilithAdditional Notes: Character Backstory, Hurt No Comfort, Harm to ChildrenWord Count: 1.3kSummary:A young Lilith spars with her fellow students and learns a valuable lesson.

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The mace is cold and heavy in Lilith’s hands as she lifts it from the training bench, and it takes every ounce of discipline within her to hold back a grimace as she raises the weapon and dutifully takes her position across from her fellow student. She is sparring against Felix today, which is quite unfortunate; at fourteen years of age, he is the oldest in the class and easily the most likely to win in games of brute strength. The other students stand against the far wall, watching and waiting their turns, and Lilith cannot help but wish that one of them had been chosen for this first match.

It is not the sparring itself Lilith minds. She’s adept at fighting, when she is allowed to be. But her strength comes from magic, from cunning. Straightforward weaponry has never been her strongest skill, and the blunt, brutal maces favored by the Asmodean Church seem especially inelegant in her hands. Her preferences matter little, of course; Inquisitors must use weapons, and if she is to be one, she must learn.

Instructor Brigia watches impassively as the two combatants fall into place. Outside of the training grounds, she wears the typical uniform of the Inquisitors: dark robes paired with masks of iron. The mask is intended to be a means of intimidation, but the removal of it does little to make her expression more inviting. She has never observed their sparring sessions before; she never bothered, not when they were young.

But now this class has ascended to the upper ranks. Now, they are worthy of higher notice. Lilith tightens her grip on her weapon and resolves to prove herself, no matter her disadvantage.

Instructor Brigia is silent as she watches her students prepare, and when they are ready, she gives a stiff nod and a single word. “Begin.”

Naturally, Felix is the one to make the first move. He charges in without hesitation, and Lilith is immediately forced into a defensive position as she dodges his persistent blows.

The fight is sickeningly short. Lilith’s mace is knocked from her hands with a blow that leaves her fingers stinging, and by the time she regains her footing, Felix is already looming over her, his own weapon paused mid-swing, hovering inches from Lilith’s chest.

Humiliation burns within Lilith as the moment stretches out. The Instructor should be calling the match in Felix’s favor now that she’s been disarmed, but no such call comes. Is she being made an example of? Will her failure be held out before the other students, that they may learn from her misstep? It would not be the first time.

She can only wait, stewing in her defeat, until Felix finally wavers and glances to the Instructor.

Instructor Brigia gives no indication that anything is amiss. Stone-faced as ever, she tilts her heads and prompts, “Well?”

Another moment of silent confusion passes, and she releases a low sigh. She nods toward Lilith and says, “Finish the fight. Incapacitate your opponent.”

Lilith understands immediately, and the embarrassment and frustration within her sharpens into cold fear.

She was right. She is to be made an example of.

Felix takes longer to catch on. “I…I already won, Instructor.”

“You have won nothing yet. Incapacitate your opponent.” Instructor Brigia’s gaze flickers from Felix, to Lilith, to Felix again. “We have healers in the temple if needed. Do not make me repeat myself again.”

Somehow Felix still isn't able to grasp her words, but his idiocy is Lilith’s gain. He is still looking at the Instructor when she strikes, bare-handed but strengthened by the type of resolve which is only borne from panic. She barely fazes the much larger student, but she does manage to grab hold of his arm, and she knows her only option is to wrest the weapon from his grip.

Even with the element of surprise, however, Lilith is still a head shorter than her opponent. He takes hold of her by the back of her robes and throws her to the ground, and this time, there is no hesitation when he comes at her with his mace.

Lilith has a split second to decide what to do- and she decides that she will not simply lie here and make herself an easy target. Rules be damned.

She lifts her hands to meet Felix’s assault, her palms already full of fire pulled straight from her veins. He screams as the magic makes contact and the scent of burning flesh fills the air; even as he swings blindly in retaliation, Lilith refuses to relent. With the burns spreading up his arms he has no chance of aiming well, and his frantic attacks catch not Lilith's head, but rather her right hand. This is infinitely preferable, but the attack still slashes her palm open and wrenches her fingers back with the force of the blow. Lilith ignores the bust of pain and brings her other hand back around, delivering a ball of fire with it, and Felix screams again as he is thrown back by the force.

The other students are shouting now, their voices mixing with Felix's screams. Lilith staggers back up to her feet, just in time for Instructor Brigia’s voice to cut coldly through the chaos.

“Stand down.”

Silence falls. The Instructor approaches Felix’s fallen form and leans down to inspect him, the barest hint of disappointment crossing her features. “A paltry performance, but we don’t wish to damage him beyond repair, do we? Somebody escort this one to the infirmary. And as for you…”

Instructor Brigia leaves Felix behind and approaches Lilith, who automatically straightens her back to stand at attention. Blood drips from her hand, but she doesn’t move from her position as she braces herself for admonishment. She broke the rules, and there is nothing more important here than the rules-

“Good work.”

A shocked breath of relief escapes Lilith’s lips, but before she can say anything, Instructor Brigia has taken hold of her shoulder and steered her to face the other students. “I hope the rest of you were paying attention. You are students now, but one day soon, you will be fighting in the real world. In the real world, there can be no hesitation. The heretics you face will take any opportunity to turn against you. Do not give them the chance. You have all been deemed worthy of advancement in our ranks, and that means that you should be able now to apply this lesson in your training…just as Lilith has.”

Pride swells in Lilith’s chest at the praise, even as her fear-fueled adrenaline fades and the throbbing in her hand suddenly threatens to overwhelm her. She bites back a gasp, though she must not be entirely successful, for Instructor Brigia glances down at her. The Instructor holds out her own hand in silent command, and Lilith forces herself not to flinch as she offers up her injury.

The healing is almost as painful as the attack. Lilith’s skin seethes as it stitches itself together, and the bones of her fingers twitch and crack as the Instructor forces their mending. When she is done, however, Lilith’s hand is good as new...save for two of her fingers, which remain painfully bent and crooked.

Lilith bites down hard on her tongue to prevent a whimper from slipping out as Instructor Brigia brushes a thumb against the fingers. In a thoughtful voice, she says, “These will be treated tomorrow. That means twenty-four hours from now and not a second sooner. Let it be a lesson to improve your melee skills. You may have won, but it was a sloppy victory, and there is no pride in that. The next time you spar, I expect to see a refined technique. Understood?”

Lilith nods and slowly withdraws, every fiber of her resolve focused on keeping the shakiness out of her hands and her voice. “Understood, Instructor. I will not fail.”

Title: With Grace In Your HeartFandom: Pillars of EternityRating: TStatus: One-ShotCharacters: Original Character (Desta), Aloth, Hiravias, Pallegina, TekēhuShips: Minor Desta/Aloth Additional Notes: Backstory, Character Study, Godlike CharactersWord Count: 2.2kSummary:

They say she is a child marked by the gods.(One day, she will realize she is so much more.)

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Give back to the Lord of the Hunt what is his, they tell her, and it takes the woman nearly a year to take the advice.

She tried. Hylea bless her soul, she did. But she doesn’t know what to do with a child like this. When she first saw the baby, she had thought it was gripped with a strange sickness, and she had mourned the child she thought would soon be lost. But the baby lived, and it was soon evident that this was no medical affliction.

The woman had given birth to a godlike.

Everyone knows the rumors of the strange kith touched by the gods at birth. Each god has their own markings that they grant to their chosen, and there is no mistaking this mossy, bark-skinned babe as anything but a child of Galawain.

The woman lays her bundle softly on the forest floor. She knows she is not the first who could not handle the so-called blessing the gods have given, and she knows she will not be the last. The baby fusses in its wrappings, and the woman gives the child one last, long look. Its sickly green face peeks out from the blankets, mottled by sprouts of fungus. The stubs that will one day grow into twisted horns are clearly visible poking out above its forehead.

Worst of all are the eyes. The woman believes- or perhaps wants to believe- that she could look past the strange features if she could only look into the child’s face and see a reflection of her and her husband, the way children are meant to be. But the eyes looking back at her are completely foreign; yellow and slitted and oddly luminescent, they speak of something the woman knows she will never understand, even if she had the desire.

When the child was born, the midwife warned her that raising such a thing would be difficult. Sometimes, she had said, it was best to return the child to the gods. At the time, the woman thought she could fight fate through sheer stubbornness. Now, she’s tired of pretending that this is the family she wanted.

So she leaves the child in the wilderness. This is Galawain’s child, after all, and these woods are Galawain’s domain. Let him decide what should be done. The woman wants nothing more to do with it.

(One day, Desta will stand before the gods and argue with them about souls. She will look up at Galawain and search his face for a hint of recognition. She will wait for him to make a claim to her soul, her life, her choices. She will not know if she can give him trust or forgiveness until he asks for it.

He will not ask. He will not call her 'child'. He will merely call her 'mortal', as if she does not bear his touch at all. Desta will almost lose her temper then, will come close to demanding he acknowledge her and tell her why. But she will not, because there are more pressing matters at hand, and because she refuses to give him the power of making her angry.

In the end, despite everything, she will have too much pride to plead for answers.)

The abbess says that all things happen for a reason. She says that Galawain led the group of hunters through the forest to where Desta lay in her blanket. She says that Hylea moved their hearts and told them to bring the godlike baby to the temple. She says that Ondra gave her the blessing of a fresh start, with no memory of the parents who could not care for her.

She says that to be born like this is a gift, one the ignorant villagers do not understand, and that Desta is meant for great things.

But Desta’s life is full of contradictions. Outside of the temple, people stare at her and recoil from her touch. Even the hunters who call her good luck are unnerved by her presence when they visit to make their monthly offerings.

And although she prays every day, Galawain is always silent.

(One day, Desta will split a bottle of wine between two friends that are the same as her and yet wildly different. They will speak of blessings and curses, and although their interpretations vary as greatly as their appearances, the common thread of the unusual will bind them together.

In the end, Desta will look back on all the odd things she’s seen in her life and think it strange that something as trivial as leaves growing from her skin was ever made into such a big deal. There are far more interesting things than that. There are men who embrace their gifts and use them to guide their people with compassion deep as the ocean. There are women who reject their shackles and forge their own fates with iron hearts and loyalty that reaches the skies. These people will inspire Desta more than any god ever did.)

The chapel is silent when Desta enters for the last time. She kneels and prays and meditates, and she waits for some kind of answer. When none comes, she goes to the forest beyond the temple walls and repeats the process.

Elayne wants her to stay with the clergy. Despite Desta's restlessness, the abbess still believes she was meant to serve the gods. Desta thinks of the future she would have there, all her days spent in sedentary worship, and she can feel the slow death it would be. The hunters agree with the abbess, but they serve their god in the wilderness, in the hunt. They would take her if she asked, but Desta has tried to learn their skills before and failed miserably. If she cannot string a bow or track an animal, what would she be to them other than just another offering of goodwill to their god?

In the end, Desta only knows that feels nothing from Galawain. She should, shouldn’t she? If she is truly his daughter? And yet he means no more to Desta than the mother who abandoned her so long ago. She has spent years learning his tenets, his teachings of survival and strength and the hardships of the natural world. For a long time now, she has been wondering if there is more out there than Galawain’s stark brutality.

So she refuses both fates and sets off on her own, ready to find out who she is when she is not in Galawain’s shadow.

(One day, Desta will compare stories with another who once prayed to Galawain for answers. He will have been less lucky than her, and will bear the scars to prove it.

Galawain, he will eventually say, is a god of tests and survival. He does not give what is not earned. He does not nurture. He lets nature run its course, and only when the strongest have proven themselves worthy will he then acknowledge them.

That won’t seem right to Desta. Life may not be fair, but perhaps the gods should be. The orlan will finger his eyepatch and shrug and reply that it’s all a bit bullsh*t, isn’t it?

Desta will laugh and agree, because this scarred man is one of the most resilient people she’s ever met, and if Galawain couldn’t see that to begin with he must truly be blind. And she will know that neither of them ever needed a god's permission to be strong, anyway.)

The Living Lands are wild and vast, and Desta spends years drifting through them. She keeps moving because she’s curious, and she wants to see the world and all the strange things within it. She keeps moving because it’s all she’s done since she left her temple, and she doesn’t know what else she would do with herself.

Most of the people she meets are wary of her- not all, but enough that she’s accustomed to the strange looks. They don’t bother her anymore; she’s long stopped caring what other people think. If all they see in her is a suspicious, bedraggled traveler covered in overgrown foliage, there’s not much she can do about it.

Desta keeps moving because she’s searching for something to call home, where people look at her and see something more.

(One day, Desta will meet a man with a sheepish smile and thoughtful eyes and a mind that never stops running itself in circles. They will travel and talk and save each other’s lives on many occasions, and it will take Desta nearly six years to finally kiss him. Her heart will pound with joy when he kisses her back.

When they’re together, she will feel a peace she’s not accustomed to, and he will look at her with wonder. Their love is their own, quiet and private, but when they go out in the city they will stand close enough that their knuckles brush. He will give Desta a small smile, and Desta will know that he truly sees her.)

The Kind Wayfarers light a spark inside Desta.

She is on the road alone, injured and cornered by a drake, and they appear from nowhere with weapons in hand. She can’t take her eyes off them, these brave warriors that protect her so valiantly and ask for nothing in return.

“What god do you serve?” she asks, because surely they must serve somebody.

But the paladin only gives her a proud smile and says, “We serve the kith who need us.”

Desta’s breath catches, and her soul fills with hunger for this light, so clear and strong. “I want to be like that.”

The paladin surveys the godlike girl, with her mace and her travel-worn clothes and her mossy skin and her undisguised passion. “You’re a strange one, all right. You’ll fit right in.”

They take her in and teach her their ways, and when Desta takes to the road again it is with a new mission burning in her heart. This is who she is- not a lonely child, an aimless traveler, an oddity whose fate is tied to the hands of the gods. She is, above all else, a protector. A guide. A Wayfarer.

(One day, Desta will be told what it means to be godlike, and her blood will run cold. Berath’s voice will betray no emotion when she speaks of how the godlike- their children, she calls them, their f*cking children- belong so completely to the gods. How they can be possessed. How they can be absorbed for energy. How they would so readily use and discard the lives of those they claim to favor.

“f*ck you,” she will tell them, and she won’t care what they might do to her. “f*ck all of you.” She will see only proud indifference in response. No protest. No guilt. And despite her anger and her hatred she will pity them, these lonesome creatures who have lived too long and seen too much and have no grasp on what it means to love somebody.

“Just wake me up.” Berath’s gaze will be heavy, but it will not intimidate Desta the way it did once. They both know there's too much at stake to send her to the Wheel now. “We’re done talking.”)

Desta collects wildflowers from the fields and braids them into her hair. She decorates herself with blooms of purple, red, blue, orange, bright shining yellow. The flowers are woven into crowns around her horns, laced through the bands of her clothing, even wrapped into the grip of her mace.

Over time they fall away or wither, but new ones always take their place. The point isn’t to keep them forever. The point is that while they last, they’re beautiful and colorful and they make her smile.

Sunflowers are her favorite. She loops a particularly large one through her hair and studies herself in the makeshift mirror of her silver armor. The flower both distracts from and complements her mossy skin, blends with the ferny fungus that crawls down her neck. It takes her weirdness and transforms it, turns it around and throws it back to the world with a brand new color.

Desta can’t do anything about the weeds that cover her body. But she can always make sure there are flowers in her hair.

(One day, Desta will watch The Wheel itself crumble before her eyes. She will be angry and afraid and helpless to stop it, and for a moment she will wonder what the point was in ever trying. Then she will shake herself off, adjust the sun-dried flowers in her hair, and tighten her grip on her mace.

She was speaking truth when she told Eothas she believed in this world, and in the people’s potential to help themselves and each other. And now, more than ever, she has a lot to prove. She has a lot of work to do and a lot of choices to make.

She will make those choices on her own, without the help of any gods, and she will continue to believe in the goodness of the world with all her heart.)

Title: A Toast to the LucklessFandom: Pathfinder: Wrath of the RighteousRating: GStatus: One-ShotMain Characters: Knight-Commander Piper Chanterelle, WoljifAdditional Notes: Friendship, Tiefling Solidarity, a bit of backstoryWord Count: 2.1kSummary:

“People love a good story,” Piper smirks, and she raises an eyebrow at Woljif. “Don’t they, oh great prince? What faraway land are you from, again?"“Alright, fair enough. But don’t tell Seelah I made that up, she’ll want her ten gold back.” Woljif takes a moment to chew on his thoughts, his tail flicking back and forth in time with the questions on his mind. He doesn’t want to push his luck by digging too much, but he is curious. “So what’s the real story?”Piper and Woljif reflect on tall tales and strange twists of fate. Wine is drunk. Backstories are shared. Candlesticks are stolen.

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Woljif lets out a low whistle as he ambles down the halls of the mansion, taking in his surroundings in solitude while the party rages on in the distance. The place really does need to be seen to be believed- this isn’t even Daeran’s main mansion, and somehow it still sparkles with enough gold to make any jeweler drool. Woljif noses his way through the empty rooms, stopping every so often to slip a little something into his pockets. Judging by the layers of dust, nothing he takes will be missed. Besides, expecting him to keep his hands to himself in a place like this is like asking a paladin not to preach.

Eventually, he finds his way into the room in the furthest corner of the wing, where the cobwebs have full reign. Not much worth taking here, he figures, even as he makes a pass of the paintings hanging haphazardly off the walls. None of it really catches his attention- until he reaches the largest portrait, hung right across from the door.

Truth be told, it ain’t all that interesting. Not really. Just a picture: a woman, a man, a little kid. Daeran isn’t hard to recognize, not with those aasimar features. Seems he got those features from his mother, who stands alongside him and a man who must be his father. The whole painted family is decked out in finery; between the three of them, there’s probably enough jewels to sink a ship.

Woljif’s own jewel- the only one he’s ever owned, and he had to risk his tail stealing it- suddenly feels very small in its place around his neck.

The sound of a door creaking open stirs Woljif from his thoughts, and quick as a flash he takes a step back from the wall, holding his hands up in feigned innocence. “I didn’t touch nothing!”

“No?” A rose-colored tiefling glides into the room with a smirk and a glass of wine, her skirts and swishing tail leaving a trail in the dust behind her. She peers around the room with interest, a small smile playing on her lips. “What a waste.”

Woljif breathes a sigh of relief. No angry guards, no fussy nobles- just Piper.

Despite technically being a crusader- and not just that, but the commanding crusader- Piper’s a good sort. And it’s not just because she fished her brother-in-demon-blood from a jail cell right under the soldiers’ noses, neither. Unlike most of her fellow crusaders, Piper is actually good for a story and a laugh, and she’s never turned up her nose at any of Woljif’s 'less than legal' ideas. It’s a wonder she gets so many uptight, law-abiding forces to follow her around, given her own disregard for their high and mighty rules. But that’s Piper; she opens her mouth, and it seems she can convince anyone of anything.

And the unprecedented magical powers probably don’t hurt, either.

“Look at this place,” she sighs, shaking her head in dismay. “Empty for years, but every room still has its treasures. And nobody around to appreciate it! It would be a crime not to take anything, in my humble opinion.”

Woljif chuckles, emboldened by the lack of lecture he would have surely received if, say, Seelah had been the one to walk in on him. Or, gods forbid, Irabeth. “My thoughts exactly! And besides, it’s not as if Darean cares enough to miss any of it.”

Piper’s eyes glide over the room, finally fixing on the portrait Woljif found. “Ah. Speaking of Darean…” she moves closer, studying the young aasimar in the frame. “That’s him, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Guess he got his looks from his mom.” Woljif tries to keep his smile up, but he can hear the bitterness in his own voice as that image sticks in his head- the noble boy and his family, enclosed in their golden little haven. “What a world, huh? Some people get a celestial bloodline, tons of money, and a title, while others get horns and a slap in the face.”

Piper is quiet for a moment, and her usual easy smile slips from her face. Woljif almost feels bad for bringing down the mood, but then she takes a breath, shrugs, and says, “Fate plays favorites, and life isn’t fair. Those are the first lessons you learn in this world. So how about a toast to those born without any luck?”

She doesn’t wait for answer, just takes a long sip from her glass before handing it wordlessly to Woljif. He can’t say no to that, and in one motion downs the rest of the drink. After taking a moment to enjoy the taste of what is surely the most expensive booze he’s had in his entire life, Woljif glances at Piper and says, “You didn’t have it so bad, though, did ya, chief? At least not according to that story you spun the other day. How did that one go? World-traveling troubadour, trained by the best Pitaxian bards, who felt destiny calling her to deliver the world from demons?”

Piper laughs, though the sound lacks its usual warmth. “That’s not even the best part! You should hear the stories I used to spin for audiences- my mother was a fae, one who fell in love with a powerful magician! Their love was true, and they were gifted a daughter blessed with beauty and song, but alas- all romances between mortals and immortals tend to end tragically. But never fear, for I vowed to travel the lands and spread beauty and love in their memory!”

She recites the tale in dramatic cadence, moving her hands emphatically through the air in graceful gestures, but Woljif can only snort in response. “And people fell for that?”

“People love a good story,” Piper smirks, and she raises an eyebrow at Woljif. “Don’t they, oh great prince? What faraway land are you from, again?”

“Alright, fair enough. But don’t tell Seelah I made that up, she’ll want her ten gold back.” Woljif takes a moment to chew on his thoughts, his tail flicking back and forth in time with the questions on his mind. He doesn’t want to push his luck by digging too much, but he is curious. “So what’s the real story?”

His question is met with a frown, but Woljif has already asked, so he figures he might as well poke a little further. Normally he wouldn’t much care about anyone’s past, but for better or worse Piper is the whole reason he’s here. He’s gotta get a good read on her, right? So he grins, hoping to reassure her that he ain’t up to any trouble with the question. “Aw, come on. I spilled mine, remember? Fair’s fair, chief.”

Piper still doesn’t look very pleased with the topic, but she tilts her head in acknowledgement of his point. “Yes, fair’s fair. It’s just…the real version is so much more boring.” She pauses, her mouth twisting a bit as she begins speaking, her clipped tone a far cry from the eloquence she’d spoken with before.

“Once upon a time, a tiefling girl grew up in a city much less glamorous than any world of fae. She fended for herself, for the most part. Her parents were tieflings, too, you see, and neither of them needed another mouth to feed on top of everything else.”

Woljif nods- it’s a familiar enough beginning, one that’s shared by quite a few amongst the thieflings. He glances back at Daeran’s portrait, a strange feeling simmering in his chest. What’s worse, he wonders, a family that can’t stand you, a family that never gave a damn, or a family that actually cared and then went and died on ya?

Oblivious to his musings, Piper continues, her tone carefully disinterested. “So the girl begs and steals to scrape by until she’s finally old enough to talk her way into a job carrying bags for a theater troupe. She’s got a pretty face- for a tiefling, of course- and a voice to match, and she eventually makes her way to the stage. She learns a handful of bardic tricks that are useful on the road. Of course, it’s hard to stay in one place very long, so from there it’s a series of traveling bands and circuses, finding places willing to have a tiefling in the spotlight.”

“Can’t be too many.”

“Nope.” Piper’s tail turns behind her in a lazy circle as she continues. “Even the ones who seem to like her, don't like her for very long. And there are parts of the story that Irabeth certainly doesn’t need to know about, where the tiefling girl has to rely a bit more on scams than singing. But then one day…” Piper holds her hands up in a victorious gesture. “She finds a weird magical sword and suddenly she’s Knight Commander of the Fifth Crusade!”

In spite of himself, Woljif chuckles. “No offense, but your story got a little off the rails there towards the end.”

“No kidding!” Piper whirls around, her voice rising an octave as she gestures to her surroundings. “Look at where we are! A depressingly decadent party in an old mansion owned by one of the richest families in the kingdom. And the head of that family is working for me, and when I leave, I’ll be going back to an entire army that reports to me! I’ve been nothing but a criminal and a street performer all my life, and now fate throws this at me?”

She stops her spin, pausing just long enough to look to Wolji in genuine bafflement. “How in all the hells did I end up here?”

For once, Woljif is at a loss for words. How should he know? He barely knows how he got here, outside of ‘it’s better than jail or being gutted by the Family’. “You’re asking the wrong person. I’m just a thiefling, remember? I don’t know nothing.” He pauses, and points to the decorations on the table behind Piper. “Except that those silver candlesticks are probably worth at least fifty gold each.”

Piper blinks, glances at the candlesticks- and a laugh bursts from her mouth. Just like that, her frantic mood is gone, and she’s once again the evasively charming Knight Commander. “You don’t say? Must be real silver to net that much.” She moves breezily across the room to examine the candlesticks. Her eyes don’t leave the silver as she continues speaking. “And…you know more than you realize. For what it’s worth, I like having you around.”

Woljif tries not to let the words go to his head- they’re just words after all, and people say all kinds of things to get what they want. Even if he can’t think of anything the Knight Commander would want from someone like him. “You’d be the first. But thanks, chief.”

“Demonspawn stick together, yeah? And…they don’t let slip to the rest of the army that the new commander has no idea what she’s doing and no qualifications to be leading anybody?” Piper shoots him an apprehensive glance. “The other stories- they’re ridiculous, I know. But they are so much nicer. And heaven knows these people need something to believe in.”

To his surprise, Woljif encounters something he doesn’t feel all that often: a twinge of sympathy. He doesn’t know all these crusaders and do-gooders, but he does know himself. He did the same thing Piper is doing every time he pressed his face against the shop window to catch a glimpse of his amulet. And maybe nothing about that was ever real, and never will be. But it felt good to hope.

Of course, he knows how stupid he’d sound if he said anything like that out loud. So Woljif gives a quick nod and says, “Sure, chief. I’m in no position to give you grief over whatever stories you wanna tell.”

Relief shines in Piper’s smile, and with a laugh she tosses the candlestick to Woljif. “Good- because you know what else we demonspawn do? We help each other fence their rich friend’s trinkets that he never uses.”

A grin curls across Woljif’s face as he catches the loot. “Now you’re talking!”

Piper nods in approval before turning on her heel and heading towards the door. “Tuck those away and let’s go find Daeran. If I’m going to steal from our host and snoop through his stuff, I should probably have the decency of getting drunk with him first.”

It’s not a bad idea- Woljif hates to admit it, but the overpriced wine Daeran’s serving really isn’t half bad. So he follows Piper, sparing only one last look around the room before closing the door on the dust and cobwebs and daydreams of a happy family.

Those things are all part of somebody else’s story.

Title: Imperial CourtesiesFandom: Pillars of EternityRating: GStatus: One-Shot Collection (7/7)Characters: Original Character (Nona)Additional Notes: Backstory for TTRPG Character, Family Dynamics & Family DramaWord Count: 2.3kSummary:A collection of ficlets and prompt fills taking place during Nona Vercae's time in Aedyr, as she crosses the line from dutiful daughter to disowned exile.

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Title: The Best of the WorstFandom: The Outer WorldsRating: GStatus: One-ShotCharacters: The Captain, Ellie FenhillAdditional Notes: Friendship, Fluff, Character StudyWord Count: 1.2kSummary:

It was sentimental crap, the kind of stuff a kid with his head full of idealism and revolution and dime-a-dozen adventure serials would come up with. And yet once Felix said the damn thing, she couldn’t get it out of her head.Ellie doesn't really buy into the 'found family' crap. That doesn't mean she doesn't have one.

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Like a family, Felix said. The naïve little sh*t.

It was sentimental crap, the kind of stuff a kid with his head full of idealism and revolution and dime-a-dozen adventure serials would come up with. Ellie knew better than that. They weren’t a family, they were a crew. Sure, they had to trust each other, to an extent, to keep from falling apart, but family was pushing it. Besides, Ellie already had one of those. She had no interest in putting herself through that kind of sh*t again. She was perfectly happy being cynical and independent and far, far away from anything resembling the kind of suffocation and injury those sorts of attachment inevitably brought on.

And yet once Felix said the damn thing, she couldn’t get it out of her head. The words echoed through her thoughts for days, lingering in her mind the way expired saltuna lingered on the tongue.

Like a family, a treacherous little voice whispered when she found that Parvati had calibrated her weapons and repaired her armor without being asked. Like a family, it whispered when she and Nyoka spent an afternoon drinking Zero Gee co*cktails and practicing their headshots on a dummy in the cargo bay. Like a family, when she pestered Max into a fit of irritation, like a family when Felix did the same to her.

That’s not what they were, Ellie insisted fiercely, desperately to herself. They were people held together by a ship and a paycheck. They didn’t care. She didn’t care. She couldn’t afford to. She already had debts racking up, each loan and gesture and unrequested favor tallied in her head so she could ensure that at the end of the day she was beholden to nobody but herself. It was a practice Ellie had spent years perfecting, and it had never caused her the kind of conflict she was feeling now.

She placed the blame squarely upon the shoulders of Imogen March, of course. Felix may have voiced the idea, but Captain Imogen was undoubtedly the source.

“You can’t live your life thinking the worst of everyone,”the Captain had told Ellie once. That was the sort of thing Imogen said with utmost sincerity, despite the number of times she’d been shot at and lied to and swindled. That was the sort of thing she believed.

And it was the sort of thing that would get her killed one of these days. Despite her occasional uncanny perceptiveness, the Captain was almost painfully naïve in trusting others. She was free to make her own decisions, of course, and Ellie was perfectly happy to mind her own business while Imogen chased her pretty daydreams. Let the Captain make promises to the other crewmates and bond with the AI and put all her faith in a literal mad scientist; it simply wasn’t Ellie’s business.

But for a woman who could be so smart when she chose, some things just didn’t make sense, and eventually Ellie had to ask.

“Why put yourself through all this?”

The question took Imogen by surprise. She looked up from the purpleberry soda she’d been nursing at the kitchen table, brow furrowed. “I know it ain’t the best flavor in the universe, but I gotta drink something.”

Ellie snorted and waved her hand. “Not the purpleberry, although that sh*t’s more likely to kill you than a mantisaur. I mean…Phineas has got you running to steal dangerous chemicals, right from under the Board’s noses, in Byzantium. Byzantium. Nothing good happens there, I promise you that.”

Imogen opened her mouth to answer, and Ellie hurried to add, “And I know you think you’re saving the colony and your folks on the Hope and all that. But the Board could probably do it just as well, with a bigger paycheck and less chance of getting yourself killed.”

After a moment’s consideration, Imogen sighed and said, “I just think it’s the right thing to do. There’s a lot in Halcyon that needs fixin’, Ellie, I admit that. And the Board ain’t competent enough to fix a vending machine. So I’m gonna try my hand at it and trust that at least I can’t do worse than them.”

“What, just ‘cause it’s broken, it’s now your job to make it all better?” Ellie challenged, but of course she knew the answer was yes. It was Imogen’s job to fix everything, apparently, from broken machinery to broken people to broken systems of government. But at the end of the day she was still just a person, with ideals bigger than her own common sense, who saw trustworthiness where she really, really shouldn’t.

Ellie sighed and rubbed her temple, trying to chase the thoughts away. “Look, Cap, I know you wanna save the day. But don’t forget to look out for yourself. No one else out here is going to.”

An unexpected smile crept onto Imogen’s face as she studied Ellie, and Ellie didn’t like the look that crossed her face one bit. She frowned on instinct. “What?”

“Nothin’,” Imogen said innocently. “I just didn’t know you cared so much.”

Ellie scowled and threw a mock apple at her, which Imogen caught with a laugh. “And there you go again," Ellie scolded. "You realize you’re besmirching a reputation I’ve worked very hard to build?”

“Oh, don’t worry. It’ll be our little secret,” Imogen replied as she bit into the apple. But she still had that look, and it was infuriating even though it shouldn’t be, because Ellie knew that Imogen always saw the best in everything and everybody, in rickety old spaceships and run-down robots and morally questionable scientists and cynical mercenaries-

And maybe that was the part that Ellie hated the most: the fact that she didn’t actually hate being looked at that way. The idea that she might actually kind of like it, the way she might actually like the Captain and the crew and their crazy-

Family, the treacherous voice whispered, and Ellie grit her teeth.

No. The others might think that, but not her. She knew how things would fall when the chips were down, because no matter who held the cards it was always the same. And if there was one thing Ellie was acutely aware of, it was that even family didn’t count for all that much in the end. Imogen could look for the best in people all she wanted, and even occasionally find it…but that didn’t change the fact that the best of the worst still wasn’t worth all that much.

Even so, Ellie wasn’t going to turn tail just yet. She still had business to take care of, debts to settle. And if the Captain wasn’t going to watch her own damn back in this universe full of people just itching to stab it…well, Ellie would do that for her.

Not because she cared, but because Imogen believed she did. That sort of high-hoping trust was a rare thing. Ellie didn’t particularly want it...but Imogen had given it to her anyway.

For that, Ellie owed her something in return, and she’d stick around until she figured out just what that something was.

Title: Learning From the BestFandom: Pathfinder: KingmakerRating: GStatus: One-ShotCharacters: (Future Baroness) Mercury PrimmAdditional Notes: Backstory, Childhood Shenanigans, Family FluffWord Count: 1kSummary:A young future adventurer takes her first steps on the path of alchemy.

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“You set your school on fire?”

Myrcelle looked up at her father with wide eyes, her hands clasped behind her back, desperately trying to portray as much innocence and regret and I-didn’t-mean-to as her seven-year-old body could muster. “It wasn’t the whole school. Just my desk. And just a little one.”

Arthur Primm sighed heavily, leaning against his worktable as he did so. Myrcelle watched nervously, knowing that whatever happened next would be an indicator of just how much trouble she was in. So far it wasn’t looking good- her father had removed the thick glasses from his eyes and was rubbing his temples, which he only did when he was very tired or when he was about to ‘have a talk’ with one of his children. He was quiet for a while, his eyes still closed, and Myrcelle quietly considered simply tiptoeing out of the workshop before he could remember to lecture her.

But then she’d have to go through the front of the shop where her mother was, and her mother’s talks were way scarier than her father’s. That was why she’d come straight through the backroom of the apothecary after school. She’d have to face her mother eventually- Callum would surely tattle on her before the day was out- but hopefully her father would see her side by then. After all, he was the one who had experience with things like experimenting and inventing and accidentally setting things on fire, so maybe he’d be a little more understanding.

At last, Arthur took a deep breath in, put his glasses back on, and gave Myrcelle a patient look. “Why did you set your desk on fire?”

Myrcelle huffed and cross her arms, forgetting for a moment to look pitiful. “Well, it wasn’t on purpose.” Her tail flicked behind her in irritation as she remembered trying to explain that to her teacher, with very little success. “I was trying to make alchemist’s fire, like you do! And I thought I did it right and I was just gonna show it to my friends. Except…I guess I did it wrong because it didn’t stay in the bottle like it’s supposed to. But I didn’t know it was gonna explode right in the middle of Miss Harp’s lesson!”

Arthur blinked, surprise taking over the stern disappointment as he listened to Myrcelle’s story. “Alchemist’s fire? Myrcelle, you know you’re not supposed to touch the dangerous things in here.”

That much was true, Myrcelle had to admit. She’d been helping her father in the apothecary since she could walk, and she was allowed to help mix healing potions and simple tonics. And that could be fun- the apothecary was her favorite place in the world, with its endless rows of neatly organized elements, the comforting heat of the fires, the smell of dozens of simmering mixtures.

But Myrcelle quickly realized that the stuff she was actually allowed to touch was so boring compared to what her father made for the adventurers who came to the store- things like explosives and acid bombs and liquid fire! She was supposed to learn how to do that kind of stuff when she was older, but it was really, really hard to wait that long when all the ingredients were sitting right there on the shelf, just begging to be turned into something magical.

“I just wanted to see if I could do it,” she said earnestly, hoping beyond hope that her father would know what she meant. Butterflies danced nervously in her stomach as she waited for his reaction.

Arthur tilted his head and studied her through those thick glasses, not saying a word- until, to Myrcelle’s surprise and relief, he shook his head and chuckled. “Well, you are certainly your father’s daughter.”

Myrcelle grinned, her remorse quickly evaporating as it seemed she would not be getting yelled at- not right now, anyway. “Try telling Miss Harp that. She says I get into trouble all the time ‘cause I have devil’s blood.”

For a fraction of a second, Arthur’s brow furrowed, and he suddenly looked very angry after all. But the look was gone too quickly for Myrcelle to be sure, replaced with her father’s usual patient expression as she said firmly, “You get into trouble because you don’t follow the rules. Blood’s got nothing to do with it, and if your teacher is still saying that then maybe your mother should go have a talk with her.”

The image of Liana Primm delivering one of the lectures she usually reserved for her children to one of their teachers made Myrcelle giggle. She bounced on her toes, all traces of sorrow completely forgotten now that her father seemed to surely be on her side.

“So why didn’t my fire work?” she asked, her focus shifting to what she felt was truly important about the day’s catastrophe. “How do you get yours to stay in the bottle?”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “When you were pilfering my stores for flammables, did you think to grab a stabilizing solution?”

“A what?”

In lieu of answer, Arthur turned to a shelf of bottles and took down one of the bright orange vials of Alchemist’s Fire. Myrcelle couldn’t keep the smile from her face as he held it up, the bright orange liquid shimmering like a jewel in the firelight. And most noticeably, not bubbling and broiling like hers had ended up doing.

“If you really want to learn, I can teach you,” Arthur said. “But you have to follow the instructions. No doing it by yourself, no taking bottles to school. Can you handle that?”

“Yes! Yes I can, I promise!” Myrcelle said eagerly, hardly able to keep still as she processed this exciting new development. “Can I start learning now?”

“Myrcelle!”

The sound of Liana Primm’s voice caused both Myrcelle and her father to jump. Her father shot her a guilty look as he gently put the bottle away. “Later, I think. As happy as I am that you’re excited to learn, I think you’re also grounded.”

Dang it, Callum, Myrcelle thought grumpily. Her brother was such a tattletale.

“Myrcelle, get in here now!”

Myrcelle sighed and headed to the storefront. She knew she was in for a long lecture, and probably a whole month of extra chores. But at least she would have the image of the bright orange fire and the anticipation of her father’s recipes to keep her spirits up.

Title: That Which Is LostFandom: Dragon Age: InquisitionRating: GStatus: One-ShotCharacters: Inquisitor Adaar, Josephine MontilyetShips: F!Adaar/JosephineAdditional Notes: Hurt/Comfort, Post-Trespasser, Injury RecoveryWord Count: 1.3kSummary:Meraad mourns what has been lost, and Josephine reminds her of what has not.

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For the first time, it occurs to Meraad that she might have to cut her hair.

She takes a deep breath- steady and barely shaking, because even in the privacy of her own quarters she must stay strong- as she fixes her eyes on the reflection in the mirror. Long, loose strands of un-tethered silver hair obscure her expression. That’s fine; honestly, she prefers not to look herself in the eyes when she finally admits defeat.

In those first few days, she barely spared a thought for things such as this. Her mind was reeling over revelations and war plans and betrayal. When even walking felt wrong and unbalanced, her hair didn’t matter; she left it loose and tangled and didn’t care.

But now she’s recovering, isn’t she? She’s sleeping through the night. With a bit of twisting and stretching she can secure the buckles on her own clothing. Dagna wants to show her a new prosthetic design today, and it’s not as if Meraad has ever needed two hands to wield a dagger anyway.

Even the pain is not so bad anymore. True, she still feels the occasional phantom shocks, as if the Anchor were still fixed onto a nonexistent palm… but it happens far less often and with far less intensity than it did when the wound was fresh.

Meraad can handle the remnants of pain. She can handle the adjustments to her fighting style and her new center of balance. She doesn’t need help to live her own life, and she certainly doesn’t- shouldn’t- need help to braid her own damn hair.

Maybe she should have cut it long ago. It’s always been an effort to care for, and she rarely indulges in silly luxuries. But when it’s loose it flows nearly to her hips, a soft cascading curtain of silver- the only thing about herself Meraad might truthfully call beautiful. She wonders what the others will think, when she shows up with her long, intricate braid chopped off. If she can’t even save this small thing- if she can’t do this simple task she’s been doing since she was old enough to walk- how is she supposed to re-learn everything she knows about combat in time to face Solas once again? How is she supposed to be strong enough to lead her people to victory if she can’t even take care of herself? How-

In a burst of willpower, Meraad grabs a long strand of hair and make one more attempt. Keep this strand between these fingers, tuck another between these, twist the elbow this way to grab a third from the back-

Her lone hand fumbles as she tries to reach around her horns, and her fistful of hair falls from her grasp once more. Meraad slams her palm on the dresser in frustration, screwing her eyes shut against the traitorous tears that threaten to fall.

This is all silly. She hasn’t cried over the pain or the nightmares, and she will certainly not cry over this of all things. She will cut her hair and that will be that. Meraad moves to wipe her eyes and out of habit moves the wrong arm, exposing herself to the disorientation of sending commands to a hand that is not there, and the boiling frustration that has been building inside her all morning finally escapes in a choked sob.

“My love?”

Meraad jolts upright, realizing with a pang of guilt and embarrassment that she has woken Josephine. She hurriedly wipes away her tears- with the correct arm, this time- and turns to assure Josephine that everything is fine.

But before she can say a word, Jospehine appears behind her, taking in the scene, and without a word reaches out to run her fingers through Meraad’s hair. She stands there for a moment, neither woman speaking, and then Josephine begins to braid.

At first Meraad wants to protest, but the feel of Josephine’s fingers, methodical and steady in their task, is soothing. Besides, she still doesn’t trust her voice not to shake. So she lets Josephine work, and as she does Meraad studies the other woman’s reflection in the mirror.

Josephine is still in her long nightdress, her hair own tousled from sleep. But her eyes are as alert and perceptive as always. It is her eyes that Meraad watches; they are lovely, deep and intelligent and always so expressive. Meraad searches those eyes now, certain she will find pity- or worse, disappointment. Josephine has always been the strongest believer in Meraad’s strength. She has always been the last person Meraad wants to let down.

But in this moment, Josephine’s emotions are unreadable, even to Meraad. She simply continues her work silently until she has gathered all of Meraad’s hair into a long braid, which she then tucks over her shoulder. It is only then that she speaks, her voice heavy with sorrow and worry. “You have been through a great deal in a very short time. Do not demand so much of yourself.”

So much, she says. As if fixing her hair is the equivalent of leading a battalion.

Meraad frowns and stands, brushing past Josephine to collect her daggers from the other side of the room. “Why not? Everybody else does.” She is aware of how bitter her words are, but she can do nothing to sweeten them. “And I can’t afford to let them down.”

Josephine reaches an arm out to touch Meraad’s shoulder as she walks by. The touch is light and gentle, but it still stops Meraad in her tracks. “Do you know how many countries are completely self sufficient?” Josephine asks. “Do you know how many noble houses can sustain themselves with no allies or benefactors?”

She is using her ‘gentle reprimand’ voice, and even as the words make Meraad scowl, the familiar tone eases some of the tension in her chest. It is nice to know that some things don’t change, she supposes. And Josephine is talented enough to make even a lecture feel comforting. “I thought Ferelden was infamous for its independence.”

“Ferelden would not be standing if not for the Grey Wardens. And the Grey Wardens would have collapsed if not for the Inquisition. And the Inquisition would have failed a hundred times over if not for the people who believed in us and gave us their aid.” Josephine’s hand drops from Meraad’s arm, tracing down her forearm and wrist until their fingers are wrapped together. “Nobody stands alone.”

Meraad sighs, and she turns her gaze from the hand currently wrapped in Josephine’s to the hand that is not there. She doesn’t like looking at that empty space; it still feels so wrong, to expect to something there, even something unnatural and painful, and instead be reminded that there is nothing.

“The Inquisition may have had assistance,” Meraad replies, “But it was still built on a foundation. What will happen when that foundation is damaged?”

Josephine reaches out to cup Meraad’s cheek and turn her head so that they are facing each other. “I know it will not all be as simple as this,” she says, brushing a stray lock of hair from Meraad’s face and tucking it behind her ear. “But you are still Meraad Adaar. That is one of two things you can never lose.”

Meraad releases a deep breath, closing her eyes and letting herself be soothed by the touch. “And what is the other?”

“You are my love,” Josephine answers, and though Meraad’s eyes are still closed she can hear the soft smile in her voice. “And you will not be facing the future on your own.”

Meraad lets the words sink in over a long moment, and then she nods, and decides that perhaps she will not cut her hair just yet.