tangled like branches in a flood

"Kagha was alright after she stopped having the shadow druids hissing in her ear." It's Jon's attempt to be diplomatic that his tone makes clear he doesn't believe his own words. Even with the shadow druid plot uncovered and the tieflings able to stay until the goblins were dealt with, Kagha was hardly a friend to any of them not from the Grove.

"I think we should let Karlach host a night on the city for us," he says. "See what's so beautiful about the city in her eyes. I think it could do us some good."

Jon hates this place. It's like being in Winterfell all over again, getting dirty glances from his stepmother and any others who saw Ned Stark's bastard had started to grow horns. Elturel had been kind to him; it brings him no joy that that too has become tainted by the looks he and Nerissa are receiving in the city.

he sees her point, but it's difficult to admit. in his mind, it was his unchecked shot that lead to the scaffolding falling on the clutch of spider eggs, which lead to his imprisonment, which lead to the decree of death. and his sister, his kind sister - of course she would have done something about it. of course she would have tried to help. she'd hated the code of life in menzoberranzan just as much as he still does now. his own failure to take an extra moment of caution had spurred into existence the entire series of events that followed.

rhys' glance flickers away. but how long could he have stayed in the underdark, he wondered? he recalled feeling more and more disillusioned with the lolthite way each tenday, he recalled the choking feeling of swallowing down his discomfort, his frustration, the fucking misery of it all, until his stomach filled with bile from all the things he never said and the shit he'd had to swallow as a male.

maybe he's always been destined to forge a new path on the surface. but bryn should be up here with him. he played with the ring on his finger again.

“she sacrificed her life believing that i would be able to kill my way out of the city. that is ... a heavy bet. if i had failed, her death would have been for nothing.”

he draws in a breath. holds it. tilts his head down again. lets it out. to endure and to survive - admiral goals, but rhys wants, one day, for these to be goals of the past. he has spent ninety years surviving the punishment of his birth and enduring the consequences thereof. how much more is he meant to carry before he can finally set down this weight, before his life-debt to his sister will be repaid?

"A heavy bet and burden that you have managed to carry all this time," Minthara points out, her voice uncommonly gentle. "Her faith in you was well founded. And our campaign against the Absolute will be successful because of you."

Defeated. Shocked and defeated are the only words Marin can think of as she walks back from the dragon pit.

She'd hunted for Sheepstealer for hours. She's dealt with the wild dragon before, and she trusts Mistweaver to keep her safe in the skies. Maybe that's foolish after everything, but, she figured she was more likely to find the beast if she was searching with another dragon of the Vale.

No such luck. Marin pulls off her riding gloves and loops them on her belt. She walks to the council chambers and finds only one other there.

"No sign of Sheepstealer. The dragon seems to have fled back north for the time being."

Halsin's expression softens a little as she gives her permission to continue. "You're so beautiful," he murmurs. "My heart sours just to look upon you." He'd always been the sentimental sort. He pulls off her pants and casts them aside so he can admire her. His hands move along her legs, guiding them gently to be supported leaning against his arms as he knelt at the altar that was Nerissa.

He takes his time. It's what she deserves, to be given all the focus with a lover. Halsin enjoys taking things slow, learning each new detail and quirk of a lover's body. But with Nerissa especially, he wants her to feel safe. To enjoy herself, to revel in it knowing she is cared for by someone who loves her.

He kisses up her thighs, alternating languidly between them and the occasional flick of his tongue along the underside of her tail, continuing the path upwards before looking up at her for permission to continue.

Devastated eyes watch as everything he knew to be true unravels before him. The dark side screeches in his ears as he stares at her unblinkingly, afraid she might disappear from his view. He can feel his body begin to buzz.

His eyes burn as he listens to her. And as she explains what happened, every word feels like a tug at a thread near the center of his chest, beginning an endless unspooling into the abyss. The dark side is basking in his soul-crushing revelation, and his heart only grows colder.

As she pulls her shirt, revealing the scar, the man's entire body jolts. His hand darts out, then stops; trembling fingers are a breath away. If he touches her, will she go away? How many times has he seen her before? Has he dreamt they are together? Has suffered visions of a life in which he left the Order to be with her. A life with children.

Never had he envisioned this.

Satine. S a t i n e. Pulls his hand to her. His hands are gloved, but the warmth underneath his skin is unmistakable. The threads stop. Finally, he takes a shaky breath as the tears teeter over the edge, painting streams down his grimy face.

He's scared.

"I thought-" and he winces. It's been a while; his voice is no longer the silver-coated negotiator. What remains is a raspy, dry timbre abused by screams, yells, and sobs. A voice no longer used for words was no longer needed, so he did not use it much.

Bron'ig's face crumples, tears falling uncontrollably faster as his breath hitches a few times. The force feels murky, not entirely dark and yet not entirely light. A charcoal grey cloud hovers, not buzzing, around him and Satine. Bron'ig has no idea what it means, but it's grounding as he desperately grabs at it and wraps it around himself.

Shoulders steady, and he tries again. "I don't remember anything after Maul...I just have this."

Satine sees her own emotions reflected in his stare as they touch hands. All those years ago, they'd been so young-- padawan and child of a duke, thrown together by chance and finding kinship she'd never felt before-- and now look at them. Battle weary and hollow, but together. Real and tangible in her hold.

She lets her shirt drop when his hand moves away. She tenses slightly at the sight of the darksaber. It's him who wields it, she knows it would never harm her so long as he holds it. But her side twinges uncomfortably, her hand moving absently to touch the scar.

She did not look at him more than she needed to, not wishing to make him even more uneasy now that he had finally come to her. Rickon had always been tricky to work with - though in a different way back then than he was now. One had always needed to know how to best work with him. It was just a matter of figuring it out again.

Jorjayna poured his tea and set the cup over to him gently, before sitting back and sipping on her own. She looked over the rim of her cup as he spoke, and took a moment to consider his words before conjuring her own.

Rickon takes a sip of tea. It's bitter and familiar, the same type old nan would make for him when he was feeling sick. His shoulders ease slightly as he takes another sip.

"No, it won't. At least we're together. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Isn't that what Father always said?"

He misses Ned. He was so young when his father had gone south, he barely remembers him. But he knew him being here meant they were safe. Ned Stark went south, and everything went wrong. He can't get that thought out of his head when he tries to imagine Ned's face.

In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to protect the young and innocent.