mickume/dnd_drow · Datasets at Hugging Face

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You aim your most winning, blinding white grin at her, but fail to induce the reaction you were once used to getting on a whim. No blush or giggle hidden behind a dainty palm at your deliberately overtuned charm being pointed at her, no smirk and tease in return.
No, Isobel is subdued, troubled, and, most vexing of all, everything you say seems to only serve to make it worse.
There is something new behind her eyes, too, those beautiful, wise eyes that won your heart entire the first time you met them. A darkness, you would dare call it, a shadow not unlike the curse once fallen upon the land. A question, a yearning for some understanding that never seems to come, a futile grasp for something in an emptiness that was not there before.
"Please, my love," you say with the utmost tenderness, reserved for Isobel alone, "do not hide your heart from me. You know I cherish it as if it were mine own."
"I haven't felt... myself," she haltingly begins in answer to your plea, as you step forward and encircle her, first in the embrace of your arms, then in the shelter of your wings. A treasured sanctuary saved for the two of you alone.
"I cannot... the death, it clings, I..."
She buries her face in your chest as she struggles to pick out words one by one, plucking them out like painful thorns. You let her rest tucked under your chin, restrain yourself to quietly running one gentle, slow hand through her hair.
"I am afraid," she settles on, finally, almost a whisper, hiding still, refusing to look at you. "I am afraid there is no fixing this wrongness I feel day after day, that's been... in me, over me, ever since I awoke. That something has been taken from me, and now there is no way to remove this vile mark that's been left on me instead, whatever it is. Not even by the grace of the Moonmaiden."
She shivers, and you tighten your hold on her, even as the sentence after that tears into your very heart, sharper and more jagged than any Sharran knife.
"I am afraid, most of all, that no matter how much I pray or plead, that whatever I do to try and prove myself worthy, I... cannot be. Ever again. I will never be worthy of Her light again. Or of yours."
"No," it comes out far rougher, angrier than you ever intended, ever wanted to aim anywhere near precious, beloved Isobel - not at her, never at her. But she is wrong, because it is an impossibility, unthinkable, ridiculous to even suggest. Her, treasured, cherished, held high above all in your regard, and lofty in your Mother's.
"Please, Isobel," you move a half-step back, if only to make it possible to cup her face, tilt her chin up and look at her. "Do not ever, ever think such a thing again. You could never be unworthy, not you. Not you."
The hitch is back in her laboured breath as she moves to protest, the haunted look shadowing her eyes. "How? How can you be so sure?"
And that is the question, isn't it? Your love for Isobel and faith in her intertwined, utterly certain and utterly relentless. Like the rage that sustained you through a century of torment, settled heavy and deep in your bones. You don't know any other way to feel, to be.
"I will prove it to you, I will drive away any shadow of any doubt. Her light, through me. For you alone, Isobel."
She acquiesces, at least, to being led over to the bed and sitting down. You lower the shoulders of her tunic. Place a gentle, reverent kiss on the revealed skin, trying to press in with it all the love and devotion you desperately need her to be aware of.
You lay a hand on her bare back, palm flat and flush with warm skin. The rush of joy and slight disbelief that she is once again yours to touch is still fresh, and yet the familiarity of every freckle, shift of shoulder blade, and light shiver of gooseflesh is ancient and deep and right. From the outside it is the same, perfect, unchanged Isobel. But you believe her unquestioningly when she says something is wrong.
A mere moment of focus has a silvery glow bathing the room, unwinding from underneath your fingertips and sinking into Isobel's back. She breathes in deeply, breathes out, then in again, shifting under your touch, until she seems to find at least some relief.
"Thank you, that's..." she murmurs, barely above a breath.
There is a dawning, deeply saddening comprehension rising in you - Isobel, insisting on pouring all her heart and soul into taking care of you, healing and protecting and doting on so devotedly, driven not just by your love most mutual, but also by fear. By a desperate need to prove herself worthy of Selûne's grace again, prove her return to life was not a horrifying mistake. Chasing redemption where none was ever needed, not for her, clinging to the thought like a lifeline.
"Whenever, whatever you need of me, however many times." You allow your fervour to seep into your voice as you feel your eyes burn, and continue trailing moonlight-dipped fingers down her back. "If you but say the word, I will provide what relief I can, I swear it, until you are free of any shadows haunting you, or until there is no light left in me - whichever deigns to come first."
Isobel smiles wryly, turning to steal a glance at you over her shoulder, a tiredness in her that she has only ever shown you alone. "I promised I would take care of you. And yet here you are, taking care of me. After... after everything."
She knows enough not to specify. Even this brief almost-mention is enough to make a darkness creep at the edge of your thoughts, but you swallow it back hastily, and focus only on the treasured countenance before you, on brushing stray silver locks behind her ear with your free hand.
"A fair and just exchange, I would think, if you are amenable."
Isobel hums something that is neither agreement nor disagreement, then turns to face you fully, sombre in the circle of your arms.
"I always thought that when the time came, I would be ready," she begins, slowly, as if every word was a trial. "Foolish and naive of me, probably. But I thought I knew what to expect, what I would have awaiting me, after a life of service. The City of Judgement, as awaits us all, and then, hopefully, and - I pray - deservedly, an audience in Argentil after being Claimed."
She stops, swallows, looks at you so pleadingly you cannot help but pull her back into your embrace.
"But instead..." you hold her tighter as she shudders, "...nothing. Darkness. A void."
Nothing. Like the black hole of your prison. And it seems fitting, for a moment, that fate has decided to match you in this, too.
"It is I who failed you. When it truly mattered, when it was of most consequence, I wasn't there. And you... you were lost to me. To us."
A small frown furrows her brow as she grasps around for something, anything. "I don't remember."
"Perhaps... perhaps that is for the best," you exhale, half-sick of dredging up shadows you would prefer remain buried. "My own memory is prodigious, and yet how I wish I could forget much of the past century."
But Isobel looks at you longingly, searchingly, and you oblige, at least for a little bit, calling to mind what should have been the darkest days of your long life. "For all our efforts, we were never able to capture your attackers - the cowards struck so suddenly, fled so swiftly. You were laid in state, for a while. The entirety of Reithwin mourned - the Silverbrow Priestess conducted the funeral services most beautifully. The very Moon, full to bursting, cried over it. And your father..."
Your throat seizes up. Her father, your tormentor. A wretched man you feel the two of you have to speak of, some day. The man who gave the world Isobel twice over, but selfishly, impossibly, wanted to keep her all to himself both times.
Her countenance grows steely and determined in a way you have yet to get used to. "My father was lost to me far before he died at your hand. I mourn the man I remember, not the monster you killed. A loving, kind, generous man, who should never have been capable of such horrors as Ketheric brought down upon my home, upon you. And yet... if I was all that was keeping him from such a fall, I cannot help but think--"
Isobel's voice cracks and you wonder when, in your absence-captivity, he stopped being Papa and became Ketheric. Your anger towards him tastes bitterer still.
And you think of Isobel, fleeing her own grave and the twisted visage of what was once her beloved father. Dragging her own burial shroud across a land of shadow and horror, full of echoes of a life half-remembered.
Isobel, alone, convinced of your demise, mourning you as you endlessly mourned her, both of you unknowing.
Isobel, left to desperately and single-handedly guard the only meagre surviving pocket of her childhood home, doomed and destroyed by her father's violent, misaimed grief over her own death. A pillar of light in an all-encompassing darkness and one final, crucial defence against it, without even a fair promise of hope or future to sustain her.
It sounds, at first, like a noble task you would think worthy of a cleric of Isobel's most excellent calibre. But you can't help but think it a test of devotion far too harsh, and entirely superfluous. Such incredible weight to place on any one person's shoulders. And for what?
Needed and necessary she once called herself and her efforts when you asked, insisting on dismissing it all in a way you perhaps understand entirely too well.
Perhaps, together... you, hollowed, and her, overflowing. And, in turn, her aching for something that is missing and you fit to burst with wrath and vengeance and violence. Perhaps there is hope yet, and healing to be found for both.
Together. Only ever together.
We trust in Your radiance, Moonmaiden, even when it is out of our sight.
The battle you were waiting for is over - won, by most reckonings, but not without great cost. What is left of the city now needs care and careful restoration. There are still stray cultist enclaves to root out, remnants of the illithid army, as well as mere opportunists who always show their vile selves in such circumstances. As part of an array of unexpected, colourful allies, you make short work of them all, whenever any come to light.
But rebuilding takes precedence, as does healing, and Isobel has taken point among Selûne's devoted in a way that is nothing short of awe-inspiring. The situation seems altogether more suited to her talents rather than yours at the moment, so you follow her readily, without question, and provide whatever aid you can.
It is a cycle as old as time, after all, as reliable as the phases of the Moon. Building, destruction, rebuilding - the world will always need both of you.
But tonight is the night of a full Moon, and Isobel has gone to conduct the requisite rituals with the rest of the Selûnite encampment that has been so welcoming to you. Isobel, death-touched but untainted, no matter what she may fear, will excel in whatever role they set out for her, of this you are certain.
You, on the other hand, have begged off, your own communion awaiting you elsewhere.
Your path leads you away from the outskirts of the city and up into the hills, your back turned on the Chionthar. Through remnants of farms and hunting lodges, up and up to cliff and brush and down again to sparse woodland, your steps are guided, as is your birthright.
It is becoming easier to hear Her voice once again. She does not always speak in words, but Her presence She makes felt.
And so you stop in a clearing, before a pond, crystal clear and fed by a jolly, clamouring stream. It is quiet, otherwise. Peaceful.
You dismiss your armour, letting it dissipate into motes of moonlight. You remember with a touch of warmth and immense fondness how sweetly Isobel would pout whenever she did not get to take it off you piece by piece.
The air is crisp and the water, once you touch it, is almost icy. The moonlight on your skin cleanses and soothes, combining with the chilly water into a refreshing blessing. It is the sensations of the world that you so dearly missed during your captivity, that you now allow to rush over you, all at once.
It is the first time in over a hundred years you stand and behold the full silver face of your Mother, the trail of Her Tears beside her, and wonder, idly, if she shed any for you.
Please, you beg as you step into the pool, without shame, without words. A kinder fate for Isobel, this time.
A kinder fate for the land she still calls home.
A kinder fate for me.
The cool silver water seeps into every crevice of your being and washes away with it some ichor of darkness you didn't even know still clung to you. You lie back and let yourself float, the rush of water in your ears drowning out even the small nighttime noises of the clearing and surrounding woods. In the soft waves you hear your Mother's voice, and She sounds kind, inviting, forgiving.
Why, you want to ask, why would you allow...
There is new dampness on your cheeks, and you realise haltingly that it is tears. "Hello, Mother."
The light of the Moon is caring and compassionate, and bathes you in love. It is the only embrace She has ever been able to give you, here. It is almost enough to forget a century of sorrow and the cries that went unheard.
No more, She says.
Rest, the murmur continues, soft and sad - a familiar melancholy, though not one you would expect during a Moon so full and bright. Earned, a hundred times over. My Sword, tempered to perfection. My Daughter, put through trials undeserved. Lost to me for so long. You are welcome here. Safe. I would have you know peace once more.
"Not... not yet. There are still too many, I cannot--" You sit up, rivulets of water running down your face, following the crevices of your scars. It is unlike you to struggle so with your words. You proclaim and vow, you do not stammer and hesitate.
What would you have for yourself, then, daughter mine?
"I would seek and extinguish the tyrants, the oppressors," your hands tighten into determined fists as you channel and reflect all that has been done to you, aglow with silver, wings unfurled. "Those who would bind, capture, enslave, who would subjugate and rule another for their own gain - let them sleep with one eye open. Let them know: Dame Aylin sees their deeds and offers no mercy."
Your cause is righteous, and I bless it as my own. But a burden should be shared. And you are not the only champion at my call.
It is true, of course, and you grasp the intent, but you cannot help but bristle. You may not be the only one, but surely you are the most--
--fearsome? Reliable? Accomplished?
Doubt creeps in, that most rare and hated of sensations. There is a shift, then, into a plea for you to understand, from a mother to her child.
A broken sword can accomplish little. And even the finest steel has a breaking point. Do not too eagerly seek your own.
You sink back into the pool, water up to your chin, as if bowing in acceptance.
If you crave a task, I task you: offer aid in healing and rebuilding, and thus rebuild yourself. Worry not - I will call upon you when the time comes. But for now, shore up the bulwark within you.
A smile, a tender grace.
And let each and all know yours is a blessed union.
The last fading words leave you puzzled for a few moonlit moments. And then Isobel is next to you, bare and glowing and embracing you, holding you to herself as if she will never let go.
"Isobel," you start, a host of questions forming on your tongue, but she places a finger over your lips.
"Guided back to you, as you were to me. As I promise I will be, for as long as I can."
A shiver runs through you at the undercurrent of steel and sheer devotion in her sweet voice.
"Then I vow I will never let myself be torn from your side again. And any who seek to part us will meet a swift end by my hand."
You spoke such promises to each other once already, what feels like a lifetime ago, even though it should by rights have been nothing compared to your eternal years. It is a heavy lesson to have learned so well in breaking them, though - that no tomorrow can ever be guaranteed. Not even for you.
Not near as tide- and cycle-bound, the Scribe had said, and you wonder at the recalled words. No endless rise and fall for you, then, perhaps. No waxing and waning. No rote repetition of tragic history in this world changed and strange, but instead something altogether new, hewn by the two of you.
Isobel takes your face between both her hands and kisses you, putting a swift end to your reverie.
In response, you pick her up out of the water, twirl her around, splash the both of you back down happily. Your smile turns into a grin, then a laugh, open and simple, and her giggle is crystal-bright and utterly free of the grasp of the grave. You feel lighter than the feathers you leave behind like a snowy trail.
You hold her and kiss her again and again and again and allow yourself to lose track of time.
Raphael x Tav (Wizard, human)
Forced Marriage
Tav looked at her father with shock in her eyes. "I’m sorry you what?!" She wanted to make sure she had heard correctly. Tav Gortash looked at her father hoping he was bullshitting her. "Did I hear that correctly?" She spoke with ice in her words. A woman of lesser control would have cast fireball by now, not that she wasn’t tempted.
He looked entirely unconcerned as he drafted a letter. "You are to be married to the man I’ve chosen for you in 2 days time. The dress is already made." Enver glanced up at his daughter. "There will be no argument. The contract has already been signed and the dowry paid."
Tav scowled at him. "You didn’t think to consult me? I am 23, able to make my own choices." She put her hands on her hips. Fireball was very very tempting as the rage burned behind her green eyes.
For his worth, Enver ignored his daughter’s burning rage. "You are part of a noble house and therefore will marry who I choose." He went back to his writing. "Go work on packing a bag. You will be going to your new husband’s home tomorrow." He smiled. "Your maid will help you."
Tav left the room recognizing the dismissal for what it was. She found her way to her room crying. Her maid was already there packing her a go bag. "Oh mistress. It’s alright." The elderly woman tried to sooth the poor distressed girl.
She was still so angry. "No it isn’t! I am marrying some stranger that my father sees fit to sell me to. I hate being nobility! If I were a commoner then perhaps I could marry a man of my choosing." She threw herself onto the bed weeping. "What if he is cruel like father to the servants. If he beats me. I will end up a murderer." She felt her maid wrap her arms around her soothingly. She leaned into the woman’s touch unaware she was being watched.
The next day she was painted up with bright red lips and eyeliner accentuating her green eyes, green like her mother’s. Her black hair was pinned back to show her pretty face and elegant neck. She looked distant even as they walked. Enver looked at his daughter almost proudly. "You look beautiful. He will fall for you in an instant." He poorly tried to cheer her up as they walked.
"You sold me for what father? Money? More power? What was my worth?" She spoke coldly spitting the word father like a swear. She was glaring at him icily. "I hope it was worth it throwing me to the unknown. He could beat me and then I would go to prison for killing him."
Enver chuckled knowingly at his daughter’s temper. "He will not. And I doubt you could kill the man I am marrying you to." He seemed to know something more about the man she was marrying than he was letting on. She narrowed her eyes venomously.
"So confident in that. Perhaps I shall end him before the wedding and flee." She spoke with barely concealed malice.
He gripped her arm tightly pulling her close to speak angrily in her face. "You will do no such thing you brat. I have raised you better than that. You will marry him and you will like it." Venom met venom.
She winced visibly. "Father you’re hurting me." She winced as his fingers left bruises on her arm.

You aim your most winning, blinding white grin at her, but fail to induce the reaction you were once used to getting on a whim. No blush or giggle hidden behind a dainty palm at your deliberately overtuned charm being pointed at her, no smirk and tease in return.

No, Isobel is subdued, troubled, and, most vexing of all, everything you say seems to only serve to make it worse.

There is something new behind her eyes, too, those beautiful, wise eyes that won your heart entire the first time you met them. A darkness, you would dare call it, a shadow not unlike the curse once fallen upon the land. A question, a yearning for some understanding that never seems to come, a futile grasp for something in an emptiness that was not there before.

"Please, my love," you say with the utmost tenderness, reserved for Isobel alone, "do not hide your heart from me. You know I cherish it as if it were mine own."

"I haven't felt... myself," she haltingly begins in answer to your plea, as you step forward and encircle her, first in the embrace of your arms, then in the shelter of your wings. A treasured sanctuary saved for the two of you alone.

"I cannot... the death, it clings, I..."

She buries her face in your chest as she struggles to pick out words one by one, plucking them out like painful thorns. You let her rest tucked under your chin, restrain yourself to quietly running one gentle, slow hand through her hair.

"I am afraid," she settles on, finally, almost a whisper, hiding still, refusing to look at you. "I am afraid there is no fixing this wrongness I feel day after day, that's been... in me, over me, ever since I awoke. That something has been taken from me, and now there is no way to remove this vile mark that's been left on me instead, whatever it is. Not even by the grace of the Moonmaiden."

She shivers, and you tighten your hold on her, even as the sentence after that tears into your very heart, sharper and more jagged than any Sharran knife.

"I am afraid, most of all, that no matter how much I pray or plead, that whatever I do to try and prove myself worthy, I... cannot be. Ever again. I will never be worthy of Her light again. Or of yours."

"No," it comes out far rougher, angrier than you ever intended, ever wanted to aim anywhere near precious, beloved Isobel - not at her, never at her. But she is wrong, because it is an impossibility, unthinkable, ridiculous to even suggest. Her, treasured, cherished, held high above all in your regard, and lofty in your Mother's.

"Please, Isobel," you move a half-step back, if only to make it possible to cup her face, tilt her chin up and look at her. "Do not ever, ever think such a thing again. You could never be unworthy, not you. Not you."

The hitch is back in her laboured breath as she moves to protest, the haunted look shadowing her eyes. "How? How can you be so sure?"

And that is the question, isn't it? Your love for Isobel and faith in her intertwined, utterly certain and utterly relentless. Like the rage that sustained you through a century of torment, settled heavy and deep in your bones. You don't know any other way to feel, to be.

"I will prove it to you, I will drive away any shadow of any doubt. Her light, through me. For you alone, Isobel."

She acquiesces, at least, to being led over to the bed and sitting down. You lower the shoulders of her tunic. Place a gentle, reverent kiss on the revealed skin, trying to press in with it all the love and devotion you desperately need her to be aware of.

You lay a hand on her bare back, palm flat and flush with warm skin. The rush of joy and slight disbelief that she is once again yours to touch is still fresh, and yet the familiarity of every freckle, shift of shoulder blade, and light shiver of gooseflesh is ancient and deep and right. From the outside it is the same, perfect, unchanged Isobel. But you believe her unquestioningly when she says something is wrong.

A mere moment of focus has a silvery glow bathing the room, unwinding from underneath your fingertips and sinking into Isobel's back. She breathes in deeply, breathes out, then in again, shifting under your touch, until she seems to find at least some relief.

"Thank you, that's..." she murmurs, barely above a breath.

There is a dawning, deeply saddening comprehension rising in you - Isobel, insisting on pouring all her heart and soul into taking care of you, healing and protecting and doting on so devotedly, driven not just by your love most mutual, but also by fear. By a desperate need to prove herself worthy of Selûne's grace again, prove her return to life was not a horrifying mistake. Chasing redemption where none was ever needed, not for her, clinging to the thought like a lifeline.

"Whenever, whatever you need of me, however many times." You allow your fervour to seep into your voice as you feel your eyes burn, and continue trailing moonlight-dipped fingers down her back. "If you but say the word, I will provide what relief I can, I swear it, until you are free of any shadows haunting you, or until there is no light left in me - whichever deigns to come first."

Isobel smiles wryly, turning to steal a glance at you over her shoulder, a tiredness in her that she has only ever shown you alone. "I promised I would take care of you. And yet here you are, taking care of me. After... after everything."

She knows enough not to specify. Even this brief almost-mention is enough to make a darkness creep at the edge of your thoughts, but you swallow it back hastily, and focus only on the treasured countenance before you, on brushing stray silver locks behind her ear with your free hand.

"A fair and just exchange, I would think, if you are amenable."

Isobel hums something that is neither agreement nor disagreement, then turns to face you fully, sombre in the circle of your arms.

"I always thought that when the time came, I would be ready," she begins, slowly, as if every word was a trial. "Foolish and naive of me, probably. But I thought I knew what to expect, what I would have awaiting me, after a life of service. The City of Judgement, as awaits us all, and then, hopefully, and - I pray - deservedly, an audience in Argentil after being Claimed."

She stops, swallows, looks at you so pleadingly you cannot help but pull her back into your embrace.

"But instead..." you hold her tighter as she shudders, "...nothing. Darkness. A void."

Nothing. Like the black hole of your prison. And it seems fitting, for a moment, that fate has decided to match you in this, too.

"It is I who failed you. When it truly mattered, when it was of most consequence, I wasn't there. And you... you were lost to me. To us."

A small frown furrows her brow as she grasps around for something, anything. "I don't remember."

"Perhaps... perhaps that is for the best," you exhale, half-sick of dredging up shadows you would prefer remain buried. "My own memory is prodigious, and yet how I wish I could forget much of the past century."

But Isobel looks at you longingly, searchingly, and you oblige, at least for a little bit, calling to mind what should have been the darkest days of your long life. "For all our efforts, we were never able to capture your attackers - the cowards struck so suddenly, fled so swiftly. You were laid in state, for a while. The entirety of Reithwin mourned - the Silverbrow Priestess conducted the funeral services most beautifully. The very Moon, full to bursting, cried over it. And your father..."

Your throat seizes up. Her father, your tormentor. A wretched man you feel the two of you have to speak of, some day. The man who gave the world Isobel twice over, but selfishly, impossibly, wanted to keep her all to himself both times.

Her countenance grows steely and determined in a way you have yet to get used to. "My father was lost to me far before he died at your hand. I mourn the man I remember, not the monster you killed. A loving, kind, generous man, who should never have been capable of such horrors as Ketheric brought down upon my home, upon you. And yet... if I was all that was keeping him from such a fall, I cannot help but think--"

Isobel's voice cracks and you wonder when, in your absence-captivity, he stopped being Papa and became Ketheric. Your anger towards him tastes bitterer still.

And you think of Isobel, fleeing her own grave and the twisted visage of what was once her beloved father. Dragging her own burial shroud across a land of shadow and horror, full of echoes of a life half-remembered.

Isobel, alone, convinced of your demise, mourning you as you endlessly mourned her, both of you unknowing.

Isobel, left to desperately and single-handedly guard the only meagre surviving pocket of her childhood home, doomed and destroyed by her father's violent, misaimed grief over her own death. A pillar of light in an all-encompassing darkness and one final, crucial defence against it, without even a fair promise of hope or future to sustain her.

It sounds, at first, like a noble task you would think worthy of a cleric of Isobel's most excellent calibre. But you can't help but think it a test of devotion far too harsh, and entirely superfluous. Such incredible weight to place on any one person's shoulders. And for what?

Needed and necessary she once called herself and her efforts when you asked, insisting on dismissing it all in a way you perhaps understand entirely too well.

Perhaps, together... you, hollowed, and her, overflowing. And, in turn, her aching for something that is missing and you fit to burst with wrath and vengeance and violence. Perhaps there is hope yet, and healing to be found for both.

Together. Only ever together.

We trust in Your radiance, Moonmaiden, even when it is out of our sight.

The battle you were waiting for is over - won, by most reckonings, but not without great cost. What is left of the city now needs care and careful restoration. There are still stray cultist enclaves to root out, remnants of the illithid army, as well as mere opportunists who always show their vile selves in such circumstances. As part of an array of unexpected, colourful allies, you make short work of them all, whenever any come to light.

But rebuilding takes precedence, as does healing, and Isobel has taken point among Selûne's devoted in a way that is nothing short of awe-inspiring. The situation seems altogether more suited to her talents rather than yours at the moment, so you follow her readily, without question, and provide whatever aid you can.

It is a cycle as old as time, after all, as reliable as the phases of the Moon. Building, destruction, rebuilding - the world will always need both of you.

But tonight is the night of a full Moon, and Isobel has gone to conduct the requisite rituals with the rest of the Selûnite encampment that has been so welcoming to you. Isobel, death-touched but untainted, no matter what she may fear, will excel in whatever role they set out for her, of this you are certain.

You, on the other hand, have begged off, your own communion awaiting you elsewhere.

Your path leads you away from the outskirts of the city and up into the hills, your back turned on the Chionthar. Through remnants of farms and hunting lodges, up and up to cliff and brush and down again to sparse woodland, your steps are guided, as is your birthright.

It is becoming easier to hear Her voice once again. She does not always speak in words, but Her presence She makes felt.

And so you stop in a clearing, before a pond, crystal clear and fed by a jolly, clamouring stream. It is quiet, otherwise. Peaceful.

You dismiss your armour, letting it dissipate into motes of moonlight. You remember with a touch of warmth and immense fondness how sweetly Isobel would pout whenever she did not get to take it off you piece by piece.

The air is crisp and the water, once you touch it, is almost icy. The moonlight on your skin cleanses and soothes, combining with the chilly water into a refreshing blessing. It is the sensations of the world that you so dearly missed during your captivity, that you now allow to rush over you, all at once.

It is the first time in over a hundred years you stand and behold the full silver face of your Mother, the trail of Her Tears beside her, and wonder, idly, if she shed any for you.

Please, you beg as you step into the pool, without shame, without words. A kinder fate for Isobel, this time.

A kinder fate for the land she still calls home.

A kinder fate for me.

The cool silver water seeps into every crevice of your being and washes away with it some ichor of darkness you didn't even know still clung to you. You lie back and let yourself float, the rush of water in your ears drowning out even the small nighttime noises of the clearing and surrounding woods. In the soft waves you hear your Mother's voice, and She sounds kind, inviting, forgiving.

Why, you want to ask, why would you allow...

There is new dampness on your cheeks, and you realise haltingly that it is tears. "Hello, Mother."

The light of the Moon is caring and compassionate, and bathes you in love. It is the only embrace She has ever been able to give you, here. It is almost enough to forget a century of sorrow and the cries that went unheard.

No more, She says.

Rest, the murmur continues, soft and sad - a familiar melancholy, though not one you would expect during a Moon so full and bright. Earned, a hundred times over. My Sword, tempered to perfection. My Daughter, put through trials undeserved. Lost to me for so long. You are welcome here. Safe. I would have you know peace once more.

"Not... not yet. There are still too many, I cannot--" You sit up, rivulets of water running down your face, following the crevices of your scars. It is unlike you to struggle so with your words. You proclaim and vow, you do not stammer and hesitate.

What would you have for yourself, then, daughter mine?

"I would seek and extinguish the tyrants, the oppressors," your hands tighten into determined fists as you channel and reflect all that has been done to you, aglow with silver, wings unfurled. "Those who would bind, capture, enslave, who would subjugate and rule another for their own gain - let them sleep with one eye open. Let them know: Dame Aylin sees their deeds and offers no mercy."

Your cause is righteous, and I bless it as my own. But a burden should be shared. And you are not the only champion at my call.

It is true, of course, and you grasp the intent, but you cannot help but bristle. You may not be the only one, but surely you are the most--

--fearsome? Reliable? Accomplished?

Doubt creeps in, that most rare and hated of sensations. There is a shift, then, into a plea for you to understand, from a mother to her child.

A broken sword can accomplish little. And even the finest steel has a breaking point. Do not too eagerly seek your own.

You sink back into the pool, water up to your chin, as if bowing in acceptance.

If you crave a task, I task you: offer aid in healing and rebuilding, and thus rebuild yourself. Worry not - I will call upon you when the time comes. But for now, shore up the bulwark within you.

A smile, a tender grace.

And let each and all know yours is a blessed union.

The last fading words leave you puzzled for a few moonlit moments. And then Isobel is next to you, bare and glowing and embracing you, holding you to herself as if she will never let go.

"Isobel," you start, a host of questions forming on your tongue, but she places a finger over your lips.

"Guided back to you, as you were to me. As I promise I will be, for as long as I can."

A shiver runs through you at the undercurrent of steel and sheer devotion in her sweet voice.

"Then I vow I will never let myself be torn from your side again. And any who seek to part us will meet a swift end by my hand."

You spoke such promises to each other once already, what feels like a lifetime ago, even though it should by rights have been nothing compared to your eternal years. It is a heavy lesson to have learned so well in breaking them, though - that no tomorrow can ever be guaranteed. Not even for you.

Not near as tide- and cycle-bound, the Scribe had said, and you wonder at the recalled words. No endless rise and fall for you, then, perhaps. No waxing and waning. No rote repetition of tragic history in this world changed and strange, but instead something altogether new, hewn by the two of you.

Isobel takes your face between both her hands and kisses you, putting a swift end to your reverie.

In response, you pick her up out of the water, twirl her around, splash the both of you back down happily. Your smile turns into a grin, then a laugh, open and simple, and her giggle is crystal-bright and utterly free of the grasp of the grave. You feel lighter than the feathers you leave behind like a snowy trail.

You hold her and kiss her again and again and again and allow yourself to lose track of time.

Raphael x Tav (Wizard, human)

Forced Marriage

Tav looked at her father with shock in her eyes. "I’m sorry you what?!" She wanted to make sure she had heard correctly. Tav Gortash looked at her father hoping he was bullshitting her. "Did I hear that correctly?" She spoke with ice in her words. A woman of lesser control would have cast fireball by now, not that she wasn’t tempted.

He looked entirely unconcerned as he drafted a letter. "You are to be married to the man I’ve chosen for you in 2 days time. The dress is already made." Enver glanced up at his daughter. "There will be no argument. The contract has already been signed and the dowry paid."

Tav scowled at him. "You didn’t think to consult me? I am 23, able to make my own choices." She put her hands on her hips. Fireball was very very tempting as the rage burned behind her green eyes.

For his worth, Enver ignored his daughter’s burning rage. "You are part of a noble house and therefore will marry who I choose." He went back to his writing. "Go work on packing a bag. You will be going to your new husband’s home tomorrow." He smiled. "Your maid will help you."

Tav left the room recognizing the dismissal for what it was. She found her way to her room crying. Her maid was already there packing her a go bag. "Oh mistress. It’s alright." The elderly woman tried to sooth the poor distressed girl.

She was still so angry. "No it isn’t! I am marrying some stranger that my father sees fit to sell me to. I hate being nobility! If I were a commoner then perhaps I could marry a man of my choosing." She threw herself onto the bed weeping. "What if he is cruel like father to the servants. If he beats me. I will end up a murderer." She felt her maid wrap her arms around her soothingly. She leaned into the woman’s touch unaware she was being watched.

The next day she was painted up with bright red lips and eyeliner accentuating her green eyes, green like her mother’s. Her black hair was pinned back to show her pretty face and elegant neck. She looked distant even as they walked. Enver looked at his daughter almost proudly. "You look beautiful. He will fall for you in an instant." He poorly tried to cheer her up as they walked.

"You sold me for what father? Money? More power? What was my worth?" She spoke coldly spitting the word father like a swear. She was glaring at him icily. "I hope it was worth it throwing me to the unknown. He could beat me and then I would go to prison for killing him."

Enver chuckled knowingly at his daughter’s temper. "He will not. And I doubt you could kill the man I am marrying you to." He seemed to know something more about the man she was marrying than he was letting on. She narrowed her eyes venomously.

"So confident in that. Perhaps I shall end him before the wedding and flee." She spoke with barely concealed malice.

He gripped her arm tightly pulling her close to speak angrily in her face. "You will do no such thing you brat. I have raised you better than that. You will marry him and you will like it." Venom met venom.

She winced visibly. "Father you’re hurting me." She winced as his fingers left bruises on her arm.