The Broken Marionette

    The humidity was high that day. Bugs sang in the distance with the faint wind that blew across the trailer park. He wasn’t sure why he was staying there since there were plenty of walkers around but not enough to cause an alarm. Hell, the windows and the door was blocked up so no one was getting in. 

     Thranduil climbed up to the roof through the sun roof, the gun on his back as he did so. It was typical day. Hell, a normal day from the last week, or maybe it was two. Though, this wasn’t going to be a normal and quiet day. When he got on the roof, he spotted someone.  A female. Moving the edge, he pulled his gun over and pointed it at her. “ That’s far enough. ”

She wanted to rest. It was a feeling that had become so commonplace, she was no longer certain it could be drained from her bones. Thoughts of seeking shelter in the abandoned ruins of the trailer park had made her nervous, but the climate had become too difficult to afford another night on the road. She needed a man-made structure. She didn’t need the man that stood silhouetted against blue skies with what appeared to be a firearm pointed in her direction. There were very few people that would argue in favor of such circumstances. With a slight flicker of the eyes, Veata paused mid-step and her mouth thinned. 

“I didn’t mean to trespass.” Her tone was wholly without indignation, wholly without protest. Even as the gears began to turn inside her head, she knew there was nothing she could do to turn the tide in her favor. It’d be better to cut her losses short and suffer another night on the road. "I can be on my way." Her voice was like sandpaper, and it felt like as much in her throat. "No trouble.” She hoped he didn’t have the bullets to spare. It made negotiation much easier. In a show of good faith however her hands raised to show themselves with open palms. Not that she could reach her weapon more quickly than he could pull the trigger of his. She knew she’d been cornered. 

With small glances around the area, it was strange to see U.A so empty. It was unusual of this, even having Iida not present. However, a tall figure illuminated the lonely campus from afar. Unrecognized by her vision, she decided to trust her instincts. 

                                    ❝Hello there! Are you new?❞ 

“Very good, then.” A single and firm nod is given in response to the assurances that she has no need of anything. In any other situation the words exchanged between them might make for pleasant conversation, indeed. She’s his betrothed, after all, and for that reason it’s his desire that she should want for nothing. Of course, he too had been raised since birth in his father’s court, and he knew just as well as she of the double-edged undertones oftentimes buried deep beneath a sea of flattery and niceties passed from one royal to the next. More than a few times he had seen King Sharaman meet with a territory threatening war, only to part ways on the best of terms after some hours of tense deliberation. When all throughout a misinterpreted look, a perceived sleight of hand, or fluctuation in one’s voice could see that everything turned out very differently.

Malik doesn’t want to assume that this is the sort of initial relationship that he has with the foreign princess. Though they hadn’t exactly met under the best of circumstances, and he couldn’t imagine that she should harbor no sense of resentment over this fact. Still, making assumptions and jumping to conclusions wasn’t generally helpful, and so the prince simply reminds himself as to the reason for his sudden visit: observation. Free from judgements and largely for her benefit, for she knew of him about as much as he knew of her. Apart from attempting to glean some bit of knowledge of his own, he’s here to be as open and genuine as he can be, so that she might feel a little more secure in her standing.

Following her line of sight only briefly to the plate once it’s asked about, when he looks back up he finds her returning the one mysterious book back to a pile of others. If he thinks anything of it he doesn’t comment, because while it can be said that the crown prince enjoys reading much more than his younger brother does, he certainly can’t account for every title in the palace– especially not after having been away for a number of years, now. “I can’t say that I intended to join you this morning, no. Though not from a lack of want. I simply did not know whether or not you would mind the company,” he offers. Or to be more precise; his company. The tone of his voice remains even and conversational, merely trying to uphold that endeavor of being honest with the woman.

A thought occurs to him at this, one that’s to be momentarily put aside once she starts speaking about the books themselves. And once she does, Malik allows himself to take a couple of steps forward, bridging just a little of that gap lingering between them in favor of glancing the works over. “I must say, I am impressed; language is a beautiful yet intricate thing, and you have made astounding progress in such a short amount of time.” Something beautiful yet difficult to understand. With the thought, he can’t help but peer in her direction. “Have you found anything of particular interest?”

She minded her tongue; a masterful dance of omission and truth. But where her words were careful and beautiful, it did not escape notice how annunciation denied herself the smooth cadence of native speakers. “Perhaps another morning then. I can see no reason to turn out good company.” It wasn’t quite warmth that saturated her tone then, but neither could the courteous tune be considered unkind. Her eyes, however, were blank of emotion. Because she stood such that her backside faced the older man, Veata didn’t feel the need to concern herself with the nuances of facial expression. She traced the spines of the well-read literature as if in absent-minded thought.

The inquiry found its response in a flicker of her eyes to the nearest title. “Poetry.” Her fingers skimmed the collection’s familiar, well-loved cover before she lifted the sizeable work into one hand. Grains of simple, honest truth gathered on her tongue. “I’ve always found poetry to be quite beautiful. Each styling spins a unique grace.” The dark-haired woman began to walk the lavish quarters as she opened to the collection’s first pages. Her fingers knew to touch the parchment with careful reverence as her brown eyes skimmed the lines of foreign lettering. “Do you care for it?” Her feet carried her the furthest distance from the crown prince that could be managed without disrupting the precarious norms of courtesy. 

With the remnants of the only home she’d known scattered, her hands did not burn with the mounting fear of a potential pilfering. Yet the court princess found she had to chide herself for the continued nervous flutter of her heartbeat. There’d be no reason for him to nurse interest in the untitled tome held in her hands prior. Veata turned another page. “Through the eyes of artists, we learn much about culture. It’s in their diction, in their narratives. Even in their perception of beauty. These details so often change from region to region.”

Wizarding Schools Aesthetic | Beauxbatons Academy of Magic

HER WORDS WERE BLUNT AND FACTUAL, no denying that she’d already considered how things worked within the tall walls of ALEXANDRIA and how Deanna hand-picked the people allowed to stay. She lead the community off a loose set of democratic rules, much akin to the way their government worked prior to the fevers taking hold of the country. Veata wasn’t wrong– their group had rocked the ALEXANDRIAN’S little world upon their swift arrival. They were teaching folks how to hold a knife, the proper way to load a gun, and how to use the stars find TRUE NORTH. A lot of those skills passed down from Daryl himself to his companions, but that was credit he would never own up to. Didn’t care to squander spotlight from his friends that WANTED this community to thrive and survive.

At the sudden call of his name, the hunter’s head jolted up from where he had been AGGRESSIVELY chewing at the corner of his thumb. It was a childhood habit he could never quite kick, and frankly, wasn’t sure if he would ever be rid of. Deliberately done to satisfy the quelling pang of ANXIETY that thrived through his bones, Daryl recalled being a small child only knowing that he wasn’t allowed to suck his thumb and as a substitute chewed on his fingers. His hand dropped from his mouth, immediately folding against his chest, hands tucking themselves high at his sides as he waited for Veata to continue her addressal.

“Well, they’d be fools to be rid o’ ya.” He stated almost matter-of-factly, punctuating his statement with a quick nod of his head. She’d done right by them, removing a man that would coerce a woman to save his own skin from thieving. Scumbags like him didn’t DESERVE to live in such luxury such as this, safe behind high walls that kept the MONSTERS out. It made the hunter ponder how MANY monsters actually LIVED within the walls, despite Deanna’s good observation into the human character. Silently sighing through his nose, mouth quirking into a blithe smile, Daryl gave a shrug of his shoulder. “Reckon that oughta be fine,” he returned gesturing for the young woman to take the lead.

Although he wasn’t keen on Veata so absently dismissing his concern for her well-being, Daryl figured she was coming to terms with the decision she had made and whether it fell in her favor, then they would cross that road when it became present. He just hoped that the others KNEW she had killed that man for the GREATER good of the group.

Fools. She tasted the word. Sentiment colored his opinion on the matter, but she supposed in the reversal of their situation hers would as well. Even so Veata could not resent the people of Alexandria for their mounting fear of the strangers in their midst. She knew Daryl. Alexandria did not. Then surfaced a question from her hypothetical considerations that almost paused the dark-haired woman. Were the archer in danger of exile rather than herself, would she abandon the comforts of Alexandria to follow? She glanced to Daryl. Perhaps. But it’d be a decision equal parts selfish and selfless. Veata missed weaving herself into a world she understood.

Not like Carol. Carol seemed to thrive here with such ease. The unexpected pang of jealousy at the thought wrestled with her survivalists’ fear of comfort. She swallowed each. “It’s Carol’s night to cook, isn’t it?” Despite the question she posed, she’d started on the path to the older woman’s house with sure-footed confidence. Veata knew. It wasn’t like herself to substitute silence for idle conversation, but Daryl needed the distance from their somber conversation. Or perhaps she needed it. She ignored the weight of stolen glances that seemed to trail after them as she climbed the steps to Carol’s porch.

The North seems like a rather unsuitable environment for a dragon, considering the beasts typically prefer to dwell in warmer climates and keep to where it is hot. He is not much different but he is also not opposed to the colder weather, and keeping warm isn’t as difficult as it may seem. Dragons may not be equipped with thick fur coats like the wolves but their bodies naturally regulate at a warmer temperature. 

The dragon’s powerful wings whisked away the fallen snow that had previously clung to the trees, blowing the snow along the ground as he prepared to land. But before he would, his jaws flung apart and bathed the surface with a burst of hot flames. So when his feet made contact he felt warm soil instead of cold snow, and warmth in the air as the smoke slowly dissipated. 

His pale blue wings half folded into a lazy rest and as he dropped his chest to the dirt, his long tail coiled around his legs. Neptune brought his head down to relax, nostrils flare open to release a heavy breath, his pupils dilated. It’s late, dark, and the half moon sat high in the clear skies. The sun had only just set maybe an hour earlier. 

The good thing about this chilly weather in the North is that few people are embarking on long journeys through the snow, which meant the worry of unwanted attention is at an all time low and Neptune quite liked that. He prefers to avoid confrontation. 

The frigid climate of The North did not agree with her delicate constitution. Worse yet were the locale’s somber mindings teased with distaste that the lands hadn’t known a true winter in some time. It disquieted the dark-haired woman: the notion of a cold that could settle much deeper into her bones than the present temperature that already robbed much of the night’s rest. But she’d managed without complaint as the well-guarded procession travelled further into the northern kingdom. Her father promised only a half-month more. 

Then she’d be wed to her promised lord.

On some nights -- nights such as these when her father placed her on his mount’s saddle then walked the beast by its reins through the rugged and unfamiliar landscape -- Veata thought he might not return them to their travel procession. Though it had been at his hand that the marriage arranged itself, she’d seen the wistfulness that clouded her father’s eyes when he thought none bore witness. The North was far from home. Her breath gathered like fog in her mouth as she exhaled, imprinting upon herself the image of her steadfast father as he led she and his beast further from the bustle of the campsite. She’d miss him the most.

He walked until the noise of their procession faded, favoring natural silence to the conversation Veata ached for. She had contented herself to gentle strokes of the stallion’s neck when it happened. The mount’s ears sat straight on its head, and it released a snort. He began to canter backwards from her father’s touch with a toss of the head, and beneath herself she felt the weight of him begin to rear. Out of fright she reached for the stallion’s mane to keep seated. Her father's cries of protests were lost -- as were hers -- mere moments later when the reins were torn from his hands and the spooked beast lunged past. 

      The strap of his army bag keeps sliding from his shoulder. It’s annoying. The flight has been bearable even though his knee is killing him. There was not enough place for him to lay his legs, he is TOO tall, TOO big, he doesn’t fit well anywhere. His shoes make a squeaking sound as he limps his way toward the exit. Security has been another pain in the ass as he had to explain ( again ) that he had a bullet in his hip. Thank fuck he had thought to ask for a certificate otherwise, he would not have been allowed to pass airport security. Tired eyes sweep mindlessly the sea of people waiting for the passengers and then stop, frowning. His name is written on a paper and a guy in a suit is holding it. His hand pushes the strap up his shoulder, once more, again before pressing it against his cellphone, in the pocket of his jeans. He knows that Riz’s family has some money but he didn’t think that they would send someone to pick him up. 

        Clearing his throat, he starts to walk again toward the man. Nods are exchanged before the man offers to take his bag, which he refuses. Finally in the car, he closes his eyes as he lets his head fall back. He’s exhausted but, mostly, he’s ANXIOUS. Veata said that all members of his team will be there, all the soldiers he had let down will be there. He had been having sleepless nights for a week now, anxiety twisting his stomach, making him feel like he is slowly dying. But he knows he deserves it, he knows he should have been the one dying. He had been their Captain, he  SHOULD have taken the hit. No one else should have. Those thoughts accompany him to his dead friend’s house, his parent’s to be accurate. A deep breath is taken as he tries to settle his stomach before he knocks. Here it goes. 

She had a headache again. It made the hours pass more like minutes, and induced a dense fog that made coherent thought difficult. She couldn’t remember the faces or the names of the people she had helped settle into the house earlier that morning. But she had helped, hadn’t she? The abrupt sound of knuckle as it rapped itself on the front door interrupted her sluggish attempt to untangle detail from the haze of her short-term memories. Veata placed the mug of tea she held -- cold and untouched -- on the kitchen’s marble counter. For the moment her mind was cleansed of thought as she went to greet the service’s next round of guests. 

It had been a long day for Andros, the great, bright sun beating down and practically frying him in his armor. The chafing was enough to murder him anyway. He was grateful to be back at Skyhold. For however long the Commander kept him here.

With a thick, gloved finger, he pointed to one of the mages.

“You. I need healing.”

      Needless to say that his morning went horribly. He always felt like he was not really there. He was so sleep deprived that everything seemed to be out of touch, out of reach. Clearing his throat, a tired hand passed on his face, trying to rub away the confusion and the exhaustion. Nothing truly worked for him anyway. Steve hated today so that’s why he was already laying down on the couch, eyes only looking at the tv, not really watching it. Taking Dog outside had been a nightmare and he had hated every && all second of it. But Dog had to go out. Now he was laying, useless, on the couch, phone unreachable to call work and tell them he won’t come in. As fucking always anyway.

       Eyes on the device, he could see it light up once. Twice. A huff escapes his lips, eyes closing as he willed himself to stand up. A second later ( more like ten minutes but who cares ? ), he saw that it was Veata. Huh. At least, he was not yet fired.  

                   SMS / VEATA ( 9:05 ):  Just take whatever you want for the                                                          departure ticket. I don’t mind any date,                                                          whatever it is. Thank you.

The chirped message notification jolted the dark-haired woman from her stupor. She glanced to the source of the electronic sound held tight in her folded hands. In addition to the blinking notification light, the screen read a digital printout of the current time. Had she been seated on the edge of her mattress that long? The bitter taste of resignation filled her mouth at once. She’d meant to start her morning routine almost fifteen minutes earlier. Then hadn’t it seemed. With a tap of the finger, Veata unlocked the screen to a response from Steven. Though each of his brief sentences were straight to the point, her thoughts were sluggish in their struggle to process the words.

  [SMS | STEVEN ROGERS | 9:09 AM | SENT]:      If that’s the case, I’ll schedule your departure date for      that Sunday then. Based on the guest list so far, that       seems to be the day most are planning to stay      through. We’ll see you soon, Steven.

It didn’t matter just then that she wanted the memorial service ended sooner rather than later -- that yet another name had been added to the list of people she wouldn’t be able to rid herself of. The hassle of coordinating different sets of departure dates made her head hurt. She placed her phone on the near nightstand then forced herself to her feet with a brief pause for consideration. The mere thought of breakfast made her stomach churn. Perhaps she’d start the morning with a soak instead. She ran a hand through her thick, long hair. It sounded bearable: scalding water. With the delicate, fragile gait of a porcelain figurine, she entered the guest lodging’s personal bathroom. 

“You’re dressed AWFULLY inappropriately for a place such as this.”

THE FIERY PIT was unpleasant even in proper armor. SCORCHING FLAMES & ash came in billows and the stones on the eastern end of the lands didn’t do much to alleviate that pressure of heat. HE HAD suspected that in his venturing out into the DWARVEN CONTROLLED lands near Gauntlegrym he would be tasked with some form of AID from outside force. Though in truth the man cared little for the favor of OTHERS. Montrose was doing her best ( as many in fight against the cult of the eternal flame were ). AND THAT VILE BITCH VANIFER only served to further frustrate his efforts to make a difference. 

HE TURNS partly, stoic expression and somewhat piercing gaze unintentionally setting a precedent for his general nature as a man. But he digresses from such thoughts as he tilts his head and blinks a few times trying to discern what kind of trouble would warrant the aid of a MAGIC USER. He wasn’t always keen on such things considering the relatively unpleasant encounters he’s generally found ( SAVE MONA, perhaps ). 

“I suspected that the numbers would grow, yes. Captain Montrose had mentioned she was hoping to recruit some new members to aid in the fight against the CULT. I tried to assure her that her worry was illspent but it seems she’s going to worry either way.”

SUCH WAS apparent in the nature of good leaders. NOT PARALYZING FEAR, but worry. Worry for the safety of their lands and the safety of their people. RHYGNAR had made himself ‘expendable’ so that fewer Neverwinter natives would be at risk but now it seemed they pulling out all STOPS if they were sending a non-native member of Protector’s Enclave into the fray.

She managed a weak smile. “It’s the best I could manage on such short notice. I fear it must do.” Her slender stature hadn’t been made for the cumbersome burden of heavier armor, and so she had been reduced to a set of high-quality leathers. “However, I did prepare a number of abjuration spells that should be of some use in that regard.” The man turned in slight degrees from the dark-haired spellcaster as if in dismissal, and the uncertainties that eroded the shield of her calm mannerism burrowed deeper. But the stranger wasn’t well known enough to herself such that she could read his stoicism -- could name a reason for the sharpness that lined the corners of his eyes. 

Not for the first time, she felt out of place. She did not belong to the northern lands much less the Protector’s Enclave and its stalwart people. “She only means well. Though I am less recruit, and more -- “ Veata paused on the word. “ -- contractor. It is only for as long as I am needed to address the problem the cult poses.” She had little reason to explain herself and the details of her business arrangement with Captain Montrose further. The Spellbreaker could either choose to play to the potential advantages her craft offered or choose to pocket the unknown game piece that she represented for a different battle.