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Hey everyone! You may have noticed my activity has dwindled a lot these past few months. At first it was just burn out and then it got more and more tiring to come back, I kept promising I would and forcing myself to get on but it’s really just not bringing the joy it used to do. 

For that reason I’ve decided to finally toddle off. I’ve been happier picking up old hobbies and writing content away from here, it’s just time to move on. 

I’ll be leaving tumblr as of today. This blog will remain up on Permanent Hiatus so that if I ever want to come back I can, but realistically the chances of that are slim. 

I will have the app logged in until Sunday to say goodbye to everyone! It’s been really amazing meeting you all and I truly do hope you have an incredible time and look after yourselves. I will not be keeping my discord logged in either, so that will not be a place to reach me.

“Use that voice on me again, oh I dare you, Please give me a good reason to pin you into the dirt right here and snap your little twig in two.“

Jaw sets tightly, hands bury themselves further into his pockets, fists wound tightly around said wand. He has half a mind to punch the smile — sharp, hungry, taunting, like all of his smiles are — right out of Hyde’s face. He imagines, for a second, the sensation of his knuckles colliding with the sharp bone, feeling it crack, hearing the sickly satisfying ‘crunch’ ! Digging his nails into the smooth, creamy skin of his neck, biting him, kneeing him in the abdomen, anything to wipe off that grin, the self - satisfied glimmer of his eyes. The only thing holding Newt back being the knowledge that even his strongest hit would do nothing against him. Even wrapped up in a body that was soft and mortal — all of Robert’s soft spots and graceful limbs — it was near impossible to bruise him up, to draw blood out of him or lay a cut on his skin.

After all, he made a point to rub it in Newt’s face whenever the possibility rose. He wrestle - played with the beasts like they were nothing more than kitten cubs, like their fangs didn’t double the size his face, like the smack of a wing against his spine ( their span as long as he was tall ) wouldn’t leave a lesser man’s back mottled in yellow and purple and break a bone or two.  But Hyde was anything but that : a man, lesser or not. At most, Newt would only get a glare for his troubles, Hyde’s jaw popping as if he’d just cracked the bones rather than gotten a furious punch, a roll of the shoulders just to really drive it in.

He knows it. Hyde knows it. And he smiles, this time with teeth, patronizing in the way only he’s allowed to be. Newt lets his fingers rub the familiar grooves in the length of his wand, the scratches and dips of fingers and teeth and fangs and claws alike, wood worn soft by age and wear. Eyes close and a deep breath is taken. Count down from five, slowly…

You’re a real fucking bastard, Hyde. "What’s stopping you then ? You’re all bark and no bite. Don’t tell me old age is turning you soft.“ Newt takes a step forward — satisfied at the wrinkle of a nose he gets, the way he can get under his skin, if only a bit — closer now so that he can see the bright blue of Hyde’s eyes and the crisscross of darkened veins under his skin, less noticeable now than during the transformation. He lets a hand reach to cup Hyde’s cheek, thumbing one of them, with the clinical interest he reserves for new, strange things he sees, like this ( the gesture, the sight, Hyde’s pulse under his fingers ) isn’t familiar. "Touch my wand and I’ll feed you to my beasts. It’s been a while since I’ve spoiled them, you know.”

This was oh so much fun. He’d missed England of course, home, the smell of absolute misery and theatrics but nothing, not a moment of it compared to being here. This ridiculous magical mess of an enclosure that both defies anything humanity had sought to be capable of and surpasses it. 

It stinks of beast, burns with forestry and water. It’s wild, untamed no matter what the enclosed areas and illusion of fences may like to play pretend at and it called him, dragged across his skin, titlated the very inch of him that sunk beneath a face that wasn’t his own. It was home for Hyde, not so much of course, for the sweet little Jekyll that would be broken here.

And not even that echo of promise, not even that daring desperate need to be uncaged and sink his teeth into the last of bloodlines littering the savannah could hold a candle to the ridiculous, beautiful human, feral wizard before them. So quick to rise to the occasion, matching each footstep of their delicate and vicious dance with a ferocity none might expect. 

Oh yes, he missed this. He missed them and Hyde shows no shame in preening, eyes bright, burning with challenge when the words strike home, curling about pretty little freckles to draw him in deeper. Filling a role they both know they need to play to stay afloat. 

“You know nothing about me is soft darling, mm, you still have the reminder of that on your hips don’t you? Or has all that time up there made you boring?” 

No need to get distracted, none at all and yet he lets his gaze wonder for a moment. A salacious drag that is positively hungry - he was, so much so, teeth aching, lips wet. Desperate to sink into him and not let go - an eyebrow quick to raise in pointed measure. It’s a glorious thing to watch, how his hackles raise. For all the carefully cultivated image he presents is plenty accurate, Newt is far more like his beasts than anyone could begin to know.

Anyone of course, but Hyde. Not quite all he seems either, fingers closer to claws than gentle touch. Newt meets his rougher edges with a gleeful equal measure and it leaves him shaking, lips parting in anticipation when the hand that rises is so vibrant with anger and yet so light in want. 

Conflict, capability, he wants and he wants and the scent buries itself somewhere in the Gods chest until his pupils blow wide, locking onto the scatter of scars on sun-warm skin and down to a full mouth half bared in annoyance.

He’s stunning really, truly, Hyde is going to ruin him 

- ah but, but not quite before the game is up. 

As tragic as it was to refrain the reward would be so much better to fill the craving. Skin on his cheek is warm and as it moves it smears Newt over him like a brand and Hyde reaches for it, slips his fingers among long ones, uses the anchor to drag the magic user close, laugh low and taunting. 

“I love when you play feral, sweetheart but you and I both know you like it too much to dare. Would you really risk giving them a stomach ache for me? And who’s to say I wouldn’t claw my way back out to you, find you here, make you pay for it.” 

A pause because really, he lives and breathes for the atmosphere of drama. For the way that Newt tries so hard not to inhale as he draws in, the way he could so thoughtlessly, so seamlessly turn that chin up and bruise all along his throat.

How strange it was to walk in a world that had been so familiar and yet so alien to her all at once. It was this part of living that no amount of crying girls and herbal remedies could forcibly prepare them for in Aretuza. Living in spite of all the familiarity about you falling. 

At first it had been refreshing strange new concepts and ideals. There had been such knowledge to posses as people began to spread further, as she did. Yennefer had learnt more than she could have dreamed and seen more than she ever would have liked to. Yet it was fleeting. Human perception so sure of their own power grew so sure they began to think of what they had once feared as bedtime stories and childs play. Perhaps in many ways it was for the best. Had she not been there for the alternative? Shadows illusions and ignorance protected people far better than visibility.

The scars of Niflgaard’s own eradication would litter her skin if not for her magic. They remained on more. 

Each century she found a place for herself to begin in. Politics was always the same, even when it changed. Greedy little men polluting their shores and their people for that times currency. For an ideal of immortality in power, the want to be remembered and in control. Yennefer had done well, she had walked alongside revolution, turned cocks that would look to her in dust. 

Then she would grow tired. It was tiring, playing the ego of others so that she might keep some semblance of forsaken peace and when the night became too much, faces of people she had lost coming up again on streets with blank faces - the universe idea of a joke - she would return to the same place that made her and she would bleed herself into those disgusting waters so that she might forget.

It was cursed work, keeping Aretuza’s magic alive, hilariously ironic and yet horrifically real each time. But she must. If she could not keep her people and if she could not win her wars then they would not be forgotten lightly. Not this time. 

It had been there they she had received the warnings. Eels of old allies, slick against her skin, sharp teeth on her fingertips in urgency. Every now and then some advantageous moronic little children would stumble upon their towers and their temples and think to take it for themselves. 

Each time it becomes more tiring to fight. It is not that she grows weak, she would never be weak again. More than pleased to take a knife to her throat before that had the chance to occur - it was that each fight seemed closer together, longer, more explosive. She could not continue to level the halls and expect them to remain standing. 

And then the wary lost become an army and with each brick shaken from its foundation her anger grew. The scouting party had returned, supposedly, with talk of power hidden in the rockbed. They wanted to plunder her memories and take what they had no right to take, just like every other traveler on her soils. 

She could all but hear Tissaia’s sigh of cold disapproval. Such is the way of them. 

It had taken weeks of careful planning to create an illusion that was not only large enough but also sustained and realistic enough to keep them suitably distracted. Another group fighting for their golden opportunity. Drawing their eyes from her domain with enough chance to walk into their camps and learn what she could. 

The newest set of fools were all but a cult. Not quite her first dealing with them, sadly, but certainly the first of that calibre. Trinity was a cruel, ugly hand stretched over, pressing into holes and duckings that they sought to use to reshape the world. It would be alarming how the number of these organisations had grown if she had not seen their beginning. 

Had her sisters remained. Had her mentor this would be a cherry picking. The power of the school would crush them beneath their heels, wipe them away in smoke. Their connections that spanned the continent would ensure they scurried back to their dive with little thought return. 

The wars had seen to that long before the sun turned. Now it was only her and the skeletons that cried for rest. 

Yennefer above all. Above the change, above the ventures, despised asking for help yet she needed it.

Not for the battle, no, but for the fallout. She needed to eradicate enough of them to weaken the office and then find a prize or pain worthy enough that they would run after it rather than remain. She had spent days with her hand about their throat throttling, shaking, digging about in ribcages for information until the name that continued to reoccur bore fruit. 

They had a fear her annoyances. A little wasp about their camp they seemed to worry about greatly enough that they lay traps miles away to try and dissuade it and much to her delight, and amusement, this worry seemed to be a woman. 

Lara Croft. 

From what Yennefer knew, buried in the depths of their heads and quite beautifully written in their own blood - was that they had made enemy of the girl when they had her father killed and since then she had done nothing but get in their way, hunt them down and thwart their best of operations.

Frankly, Yennefer might bed her on meeting. She sounded like just her sort of accomplice.

So she had thought. As it turned out getting to the fucking woman was a pain in all of her assets. She had to set up an elaborate mess of traps and promises that would buy time. Jaskier would have adored her using his bag of tricks, auditory magic to create hallucinations. Bastard bard, lingering even now.

The memory of Geralt has inspired the wolf. It and it’s pack had settled well into the chamber, fed greedily on the magic she offered and prowled the halls with a taste for justice she rather admired.

And still it would only deter until more could be done. Fuck it, blasting apart the damn ruin was her last resort and as she waved a hand to unhinge the door before he Yennefer couldn’t help but think it was becoming more appealing. 

The room was a mess. Miles she had travelled to get here, donned her best of silks, twisted her hair about her face in a way that she knew would fall with ample attention to her chest. There was no such thing above being a seduction. By the old Gods it was a veritable fail safe and yet here she was in an office full of dusty old books with what looked like a day of food piled up around the messiest handwriting in existance.

She’d seen the articles, the pictures. Done all she could with the help of the wonderful modern research to see what and who Lara Croft was and none of it mentioned she was a damned disaster in a leather jacket. 

“Miss Croft I tried to stop her, but she-” 

Enchanted his mind to look away when she walked in? Yes, quite, but the poor Butler wouldn’t recall that part. Only that by some grace she would part the doors and continue on. Still mess aside she had business to attend to and the woman’s personal office seemed the perfect setting really. 

The slit up her thigh does well enough to prove she hides no weapon. Yennefer did not need them, she was all the danger they could offer, checking over her fingers as the door begins to swing. She’d chipped a nail ripping out the jugular of that last guard, what a pain. Sacrifices must, she supposes.

“You know when I heard of the incredible archeologist and first rate historian I expected a little more class. Your door was open by the way.” 

Scathing but not quite as judgemental as she could have been if her position was better for it. Irregardless of first impressions Yennefer still needed her and Trinity still wanted her. Lara could clearly handle herself and her impressive bag of guns, but would she handle Aretuza? 

Luck was such a fickle bitch. 

Especially when it had a mouth like that. 

Her scathing judgement slips more into approval as Yennefer takes her in. Clearly not expecting company bless her, shirt too big for her body, hair in absolute disarray. yet her stance speaks of quite the fondness for violence and Yennefer is damn near tempted to see what she could do with those thighs. 

She knew enough of what. The work Croft had put into dispelling the reputation of Babayaga had been exemplary. Her plan was well in motion, she had Trinity’s prize pain in the ass and was more than happy to serve them to Lara on a platter for what they had done to one of the libraries.

“Your reputation proceeds you so I don’t doubt you have a weapon waiting, I’d ask you to not bother but if you can’t resist then do go ahead and pull a gun on me, it will make these negotiations so much more interesting.”

A drum of fingers, just enough to keep the tension in the room tight. Part of her was painfully curious to see if she would. That part was only delaying the inevitable and as much as running from her issues was a fantastic answer she didn’t have the time or pleasure of doing so. 

Shame.

Just some things I’m going to absolutely implement from the current beta of Marvel’s Avengers into my portrayal of the boys. I’m waiting for the full game to make a verse or potentially make updates to my default verse because seriously it’s so good for them!

> Mission Messages! Bruce always leaves Hulk mission logs for before and after a mission with the team. These include some suggestions, updates and an overall thank you for doing the work. They’re left on a secure network Hulk can access anytime, sometimes he likes to play the thank you’s and stay safes when Bruce is in a dickhead mood.

> Hulk & Nat’s dynamic! I love LOVE Nat in this game which, as y’all know, is a delight because me and mcu / comic Nat rarely get on. Hulk and her having little fight moves and play sparring on the jet and teasing each other over sucking when they go down made me so happy, they’re bffs who sit and paint each others nails and bitch about the team on weekends I don’t make the rules. 

> Bruce’s RV! It’s so trashy and I hate it which clearly means I have to use it immediately. Them having an RV for easy travel and camp with craft supplies for Hulk and a whole back of snacks was truly a power move.

> Hulk Tech! Bruce and Tony teaming up to make Tech Hulk can use isn’t new to this game specifically but it’s media I love love love. It also shows up in the Avengers Assemble Cartoon and once in the comics. Hulk has his own phone/contact in form of a smart watch (with stretchy band to shrink to bruce) It’s Hulk Proof.... mostly. It needs replaced every few weeks dependant on mission amounts.) He also has his own log in for JARVIS and the Avengers also!

> Code Green / Code Purple! I really like that they use it as a way to refer the other for work and as a simple trigger for the switch with Hulk or Bruce fronting as a way to prompt them without upsetting them. Having a trained trigger rather than outright trying to force Hulk out is uhhhh so much less damaging to them as a system also. 

> Hulk memos! In return to the mission logs Hulk draws on Bruce’s board and sometimes leaves him verbal messages back. Whilst they can chat internally it’s a very sweet physical gesture for a system and I love them so much?? 

> Nonverbal signs / gestures for Hulk! I noticed it as an idle thing, but there are flashes of both Tony and Nat using visual movements for Hulk as communication. I know it’s probably a battle thing but considering Hulk does have difficulty with verbal speech it’s a really cute idea that the whole team just has a nonverbal Hulk talk going on. It makes him feel more comfortable and them act like an actual team (gasp, impossible I know mcu) 

The longer they stayed out there, the colder the Soldier felt. Teeth clacking and muscles tight and practically vibrating and he knew he’d never felt the cold like this before. Or at least, not that he could remember. Feeling cold as a concept was foreign to him- it used to be a very part of him, and now it seemed like the enemy. It sapped his energy and stole his breath. The pain was new, as well, and he liked that even less. This whole situation was not ideal and yet The Soldier had no idea on how to handle it. He had no basis for comparison, no real idea of what to expect or what *should* happen in a situation like this. The Soldier was at the mercy of this man and it was not a comfortable feeling in the slightest. As the other man raised a hand between them, simply hovering, he watched it intently, unblinking eyes flitting between the hand and its owner.

The Soldier’s brow furrowed at the concept of several names, of borrowing one. Was a name important? He hadn’t need one in… well, however long it had been. However long he hadn’t been more than a nightmare made flesh (or, made frost). It made no sense to him, yet he hesitantly nodded anyway. Surely he would have to remember one soon enough, or at least pick one.

He gave a small noise of consent, maybe derision, at the mention of feeling the cold. It used to bring him comfort. The words Kaer Morhen didn’t mean much to him, but if it was a stronghold full of warriors and mages powerful enough to fend off the Hunt, it made sense why it had been a target. The Soldier didn’t know anything about who lived there or who they had fought; he only hoped that he might be able to survive the coming days instead of being slaughtered like a straggling enemy. Who knew if everyone would be as helpful as this human.

The man seemed intent on remaining cheerful and friendly, and though it was yet another completely strange thing to witness- The Soldier still appreciated the warning before heavy fabric was draped around him. Up even closer the man smelled… warm, and human, something floral hidden under many layers of fear and sweat and death. That more than anything so far had some of the tension relaxing out of his shoulders, helped along by the ridiculous warmth the cloak offered. The Soldier curled up just a bit tighter inside of it, shivering yet again, now at the stark different between the added layer and his icy armor.

A hand rose up again, seemingly waiting for something. Though he didn’t quite know what to expect, The Soldier nodded slightly again. Warm fingers brush against his various wounds but The Soldier doesn’t take wide eyes off of the human. It was completely unnerving to be this close to someone. According to the man, he thought The Soldier was human too, though he didn’t sound sure either. Something deep inside The Soldier’s chest said that it was true, yet how would he know? Well… it would have to do for now, even if he had to *learn* what is was like to be human. So far everything seemed confusing and/or overwhelming. Besides, it wasn’t like he knew anything else.

Again the man was chattering along, talking about beasts (no, none would come anywhere near this area and the deadly frost for days at least), injuries and infections, quarters and a ride to town. It took a moment for The Soldier to sift through it all- he was being taken back to this man’s home, to be cared for, yet it hadn’t sounded like a demand or an order. Nothing made sense anymore and The Soldier felt on the edge of a fit. Even so, he squared his jaw and nodded, gathering his feet underneath himself.

Though shaky and dizzy he stood up well enough- until he teetered sideways towards the left, thrown off balance by an excess of weight. A surprised grunt left him as he caught himself, knees bent and shoulders tilted awkwardly. Pushing the cloak back and lifting pieces of his armor off- dropping them to the ground, unwanted- The Soldier swallowed thickly. His left arm was not, in fact, an actual arm, rather some sort of silvery sword, covered in equal parts iron and frost, spark spikes sticking out about halfway down. It was clearly a weapon, one that didn’t seem to come off, one that he had never truly noticed as wrong.

     “Oh… yes, I guess…” he trailed off.

Wide blue eyes darted up to the man’s and back down. He didn’t remember it happening, didn’t remember if he had come like that or if the Hunt had done it. Glancing at the man’s- Jaskier’s- arms, The Soldier would bet that this wasn’t normal, either. It was just another reminder about how wrong everything was here. The metal pulled on his shoulder and seemed to weight down on every bone on that side of his body- but he had had worse. There was always worse.

Taking a breath The Soldier righted himself, finding his balance again on the snowy ground. He didn’t meet Jaskier’s eyes, leaving his gaze on his black boots and tugging the cloak back around him tightly. It bothered him, frightened him even, but he did not have the energy nor the correct knowledge to either accept it or run screaming. With a nod, he gestured for Jaskier to lead the way, off the battlefield away from the blood and ice. While he had no idea what lay ahead surely it couldn’t be worse than what lay behind. Well, that he could remember.

As they walked slowly through the field and towards the large gates ahead, The Soldier couldn’t help but let his gaze wander. Human and Hunt alike, there were still plenty of bodies scattered, or organized into rough piles. There had been a lot of life lost that day, and though The Soldier didn’t know much, he knew that death had always followed where the Hunt went. This had been his fault, he and his kin, no matter the reasoning. It made an odd, uncomfortable feeling swell in him, making his chest heavy and his stomach clench. Though it might not mean much, he had to try.

    “I’m… sorry,” The Soldier said quietly.

The buildings on the other side of the gate almost seemed to blend into the rock, well crafted and soaring high. The Soldier had never seen anything like it as far as he was aware, and he couldn’t help the small sound of surprise that exited him, or the way he craned his neck to see more around them. It should have been difficult in the dim light, but mostly everything was clear to him as they walked quietly on.

His companion was the quiet sort and frankly Jaskier couldn’t blame him in the least. You have your mind stolen by some deadly and rather dastardly ice elves intent on world domination and then up and get rescued by the very people you were attempting to kill with no real clue where you belonged or even, indeed, what your name might be. He couldn’t begin to imagine how much it must ache to be so lost and for the first time that evening he’s actually rather glad to be the one to have found him. 

Geralt is a dear who is wholly undeserving of his reputation but he was first and foremost a Witcher who was currently deadset on protecting the last of his family. He would have swing a sword without a thought. Yennefer would have turned him into smoked turkey with less than that and the others would have followed suit. No. It’s probably for the best that he stumbled here, too soft hearted and foolish yet fate did do it’s part. 

Looking to the man he saw the fear, the lost boy seeking help but the turmoil of accepting it. Poor thing had been through something else entirely. When Geralt and Yennefer had returned he.. well. They hadn’t looked the same. Something in their eyes and even now too much chill left them both wincing, no matter how they tried to hide it. 

He’d get him inside, a nice pair of clothes and some warmth and then g and argue with the bullheaded lot in the keep. It wouldn’t be pretty but it was better done without their new friend present, having your fate debated after waking with amnesia was not good for the soul in the least.

Especially with part of you missing. 

The bards eyes soften further when they land upon the garish weapon attached to him. Lamberts words echoing once more. They’re turned into weapons, blunt expendables. But this was just so -- so literal. He barely manages to raise his hands to steady him as the fellow almost topples. 

“Easy there. Don’t you worry too much. They’re a bunch of brutes but my friends are very good with magic and magical items. I’m sure they’ll be able to get you more comfortable in no time.”

Once I convince them not to kill you! Baby steps. 

It’s an awkward sort of wobble but they even out with each movement. Thawing muscles! Just as he thought and after a long moment he lets his hands fall, glancing occasionally incase another quick help is needed. For the most part their breaths fog about them and the silence is less oppressive with company, even the odd sort.

Jaskier is eager to leave behind the dead, gingerly stepping over corpses and gesturing to the trail to take, bundling his cloak more comfortably about himself. It’s an ugly sight, seeped in tragedy. The cost it had taken to win... no story will ever do it justice. But by meletille he would try. 

Broken sound startles his reveree, a rare thing! But after the evening even he is not so quick to break the mourning quiet, blue eyes wide as they turn to the body at his side and oh, it damn near breaks his heart the sight!

The shame in a skittered gaze, each line of him all but screaming self blame, uncertainty. Much like a cornered pup fearing a beating with no clue why. And to blame himself? Is he not as much of a victim as they were? More so perhaps. 

“Now none of that. You’re not the first man to try and kill me and you definitely wont be the last. Just last week I had a count try to defame my cock because his son took a liking to it.” 

Jaskier tuts at him gentle, offering his hand to the still fleshy one, giving his brightest and certainly most charming smile. The man had survived countless horror and a literal death pit, he would not fall to his own melancholy tonight. Why, that’s the best of reasons to befriend a bard. 

“This was not your fault. Not anyones fault but the leaders at the charge and these people did not fall for us to regret living. I believe you when you say you do not remember and the darling person before me now doesn’t seem so capable of such savagery, hm?” 

Stubbornly Jaskier slides his grip into a rougher one and gives a warming squeeze reminded terribly of when Geralt would get into one of his moods, the weight of the world on such tired shoulders. He couldn’t fix the mind but he could do his best to ease the burden.

“You have survived just as we have survived which was very much the point of fighting to begin with. So put that sorry away and let’s go find a nice warm room to rest. You’ll find it all seems less terrifying in the morning light. Especially when with such fantastic company. Well, Fantastic company and Yennefer.” 

His laugh may be a little mad but that’s just the distended belief settling in. They really had made it and tomorrow was for tomorrows worries. It did them all well to think on that. When most of them weren’t bucket deep in drink that is. 

Ah shit, shit, shit - it had to be demons! Demons and the fade. Ever since getting to Thedas he’d seen more piles of evil than he’d ever see on Par Vollen. Creepy fuckers crawling up on your skin. They made his horns itch ad he was ass deep in them, swinging with every inch of force he could muster, thinking hard about the nice hot bath he’d have when it was all done. 

There would be bubbles. Or someone would die.

It’s more of a challenge to keep track of each member one eye down but he’d had time to adapt. Right down to movements and style, keep turning, the recoil of hits would give him pause enough to catch sight and go again. He’d had practice keeping straight steps, hah, Krem must miss the days of him falling on his face every few hours. 

To his right Dorian is moving quickly, him and Sarah mixing bottles and magic to set fire to everything around them. It’d be pretty if it wasn’t scary as all shit. Sometimes he wonders if that Elf isn’t a little bit mage by the way she manages not to go up with it, dancing back and cackling madly as twinkle toes sweeps his staff past her to throw up a wall of ice.

Boss is making short work of enemies with him, blood thick on her blades. Absolute whirlwind with a knife, Adaar suited them. The Ben-Hasraath would’ve made good work of them if they were born to the Qun. ‘Course they wouldn’t damn well be here if the Qun had spread a little further.

The Bull swings down hard, gives a grunt and grins when the body falls under him. Pride demon falling to its knees with a shriek he definitely wont drown out with a bottle later. None of his boys are down, no death calls but the ringing quiet of the battlefield is always better than the noises these things make. 

Just for the pleasure he grinds his heel down, huffing through the smoke. 

“Aw shite, tell me that’s all of ‘em. It is right? Tell me it is!”

“I have many talents but tragically Demonic maths is one of my lacking. It seems clear for now.” 

Bull snorts at the easy back and forth between the pair. Despite appearances theres no heat, all of them too worked boneless to really panic about holding political ground. Dorian even waves a hand passively, a few arrows flying of their own accord back to their shooter. 

“Is everyone okay?”

Kali wipes blades on the fabric of her thighs and all but bounds over to them, reminding him of a needy nug in the way she pushes back blonde hair and fusses over the elf. Sera likes it, shows in how she preens but Bull? Well, a solid ground would be just as hot right now. 

“Not to interrupt the warm and fuzzies boss but the big hole in the sky?” 

It’s a feeling he’d never want to imagine but couldn’t escape now. Like a weight over his head, pulling, heady. It’s like drinking too much and following ass you know will kill you in a dark alley out of the Tavern. Temptation - it’s always temptation with the fade and the more rifts they close the less open for business it was. 

This one seemed particularly angry. Kali turning determinedly even as beneath their feet kicks up spires of not-real-probably-deadly green crystal. 

Did he mention he hated this? Ground shouldn’t move like that. It’s ground. It’s solid. 

“Right. Last one! Then we can go back to camp and get some dinner. Kadan, take border with Dorian, Hissrad, watch for any stragglers.” 

Ugh because that was a thing. Closing them seemed to be a big game of tug and war. Boss once called it stitching with their whole hand rather than a needle. As she closed it there was a chance for something on the other side to try and cut the thread, pull back, get through. Pulses, kick back. It didn’t happen often but usually what dropped dropped with claws and a whole new set of nasty. 

Routinely they get into place, Bull turning the weapon in steady hands as he keeps an eye firmly on the gaping chasm of creepy. Sometimes - breath held and tension tight - it almost seemed pretty. Horrific beyond all reason but still. And sometimes after he thinks he might have seen more than green past it, they all did if the nervous twitches and wondering mage eyes gave him any true indicator. 

They didn’t talk about it. There was too much potential for apostate or feral claims if they did. 

The first boom of connection rocks them. Sera cursing up a storm as she sticks an arrow into the ground to grip and steady herself. Dorian at his side bracing with his staff. He plants his heels, glances to Adaar as she seems to steel herself, squaring shoulders and shoving against the impact. A soldier in her, solid in horns. 

It should be a connection, one forward, one back and then it knitted shut tight. Very flashy, sure, but quick only.... it doesn’t start to shut. 

Not even fucking close.

“How fascinating. It appears to be redirecting! Don’t sever now, you may well bring reality down if you do!” 

Redirecting. Bull turns his head to look at Dorian in disbelief, the Serabaas only shrugging when the thread tethering Adaar to the damn fade throbs twice then flickers gold and without any kind of not-freaky warning goes a bright, burning blue. 

It’s never been blue before.

“Defransdim, what is it doing!” 

Kali hides her panic well but The Iron Bull see’s it. Canines snapping, a faint tremor in her fingers. 

“It’s fighting back! I - I’m trying to close it but it’s pulling me! Saar-” 

Not good. He’s moving without thinking, knowing the others are following. Last time anything batshit happened with one of these they were dragged upside down with a fear demon, the basic manoeuvre was to grab for Adaar and keep her ass here in the real world and act as an anchor so that she could slam the door on whatever reached back. 

The Iron Bull grabs for Sera who grabs for her Kadan and Dorian plants his staff to the ground and begins to feed magic into her like a very pretty parasite. It’s easier not to think about what’s going through him in that moment. 

One last pulse hits hard. Funnelling upwards like a bolt of electricity, hitting the middle and arching across the length of it. Twisting until it curls like ice webbing along the edges and as Bull yanks on the three of them with a kind of language that Tamma would hide him for the world goes fucking still. 

It’s messed up, the ringing in his ears that leaves only their breath fogging infront of them. Going on for what feels like forever before in a rush that would leave anyone heaving the world comes back with a vengeance. 

Sera is tiny but she’s not light and Dorian looses all grace, knocking against his horns on the way down, Kali bracketing them all with a yelp. 

It’s closed. But not for free. 

“Dorian, protective stave! Sera, healing flask, Bull, help me catch!”

If it hadn’t been thought enough to day he takes a second to reiterate their situation. 

Shit. 

A lot of freaky things have fallen out of the sky for them the past few months. Demons, monsters, Grey Wardens, that one memorable time with the Qunari but as Bull surges forward, bracing for impact and rolling to soften it what’s lying in his arms is something else entirely. Blue softer than the ice in the sky curls up like a soft grey, lacing across skin and closed eyes, decorating curved horns with a sort of elegant scribe that has his heart picking up pace.

The Ben-Hassrath didn’t have many answers on the people that came before them. Most of the stories were trauma oral, unreliable. Messy. Some had probably been intentionally erased by their predecessors but what they did have deep in the archives were faded images, half drawings. 

Lost memories.

“Vashedan.” 

“Bull?” 

Careful are the hands that cradle it close. Trying to stave off some of the ice on soft skin. The Temassaran were going to flip later. Later, when the body against him isn’t half dead. Coming through the fade hurts, keeps something of you in it and this shouldn’t even be - 

A Kossith. 

Adaar had been the one to help him up. Between the two Qunari it was easy to hold the reality, sheltering them from the harsher lights of the wastelands with wide eyes. Getting back to camp? That was more of a task given the track of crap and lingering bandits but despite their confusion and fascination Sera and Dorian were good people, keeping up a hell of a frontline between them and any dangers. 

Cullen had appeared pretty quickly with the other two advisors and a small team of healers and The Iron Bull is thankful when Kali doesn’t let them order him out of the tent. Krem bringing by food every few hours as he sets up in a corner. Whoever this was (he’d tripple and quadruple checked it wasn’t a demon) they were one of his people and the humans might be fine but they were selfish. If they thought a Kossith was here... 

So they sat guard, humming away as they worked on sewing a more fitting set of clothes. Seriously, a Qunari leader and these people still didn't know that horns meant bigger neck holes. The only stops were to coax some water into them and wipe down the fever. 

They were beautiful though. Qunari they had to mimic the markings of their kin. War paint, decorative colours. They drew and marked their skin to show what was lost, celebrated it even as they mourned but the lines so sweet on blue didn’t leave when he dragged a gentle cloth over them. They were born there, meant to be there.

Tamma was going to loose their mind. 

Bull just sat and hoped that the healers had worked their (no pun intended) magic so that the Kossith would wake well. 

@dragetunge​ ASKED HEIMDALL: ‘ Stop askin’ if I need anything, stop askin’ if I’m okay. ‘

>> MEMES | OPEN

It is not the first time the child had returned home in a start. Through younger years Hiccup seldom found joy in the others that surrounded him. It brought Heimdall no pleasure to admit but the realm of the Gods was not an easy place for those born of different blood. 

Despite familiarity however Hiccup rarely remained in ill will for long. He rose like the suns about them, golden and bright. His optimism and his wit one of the countless reasons that Heimdall could glow in pride of the little one with each new found stage of life. To see him disappeared for three turns, gaze averted, shoulders tense. He showed little interest in the cycles of their stars and had not reached for the forge once more since.

There were rare times that Heimdall found regret in allowing Loki to cloak his lille dreng. Of all their realms and worlds he found delight in seeing Hiccup’s mischief and wanted only for his comfort. His eyes were a blessing yes, but there were some to be trusted with closing them. Hiccup knew to call upon him if the blindness became a danger, yet he had not called this time. 

Admittedly this new found lacking knowledge was rather uncomfortable. How others led each day with it... alle fædre vejlede dem. 

The sharp tongue is not as shocking as the silence. Hiccup had grown quite the spine in his age, Eistla would have adored it, fed it further no doubt. It served him well when the Dragons listened and finally he stood proud amongst the elder folk. Quite occasionally he found use for it with his father and, as with each instance he had heard it, Heimdall rose one brow but did not seek to silence it. 

Emotion should be displayed and acknowledged good or bad, rash or thoughtful. He did not take it personally but it did fall to heart. Whatever had occurred with Eret was souring the usual smile upon Hiccup’s face. One must wonder if it was heartbreak or anger. Both? Misunderstandings are messy things.

The Allfathers humour was not as kind as one might wish. Still he did not think Eret the type to harm Hiccup with intent. The Quarrels in matters of love always were more potent especially at a tender age.

“I ask because you do not tell. And I will ask again until you are dust in the ground min gnist. It is the joys of parenthood and of caring.” 

Careful are the steps past the Bifrosts might to the edge of worlds, down on steady rocks to allow falling water to cascade in a silken veil of privacy. None would come to bother them and with a little luck, their worries may be lighter with a dimming of voices. 

He did not wish to force it but he would not leave Hiccup alone in this world again, not whilst he was there to change it. 

“You come home with tears in your eyes and turn down your favourite meal. You removed yourself from your smithing class for the day and Toothless has been all but whining in my ear for three moons now. Rather colourful in his language thanks to Valkyrie as I might add. Hiccup-” 

The sigh that leaves him is not a harsh thing, he could not be, no. It is a sound of honest concern, a wistful hope that what he says might once more reach across the space between them. He had seen the love between the pair, the potential for it to become a bond no mortal could severe. But the road to love is full of turns, even those bathed in Yggdrasil’s lights and bound by roots would find pitfalls as they walked.

That knowledge made it no less a chore to resist going to the other boys house with Hofund for answers. He would not interfere. This time.

“-I have given you the ability to allude me and exclude me if you wish it but it was not given for you to become cold. The burden on your shoulders will always be lighter shared and I want nothing more than to aid you with it.” 

Softening finally Heimdall raises an arm, offering the space against his chest for a child who once sought to hide against it for eternity. Hiccup may be older now but the comfort would never waver.

“Speak to me dearheart. I may not have answers for everything but I am wonderful at removing bodies if needed.” 

Nothing more than a joke. Hopefully.