ahmuseme writes

For a moment Rachel stayed silent before the words leaving her mouth were words that she wasn't so sure about yet. But she needed Benjamin's opinion about it. "Is it time to return home? For Benji?" Once more she looked away from her son, so she could look at his father. Despite the fact that they were not together anymore, she appreciated his opinion probably more than any. He was Benji's father and she knew that he would always tell her the truth whenever it was about their baby boy.

He fell quiet for a moment before continuing. "I already watched you leave once because stayin' would've meant givin' up a piece of yourself. I don't want you comin' back if it's gonna mean the same thing." Benjamin stopped just short of the porch, far enough away that Benji couldn't overhear. His gaze drifted across the fields bathed in the warm glow of the late afternoon sun. This had always been enough for him. The ranch, the quiet, Rachel and Benji. It was the life he'd dreamed of since he was a boy, but he'd long ago accepted that her dreams stretched farther than the horizon surrounding it. He finally looked at her. "Darlin'... after all this time, have you figured out what you're still lookin' for?"

By the time she reached the branch, her breathing had quickened. She accepted his offered hand without hesitation, allowing him to pull her beside him beneath the dense canopy. Mercy pressed herself against the trunk as leaves concealed them from below. Her pulse thundered in her ears, but even that couldn't drown out the sounds approaching through the forest. A moment later, the first horse emerged beneath them. Then one rider became two, then four, spreading through the road with practiced efficiency. One dismounted near the very spot where the stranger had intercepted her, kneeling to examine the churned earth. "Fresh tracks," the soldier called. "Two of them."

The wind only seemed to get fiercer as the magic heightened and the whole moment exploded with magic, dust and time. Elliadore felt the very fabric of reality bend as the summoned was thrust to the stone ground, rock and debris following the form. A few mages and some of the guards were blown back, the force of the magic too much for them to withstand. But Elliadore remained on his feet, in fact, he stepped closer, pebbles and dirt shifting under his boots as he drew a few steps forward, arm dropping from blocking his eyes as the man in the center of the chaos lifted his head, adjusted the spectacles on his face and observed something in a language Elliadore did not recognize at first. Then the words seemed to clear and Elliadore could understand, glancing at the mages he saw the eldest two muttering and presumed the ability was attributed to the spell they were casting.

Then the second prince shifted forward, shaking the dust from his own clothes with a few tugs on the fabric. A friendly smile, albeit shadowed with mischief, pressed Elliadore's lips upward but the sentiment didn't entirely touch his blue eyes. There held the truth of his feelings if only for the summoned hero to see as Elliadore looked over the man. Studying and analyzing like any good scholar and warrior.

The legends hadn't spoken clearly of the great violence of the summoning, destruction showed around the room but Elliadore was amused at the fact he and his guard were one of few that had managed to remain on their feet. He would always get joy from seeing his father and brother irritated and uncomfortable. Like they were now, climbing to their feet and Gregor, the first prince, growled with his embarrassment and irritation, shoving the guard away that had helped him to his feet. There were so many questions dancing about Elliadore's mind but he shook it in order to clear them away enough to focus.

"No, I wouldn't say we are your students," Elliadore confirmed, amusement now twitching at his lips while his eyes scanned over the man who had... fallen? into the center of the circle where he had been summoned. The dirt and rocks that had showered down upon him drew Elliadore's eyes then they skated up to the ceiling as if expecting the tower stones holding in place above had tumbled down. No damage was done to the ceiling, of course, that had only been cast about the room. Tables, bookshelves, and whatever other furniture and items the mages stored in this ancient tower had been crashed about the room.

Elliadore shifted forward another step and then another, his boots crunching over the rocky debris, pausing momentarily as he thought about the qualities of the earth that had come with the man in front of him and if it too held magical properties. The tall fae offered his hand, features more polite and friendly than the king and his first heir that brushed at the dust and disarray of their garments. Elliadore ignored them, bending down enough to make it clear he was offering the other aid to get to his feet. "But that doesn't mean we don't have much to learn from you. A scholar then?" Again his eyes danced over William, the perusal stopped by the king clearing his throat and assuming the floor from Elliadore. The irritation on Elliadore's features flickered briefly and he glanced over his shoulder at his father, the smooth point of his ears exposed as his hair brushed over his shoulder.

"Uh... yes, I suppose that's one way to describe me," William replied as he shifted the man's hand into a proper handshake and gave it a firm shake, entirely unaware of the streaks of dirt and dust he left across the other's immaculate sleeve. "William Everness. Excavation Director." He had just opened his mouth to ask the stranger's name when a booming voice echoed through the chamber.

Years of academic ceremonies, museum galas, and professional conferences took over before his brain had a chance to object. William instinctively straightened, shoulders back, his attention remained fixed on the speaker despite the persistent ringing in his ears and the lingering dizziness that made him feel unsteady on his feet. The room seemed just a shade too bright around the edges, making it difficult to focus on much beyond scattered phrases. Everything seemed... off. The people were dressed strangely, their clothing looking more suited to a historical reenactment than the modern world. Several carried swords openly at their sides, yet no one seemed to find that unusual. Between the bizarre attire, the archaic way they spoke, and the lingering ache from his fall, William couldn't shake the feeling that he was missing something obvious.

William glanced around the room, trying to determine who exactly was being addressed. Surely not him. His attention eventually settled on the man beside him. He certainly looked the part. Everyone seemed to pause whenever he moved or spoke, and unlike the others, he appeared only mildly interested in the speech. That was enough to convince William. Leaning over just enough that only the other man could hear, he lowered his voice. "Uh... congratulations. 'Hero of Legends' is quite the introduction." His lips twitched into a polite smile. "Though whoever wrote that man's speech has too much flair for the dramatic. You must have done something rather extraordinary to earn an introduction like that."

That went better than expected, Wulf had planned for a confrontation by one of the many individuals who surrounded the princess. It wouldn’t be the first time someone saw through his lie, though those who did tended to confront him learned to regret it pretty quickly. Wulf’s hand clasped around Clara’s and soon the two were on the dance floor, weaving between other couples who were swaying to the music. Perfect, now that he had a princess in his grasp things could go much smoother, if they wished to keep their daughter safe they will give him whatever he wants. A pity that she will be used as a pawn in his game.

Clara followed his lead with practiced ease, years of courtly instruction making each step as natural as breathing. Yet as they turned through the other dancers, she found herself studying him in the fleeting moments between each measure. There was something oddly familiar about him, or rather, about his attire. Her gaze lingered on the finely tailored coat for a moment when they were face to face. She was almost certain she had seen it earlier that evening, but couldn't quite remember where. His hand was warm where it held hers, but not the hand of a man who spent his days behind council tables or attending court. There were calluses along his palm and fingers, rough enough to catch against the delicate fabric of her glove. Curious. A soldier, perhaps? Or someone who had spent far more time outdoors than within palace walls.

“Aislin, Lady Aislin Thornwyck,” the redheaded beauty interjected, not allowing him the awkwardness of forgetting his name to diminish their introduction. “I’ve always ever written and signed off with my surname,” she offered him this saving grace, her eyelashes batting flirtatiously more out of weight than actual flirtations beginning yet. “It’s an honor to meet you. I read of your heroics during the war thanks to clippings from the news your mother was kind enough to send,” she informed Anders, desperately trying to say ‘I accept you’ regarding the need of a cane, knowing not all women would despite him being a true hero of the war.

"Lady Aislin," he repeated politely in greeting and committed it to memory. There had been a time when compliments about the war would have stirred some measure of pride. Now they only reminded him of everything the newspapers had failed to print. The sleepless nights, the pain that settled into his leg with every change in the weather, the names of men who had never come home. "You are kind to say so," he answered simply, his mood fouling somewhat. "Though I suspect the papers made for a far grander hero than the man standing before you."

His gaze lingered on her only briefly before drifting toward the window. She was beautiful, certainly. Any gentleman with functioning eyes could see that. And yet beauty had little to do with why she sat in his parlor. Circumstances had brought them both here more than desire ever had. Anders listened without interruption. He noticed the slight catch in her voice long before she attempted to hide it. Without a word, he reached into the breast pocket of his coat and withdrew a neatly folded handkerchief. Extending it toward her, he said quietly, "In case you should find yourself needing it." His expression remained composed, almost apologetically so.

katherine sat in the duke's well-decorated parlor. she knew little of the duke. only that he was injured in the war and declared a hero. injured to what extent, she did not know. she always pictured her future husband as a strong, strapping man. to no great offense to the duke, katherine just never pictured....him. but what choice did she have?

the doors opened- finally. katherine was beginning to think that the duke may not show. she stands and offers a curtsey. "nonsense. there is no harm done, your grace." katherine watches him for a moment, before it is clear that he wasn't going to continue speaking. she clears her throat. "i am lady katherine simon- pleased to make your acquaintance."

The polished steel brace strapped over Anders' left leg caught the afternoon light as he crossed the parlor, each step accompanied by the familiar click of his cane and the quiet protest of leather and metal. He paid the sounds no mind. After years of enduring sympathetic glances and whispered conversations that ceased the moment he entered a room, they had become as ordinary to him as breathing. He inclined his head in acknowledgment of Lady Katherine's curtsey but offered no greeting in return. Formalities had long since become exhausting things to the Duke, and he doubted either of them wanted to be here.

Lady Katherine Simon. He had heard enough to know why she had accepted the invitation. Her family fortune had all but evaporated beneath her brother's reckless decisions, and society had already begun circling like vultures. She needed security, and his mother, meanwhile, had become convinced that a wife would somehow restore the son the war had stolen from her.

He limped toward his customary chair, the carpet swallowing the tap of his cane while the hinges of the brace refused to be silenced. Settling into the seat with practiced care, he rested both hands atop the carved handle of the cane and regarded the young woman before him. She was undeniably beautiful, though Anders had never understood why society treated beauty as though it were a virtue. It said nothing of character, intelligence, or resilience. There was little sense wasting one another's afternoon. "How much debt is your family in?"

Octavia was glad there was no argument. She was sure the doctor did not approve but she didn't care. If anyone said anything, she was a woman worried about her betrothed. She didn't care if they called her emotional as long as she could be here to ensure he was okay. She planned on watching Anders the whole time but when she heard the doctor's orders to Edmure to hold him down, she looked away, grimacing as she heard the cry from the Duke's throat.

When Edmure called for her, using her name instead of her title (even with the doctor there), Octavia's head snapped toward him. It pained her to see how Anders' face was contorted with pain but she did as she was told. She moved to the other side of the table from the doctor and slipped her hand into the Duke's bloody one. She leaned down, finding his ear to speak softly, "Anders, I'm here. It's Octavia," she began, "Please stay still . You are not dying because of that stupid man," she paused, "Just focus on my voice."

"Well, I don't want any trouble either, so we're in agreement on that." The words are said with a smile. One could never accuse Rook of being an unfriendly kidnapper, at least while his mark was still being cordial to him. It was never personal. This was work, and between her and his employer, it was his employer so far who had been persuasive enough to get him to agree to do their bidding instead of her. Had she something to offer herself, Rook wouldn't be opposed to breaking his contract. That was the risk of working with a mercenary like him—the results he could provide were some of the most precise, but his employers' offers had to be the best to keep him.

plot: kier and ronan have teamed up to hunt y/m in the forest surrounding the night court. think every popular thriller where the mc has to escape a psycho in the woods lol.

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mutuals/non-mutuals are encouraged to reply!

Kier paused beneath the base of a rather large tree, eyes scanning the surrounding area slowly. Only the light of the pale moon provided visibility, managing to break through the branches and bathe the forest floor. Even with the provided light one could barely see, especially if they were not used to the darkness of his homeland. "They're growing tired." He said, voice soft as he spoke to the other fae. He cast his gaze towards Ronan, dark hues scanning his face before he looked forward again. "If they keep it at this pace they won't make it through the night." He said the sentence with a widening grin, almost like the idea of capturing them brought him joy. "If you go that way we can cut them off." He says, not waiting to get confirmation before turning and walking off in the opposite direction.

A startled gasp escaped Mercy as she instinctively lurched forward, wrenching herself free of the heavy hand on her shoulder. She barely had time to turn before Kier stepped from between the trees, cutting off the only path ahead. The sound that escaped her was somewhere between a whimper and a sharp breath as she staggered backward, boots slipping over damp leaves. She caught herself before she fell, retreating until her back struck the broad trunk of an ancient tree. There was nowhere left to run.

Her chest rose and fell in ragged breaths that burned her lungs, every inhale tasting of moss, cold air, and fear. Moonlight filtered through the canopy in fractured beams, silver catching on the tears in her cloak and the dirt smeared across her trembling palms. Her gaze darted from Ronan to Kier and back again, searching desperately for an opening that simply wasn't there. Her fingers subtly disappeared beneath the folds of her cloak, brushing against the weathered relics fastened to her belt. Ancient tools etched with forgotten runes, crafted to channel the Moon Goddess's blessing and wield spells long abandoned by most of the world. Not yet. She couldn't afford to waste them unless she had no other choice.

Leliana didn't know what to say. Not because she disapproved but because in the back of her mind she too hoped he was dead. It was not for loss of love but for this very reason. She had buried him after so much prayer to gods that seemed to disregard her. His return at any point after she laid him to rest, any point after her betrothal to Stein could only be a problem. Just as Aesir had proved the moment he returned from the dead. Holmgang. The word echoed in her mind like a curse. She didn't fight it when Stein pulled her over. Instead, she propped her head on his shoulder just near the nape of his neck. Her eyes closed for a long moment. "I don't blame you. It shames me to admit things would be easier if he were dead."

His fingers idly tracing slow circles against her side as she spoke. Stein had expected the first part; he had always known that if Aesir ever returned, there would never be a world in which he simply stepped aside. Hearing her admit it aloud still stung, but it was an honest wound. When she finished, he let out a slow breath and rested his cheek lightly against the top of her head. "I won't ask you to make me first," he said quietly. "Not because I don't want to be, but because I don't think love works that way. I'd rather be your second truth than your first lie."

As soon as Benji made it clear that he wanted to get back to the house as soon as possible for the burgers, Rachel put him back on the ground and watched the boy run off.

"I would've loved to know, despite how I would feel. I could've talked to him, that's something that I could've done from hundreds of miles away," the blonde pointed out to him. Yes, it would've made her feel like she was doing now. But maybe it could've helped. Maybe then Benji would know that she hadn't left because she didn't want to be with him anymore. Rachel needed to know that he wouldn't think that.

"Benji knows that I haven't left because of him, right?" She asked Benjamin, a pleading expression in her eyes to ask him the question. How had her ex-husband comforted their son after a kid would've told him that?

Benjamin started toward the house at the same easy, unhurried pace he seemed to carry through life. He heard the question in her voice and didn't need to look over to know exactly what expression Rachel wore. He could picture it as plainly as if she'd been standing in front of him. His mind drifted back to those first nights after she'd returned to the city, when Benji would crawl onto the porch swing beside him and ask why Mama had to leave, whether she'd stopped loving him, or whether he'd done something wrong.

plot: wulf and his crew are there to steal a crown jewel from y/m kingdom during a royal ball and in order to blend in he is dancing with y/m (someone highly ranked like a king, queen, prince or princess). the obvious ending here being that instead of taking the jewel they take y/m!

replies will be moved to a new post!

**while i am mutually exclusive please feel free to reply to my starter if we aren't following each other! i am always looking for more writing partners!

The plan was simple, get the crown jewel and get out before these royals knew what hit them. Royals hardly knew what their entire dowry held, which means they could easily steal their precious jewels. They'd scoured the palace with no luck in finding what they were looking for but luckily for them they went unnoticed. You'd be surprised how little they pay attention when a ball was being prepared. Which is how they ended up here, dressed to the nines in some borrowed attire and attending a ball. Surrounded by other idiotic royals who didn't know that a band of pirates had infiltrated their precious party.

Clara had long since mastered the art of being the perfect princess. She smiled when expected, laughed at remarks she barely heard, and accepted introductions to lords whose names blurred together by the end of the evening. Every pleasant word and practiced curtsy served the same purpose: another thread in the web of alliances her father tirelessly spun. She was less daughter than diplomatic promise, displayed beneath crystal chandeliers and candlelight for every ambitious noble house to admire. It was exhausting. Perhaps more than she realized, for the stranger's observation caught her completely off guard.

Her gaze lifted to find an unfamiliar gentleman standing before her, one hand extended with an easy confidence that suggested they had already been introduced. Before she could truly think, years of etiquette took over. Her gloved fingers settled lightly into his offered hand. Only then did she remember her dance card. A flicker of uncertainty crossed her features as she glanced toward her lady-in-waiting. The older woman looked just as puzzled, discreetly scanning the gentleman's face in search of recognition that never came. Whoever he was, he had not been announced through the proper channels, and cut several suitors. Refusing him now, with half the ballroom already noticing the exchange, would invite whispers she had no desire to fuel. Better to indulge one unexpected dance than create a spectacle. A gracious smile returned to her lips. "Thank you. I would be delighted."

Rook had been tailing his mark for several days now.

Any normal bounty hunter would acquire the bounty and return them in haste, eager for the large sum of money that had been promised. Had a younger Rook been entrusted with this mission, perhaps he would have done the same. At this point, though, despite locating the mark days ago, Rook hadn’t even made up his mind on whether he would return the stowaway at all. After all, he knew his employer would continue to line his pockets should he continue to send hopeful letters back to them—"I’ve picked up their trail again after a fortnight"; "They're a slippery beast, but I’m close to catching them now". Little lies that would fund Rook’s days while in truth, he’d found the bounty mere days after he’d set out. Exactly why his employer had hired him. Cunning bird, strategic piece; his namesakes were accurate. What else was there to do after the escape from an endless war but watch, track, note?

As they neared the border between countries, Rook knew he would have to step in lest his mark get himself killed. There was a precarious peace at the moment, but it danced on the edge of a blade. If Rook was the type to make predictions, he’d guess it wouldn’t be a turn around the sun before the peace was shattered and conflict broke out yet again. Over what, he’d only heard whispers of: power, immortality, magic. Kings playing god yet again. Should his mark cross into another kingdom and have themselves be discovered, it would be trouble for both them and Rook.

Mercy had been so close. The border lay little more than a morning's walk ahead, and beyond it, the sea. She had never cared much for ships, but the promise of open water and a country where no one knew her name had carried her farther than exhaustion ever should have allowed. Every aching step had been fueled by the hope that if she could just reach the coast, she could disappear into the countless ports scattered along the shoreline. But then came the voice.

She stopped mid-step, her shoulders stiffening as a mixture of fear and frustration settled heavily in her chest. For the briefest moment she considered pretending she hadn't heard him and kept walking with the hope whoever he was had mistaken her for someone else, but the order that followed erased that illusion. Slowly, Mercy lifted her hands before turning, neither hurried nor defiant. Amber eyes settled first on the crossbow leveled comfortably in his hands before climbing to the man holding it. She studied him in silence, searching his face for recognition. Had another king found her already? Or was this merely a mercenary chasing coin?

Slowly Leliana relaxed back into the furs as Stein climbed atop her. Though he had climbed on top of her many of times before today she now felt the sting of conviction as he kissed her lips but, why did she feel this way? It wasn't like she had known Aesir was still living, if she had she would not have agreed to the engagement to Stein. Either way here she was. Slowly she shook her head at his question. At no point had she actually verbalized her feelings for Stein. In their soft moments they would exchange words, but Leliana consciously avoided admitting it was in fact love that she felt for Stein. With the potential of his death in three days, it felt as good a time as ever to confess.

A quiet laugh escaped Stein as he shook his head. "I'll forgive you for that one. Truth be told, there was a part of me that hoped he had." The confession carried no pride, only guilt. "I've never wished death upon a comrade before." With a slow exhale, he rolled onto his side, drawing Leliana with him until she was cradled against his chest. One arm settled around her waist while the other rested beneath his head, his chin brushing lightly against her hair. It was a familiar embrace, one born of quiet evenings rather than desperate reunions.

Then she confessed.