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⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ABOVE, the sun hangs in an azure sky, its brilliance bathing the earth in a golden glow. Along a wide dirt path that cuts through a stretch of rolling hills and fields of lush green grass like a weathered scar walks a mighty clydesdale. Atop its broad back sits a young woman, none other than Adelaide, the crown princess of Inuzar. Her hair dances in the breeze, the dark tresses that fell loose from her neat braid swept up in the wind’s playful caress, tickling her cheeks. Tucking an errant strand behind her ear, Adelaide straightens her posture, light eyes flitting to the male beside her: Ser Erik, her retainer. Or, he used to be, before he, along with Zakn’rae and Loa, fled Inuzar, after a kingdom wide manhunt had been unleashed upon them, who the people thought killed their beloved king – Adelaide’s father. He gripped the mare’s reins in a closed fist, tawny eyes fixed toward the distant horizon, looking for danger. At his nape sits a haphazardly tied bun and he absently scratches at the stubble that covers his lower face in patches, evidence of days spent on the road, where he was deprived the luxury of a proper shave.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Behind him, to Adelaide’s right and left, were the drow Zakn’rae and aasimar Loa, respectively. Where Zakn’rae’s lithe form lacked bulk, Loa’s sturdy build more than compensated; similarly, Zakn’rae stood a few inches taller than the avian-like woman. Pale feathers extend from Loa’s cheekbones to her hairline, their blending into the cascade of fair hair that was meticulously braided to keep its fine strands from crowding her slim face. Her eyes were dark, a deep umber that consumed nearly her whole sclera, while Zakn’rae’s were a pleasant shade of red, shimmering like two polished rubies.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“I don’t think my legs can carry me any further,” a shrill voice complains. Loa’s head pivots like an owl, turning toward the tiny figure buzzing around them like a bothersome mosquito.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Pressing a hand to her forehead, the pixie feigned exhaustion, gracefully collapsing onto the shoulder of Trinity, the warlock who flanked the group. “If I endure another moment under this scorching sun, I fear I may succumb to its heat,” she declared dramatically.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ A derisive snort blows from Loa’s nostrils. “You haven’t taken so much as a single step we embarked this morning,” the paladin corrects. “And even if your wings grew weary, you could easily rest on Trin; in fact, it seems you’ve made quite the habit of nesting in her cowl throughout our journey.”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Sweet Loa, are you not bound by your duty to aid the distressed?” Thallia gasped in mock shock. “Have you forsaken your oath?”Lips forming a thin line, Loa retorts, “My oath is the one thing keeping me from squishing you like the irritating pest you are. Consider yourself lucky, little pixie.”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ “Ah, but imagine: defeating such a fearsome foe would undoubtedly elevate you to unimaginable glory,” teases Thallia, voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’d be hailed as a hero of legendary status, perhaps even rivalling the renown of Piergeiron Paladinson!”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“She would surely be my saviour,” Zakn’rae interjects, his voice cutting through the air like the dagger at his hip, causing Thallia to whip her head around so swiftly that Trinity swears she hears the miniature bones in the pixie’s neck crack. “Rescuing me from the torment of enduring your ear-bleeding voice and ceaseless complaints? By the Hells — I would worship her as a goddess, for that would be a blessing surpassing anything the divine have ever gifted me.”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Thallia bristles. “Silence, male,” a demand barked in an authoritative tone.Trinity doesn’t bother suppressing the snicker that escapes her nor does she try hiding how her lips lift into an amused smile. “Your ears — as sharp as they are — simply aren’t refined enough to appreciate the dulcet tones of my voice. It’s a shame, really,” the pixie adds.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“I beg to differ,” the white-haired drow remarked with a smug tilt of his head.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“You ‘begging to differ’ implies there’s something to differ about,” she challenged. “You can’t differ facts.”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Facts?” Zakn’rae arched a sceptical brow.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Yes, facts," Thallia asserts firmly.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Can you two cease with your bickering?” Hisses Erik, who the party had seemed to have forgotten was present.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ A hush falls over the party. The wind stops, the earth holds its breath. Erik pauses, too, as the mare he was pulling along comes to an abrupt stop in the middle of the road, her nostrils flaring as she emits a series of short, harsh blows that leave the knight bewildered. Her ears perk up, her eyes widen, and her muscles tense. Equally as confused as Erik, Adelaide strokes the frightened mare’s head, her own fear constricted in her throat. She scans the plains, finding nothing but empty space, stretching as far as the eye can see. And yet, the absence of an obvious threat was somehow more unsettling than a horde of orcs charging toward them. A gentle squeeze of her calves pressing into the sides of the mare’s belly signals that the princess wants her to move forward, but she baulks, completely petrified. Even a firm tug at her reins from Erik fails to coax the horse into movement.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Erik’s gaze lifted, eyes squinting against the blinding glare of the sun as he watches the skies. Amidst the sea of blue stretches a dark silhouette, wings spread wide. Initially no more than a distant speck, it steadily grew larger, hurtling towards them with alarming speed. As the shape gradually takes form, Erik’s heart plummets to his stomach, face blanching as a look of recognition flickers through his eyes. A dragon. He blinks once, twice. A dragon was coming toward them, drawing nearer with each powerful flap of its wings.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Zakn’rae notices it, too. “Is that a f***ing dragon—”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Yes, run!” Erik bellows, his voice harsh as he swiftly helps Adelaide dismount. With a firm grip on her wrist, he guides her and the few who heed his urgent call downhill, towards the safety of a nearby embankment. There, they would, at the very least, be out of the dragon’s direct line of sight.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ As Zakn’rae sprinted past the knight in a lavender blur, Thallia darted alongside him, a streak of motion. Yet, Trinity remained motionless, the only one to not follow Erik’s lead. Her sudden stop causes Loa’s steps to falter; despite maintaining pace with the group, the aasimar hesitates.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Loa moves to backtrack and retrieve Trinity, but Erik’s strong hand closes around her arm.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Leave her! If Trinity wants to court death, then let her,” the scarred man barks, dragging her down to safety with the rest of the group.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ The air thrums as the beast breaks through the clouds, its colossal wings stirring up strong winds that whip the grass into a frenzy, rippling like waves on the sea. It touches land with a thud that causes the earth to quiver beneath it, tucking its wings close to its sides.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Minutes pass, a thick silence permeating the air, devoid of the screams Erik anticipated hearing. Gesturing for the others to remain low, he slowly ascends the hill, shimmying up through the grass flat on his stomach, forearms digging into the dirt and pulling him forward. Peering over the top, he catches a glimpse of Trinity’s body — surprisingly in one piece — standing before the creature. Her fingers are curled around the reins of Adelaide’s steed, who notices Erik and casts him a weary glance, a silent plea for help.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Thric, wux shilta ti sone coi,” seethes Trinity, her scolding directed toward the brass-coloured beast. Erik vaguely recognises the language as Draconic, with its guttural sound and hissed syllables.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Is she chastising a dragon?⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ This woman is utterly insane. Absolutely batsh*t crazy.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“The way she handles herself with such confidence, staring death right in the face and not wavering in the slightest...” Zakn’rae, in typical rogue fashion, had snuck up to Erik’s side, and eyes the half-elf with poorly hidden admiration.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Erik could scarcely believe what he is having the displeasure of hearing. Daydreaming while there’s a dragon only a few paces away from you? A monster that could burn him to a crisp faster than he can say ‘oh sh*t.’⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ With a scrunch of his nose, Erik’s face contorts in revulsion, and he delivers a resounding blow with a closed fist to the drow’s head. A string of curses falls from Zakn’rae lips, hands clutching his skull as he bites back a hiss of pain. His voice is not lost on the dragon’s keen ears — or rather, the small holes on the sides of its head through which it listens to the world.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Swallowing thickly, Erik remains stationary as the beast pivots, stalking toward them with a lumbering gait, barbed tail raised. Its hulking form casts a long shadow over the hillside, beady, black eyes boring into the two men; a wild look that suggests it surely intends to gorge itself on them. A shriek from Zakn’rae nearly provokes the dragon — which, now having a closer look at it, Erik realises is a wyvern — into attacking. Had it not been for Trinity’s intervention, a sharp shout of “Skyrend!” from her mouth, drow, a delicacy of the Underdark, would have been on the menu today.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Sune, ti wistu,” she runs a hand over the wyvern’s — Skyrend, Erik guesses — broad snout. A low rumble vibrates in Skyrend’s throat and it noses Trinity’s hand in an affectionate manner that belies a lesser dragon’s infamously aggressive nature.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“By Helm, Trinity, what are you doing?!” Erik throws his hands up in the air, gesticulating wildly. “That is a wyvern!”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Yes, that much is obvious,” the warlock replies coolly. She, like usual, is nonchalant, unbothered by the fact that beside her stands a beast that, if it wanted, could gobble her up whole, no chewing necessary.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“That thing has the strength to tear you limb from limb, and yet you’re petting it like… some dog?”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“That thing is named Skyrend,” she informs him.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Erik stares at her incredulously. “Skyrend? You’re on a first-name basis with a wyvern now?”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Trinity nods. “Skyrend means no harm; its merely misunderstood.”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Misunderstood?! What of the hundreds — no, thousands — that have fallen to a wyvern’s wrath?”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“I could say the same of man,” Trinity answers, tone steady. “Humans bear the weight of countless atrocities — bloodshed not just of animals, but of their own kin as well. Yet I don’t label all of mankind as ‘savages’ based on the actions of a few.”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Erik shakes his head in disbelief. “Comparing humans to beasts? You’ve truly lost your mind,” he growls, his frustration evident in his voice. “You can’t reason with a wild creature like that. It’s dangerous, plain and simple. Humans have conscience, morality—”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“As does Skyrend,” Trinity interrupts. “You claim I can’t reason with a feral creature like it, but Skyrend has been my companion longer than you’ve been alive. It's not an enemy, I assure you. At the very least, give it a chance to prove itself.”TRANSLATIONS : Thric, wux shilta ti sone coi. — No, you cannot eat it [the horse].Sune, ti wistu. — Friend, not enemy.

ㅤㅤㅤTrinity had long since resigned herself to the undeniable fact that she was forever bound to Draven; she was eternally his, until death did them part. But even death would not free her. Were she to perish, he would resurrect her. Another number in his undead horde; however, she was special to him. In his twisted mind – ailed by a sickness that’s festered over centuries of undeath – Draven was convinced she was his darling Gisella come back to him. And Trinity understood all too well that he wouldn't release his beloved this time. Maybe he would bestow upon her the curse of consciousness, or he would lavish her with special treatment, as he always had. And perhaps, among those capable of such feelings, envy would simmer like it did among the clergy years ago. After all, she was his ‘favourite.’ They did not know ‘favourite’ was a way of saying ‘his most valued possession.’ In the lifetime and unlife that she has spent under his thumb, she learned that he regarded her not as a person, but as an object : a pretty thing to ogle, to push around and touch as he wanted. Being his ‘favourite’ did shield her from his wrath, or spare her from beatings; it didn’t grant her any more influence over the men she referred to as ‘brothers.’ He paid her objections no heed, much like he disregarded their attempts to curry favour through flattery.ㅤㅤㅤFreedom only came with Draven’s death, his utter annihilation, his complete erasure from the realms. Killing a lich required destroying its phylactery that tethers its corporeal form to the Material Plane with it. Fail to do so and the lich will be reformed within a tenday. Draven was a clever one, having broken his phylactery into three shards that he then hid in the hard - to - reach corners of Faerûn.ㅤㅤㅤOne fragment was with Trinity’s father, the exiled protégé of House Meliscient, Kiirion. He fled north, to the quadruplet peaks at the Spine of the World where the sky and snow became indistinguishable. The bitter chill and unforgiving terrain of the tundra stood in stark contrast to the temperate shores of Evermeet, yet Kiirion was prepared to adapt. Stories of dragons veiled as clouds and formidable barbarian tribes that lived along the Wall, deterred any pursuit of him, granting him uninterrupted solitude for the past one - hundred and twenty years.ㅤㅤㅤAnother shard of the lich’s phylactery lay hidden within the blighted marshes of the Mere of Dead Men, concealed amidst the hoard of the dracolich Xylbesdi. It was Draven who orchestrated Xylbesdi’s transformation into undeath, only to later seize control of the dracolich and pilfer its own phylactery. Shielded from prying eyes by powerful illusions and safeguarded by intricate magical wards, the dracolich’s home is an impregnable fortress even seasoned adventurers cower from exploring.ㅤㅤㅤWithin Trinity beats the third shard, powering her mechanical heart, the pulsating core that sustains her existence. Removing the fragment would bring the artificial organ to a standstill, so. . .ㅤㅤㅤ“So, to slay Draven, you have to die?” Zakn’rae’s furrowed brow betrayed his troubled thoughts as deftly twirls an ornate dagger between his practised fingers. He angled the blade toward Trinity’s chest, its pointed tip hovering perilously close to where her heart beat with hesitant anticipation.ㅤㅤㅤThe half - elf was never the type to hide the truth in pleasant falsehoods, answering the with a firm “Yes.” Her gaze funnels to the dagger’s honed edge, throat bobbing as she swallows the knot of unease that threatened to choke her, stifling her dread.ㅤㅤㅤFace betraying no emotion, Zakn’rae offers a slow nod in reply, and wordlessly presses the dagger into Trinity’s hand, a silent agreement sealed between them in steel. Her slender digits tighten around the hilt and she observes her warped reflection in its polished metal.ㅤㅤㅤOver the course of her travels alongside Zakn’rae and their companions – stalwart Loa, valiant Erik, and ever faithful Thallia – Trinity, like to a raven collecting shiny baubles, had gathered a trove of mementos : a white peppered feather plucked from Loa’s noble brow; a silver coin, minted in the kingdom Adelaide was meant to rule, a kingdom now darkened by a pall of uncertainty and upheaval; and a dried flower taken from the Aerwood Glade, its petals still faintly fragrant, tenderly preserved between the yellowed pages of her weathered journall. . . Several meaningless items that hold little sentimental value to the average person, but were to her tangible memories that, when arranged together, created a recollection of their time together.ㅤㅤㅤIt’s been a little over a year since she first met them. To one for whom time holds no sway, such a span might seem infinitesimally brief; but, she lived more than one year than she had in one - hundred fifty years spent under Draven’s enthrallment. The closer they came to confronting Draven, the clearer the true essence of living became to her; life’s beauty lay not in its longevity, but in its intensity. Every laugh shared, every tear shed, every heartbeat counted – these were the currency of being. Trinity couldn't deny feeling disappointed by the modest sum she had amassed over her lifetime, especially considering how many others she had outlived. She, however, was grateful for whatever amount she had, whether it was one, a thousand, or even a million.ㅤㅤㅤPart of her yearned for just a little more time, perhaps another year, to neatly tie up the loose ends she knew she would leave behind. Yet, such mercy was not granted. With the end looming ever closer, Trinity knew there would be words left unsaid, conversations unhad, and embraces left unfelt. She refused to burden her companions with any more sorrow than absolutely necessary. Some secrets, she resolved, would accompany her to the grave, all in the name of sparing them further pain. Sacrifices had to be made. If her death meant freeing the tormented souls, like her, ensnared by Draven’s cruelty and saving others from his malevolence, then she would meet death willingly. For she had grown to value their happiness above her own, ready to set aside her wants for the greater good.ㅤㅤㅤThe floorboard protests with a soft creak under the pressure of her boot as she strides across the room, closing the distance between herself and Zakn’rae, who stands poised by the window, his gaze fixed upon the starry expanse above. Silvery eyes mirror the twinkling diamonds strewn across the night sky, slivers of moonlight filter through the emerald foliage, dabbling the forest floor with specks of muted ivory.ㅤㅤㅤ“I have one request – a dying wish if you will,” though her tone is hard, it’s easy to tell her words are a poorly masked plea. “When I’m dead and buried, do not let me be remembered as a tragedy.” 

[ CONTEXT : The party stopped in Waterdeep on their way to the Ardeep Forest to stock up on supplies before continuing their search for the Aerwood Glade. Trinity was recognized by a Harper agent who had once worked with her mother, Buchra, a former Master Harper. The agent took Trinity to Buchra’s former lodging. Loa, Trinity, and Thallia decided to investigate the room to see if they could find any valuable gear, but instead uncovered a dark secret that led to Buchra coming out of retirement and ultimately led to her demise. A prequel to this piece. ]ㅤㅤㅤ Shafts of sunlight filter in through tall windows, with heavy curtains billowing gently in the breeze. The windows needed dusting, with motes of dust dancing lazily in the air, captured in the streams of light as they floated on invisible currents. Two figures entered through an aged door, its hinges protesting being opened after years untouched, the aged floorboards groaning beneath the weight of their footsteps — Loa's hurried and excited, Trinity's slow and uncertain.ㅤㅤㅤIn one corner of the room loomed a towering bookcase, its shelves packed with a collection of well-loved leather-bound tomes, their spines worn from consistent use. Against the opposite wall stood a sturdy oak desk, its surface cluttered with faded parchment. A jar of dried ink sat at the far edge, with an upright quill poised within, undisturbed still even years later. Along another wall stood a grand four-poster bed, draped in faded linens, their colors dulled by years of exposure to the elements. Loa gravitated towards a sizable wardrobe nestled against the westernmost wall, while Trinity remained in the room's center, her eyes captivated by the intricate embroidery of the threadbare rug beneath her boots.ㅤㅤㅤThe salty tang of the sea hung in the air, mingling with the faint whisper of brine carried on the breeze that tousled Trinity's cowl, teasing her hair. She tucks an errant curl back into place, and her attention briefly flickers to Loa, who is engrossed in searching through the wardrobe. Unearthing a trove of worldly trinkets and small treasures, the aasimar's turquoise gaze is bright with fascination as she pulls an old instrument from a hidden corner of the armoire. It bears a resemblance to a lute, with a long body and strings stretched taut across its frame, but there is something distinctly different about it, something that sets it apart.ㅤㅤㅤ"Trinity, come, you must see this," Loa beckons the other woman toward her with a quick nod of her head. She presents the unique instrument to Trinity as she approaches, giving its strings a tentative pluck. A warm note plays and the blonde wonders aloud, "I wonder what manner of imaginative luthier crafted such an oddly... shaped lute."ㅤㅤㅤBefore Trinity can voice her thoughts, a tiny figure flits into the room, hovering near her shoulder. "That's not a lute, dear," Thallia chimed in, her wings fluttering iridescently in the sunlight. "That is a kora. Commonly played by bards from the Vilhon Reach – a way ways from here."ㅤㅤㅤ"Oh," a small, surprised noise escapes the aasimar, who gives the kora a second look over. "Do you s'pose that means your mother may be Vilhonese, Trin?"ㅤㅤㅤ"A native of Turmish or Chondath, maybe," Trinity muses. The indifference in her tone suggests her thoughts were elsewhere as she had drifted from the small gathering of girls in favour of purusing the papers left behind on the desk. Her mother's desk. Late mother's desk.ㅤㅤㅤTrinity had never given much thought to her mother; the thought of her never stirred much emotion within her. She had grown accustomed to her absence, familiar with the void that maternal love should occupy; however, speaking of her in the past tense caused a pang, a fleeting stab of ache to her heart, leaving a tender hollow in its wake.ㅤㅤㅤIn another life, perhaps, she would have had the chance to know her — the Buchra beyond who chroniclers wrote of. To know her not as a figure of myth and legend, a conqueror of both land and sea, but as her mother, her flesh and blood. Not a single word had she shared with the woman, but Trinity mourned the loss of her. It was a loss not just of the woman her mother was, but of the future they could have shared together, had Draven not stolen it from her.ㅤㅤㅤHer fingers glided over the scratched surface of the abandoned desk, sifting through the scattered parchment left behind by Buchra, until they brushed against the rough texture of tanned hide beneath the pads of her gloved digits. Eyeing the journal, the warlock lifted it with care, sliding her hand beneath the cover and gently nudging it open. The yellowed pages carried the faint perfume of ink, and she absentmindedly thumbed their moth-eaten edges as she turned through entries scrawled in heavy-handed strokes.ㅤㅤㅤBuchra was no poet – her writing was absent of any embellishments or flowery prose – but she was thorough. Though Loa said something, her teasing voice became a static buzz in Trinity's ears as she was completely absorbed in her mother's world. She found herself swept up in tales of adventure and daring escapades, broken up by the occasional draft of a song or rushed sketch, poorly rendered with charcoal. As the remaining pages dwindled, Trinity's pace slowed, her gaze lingered on a particular passage containing the beginnings of a song. Incomplete, like many others in the book, yet she couldn't shake the feeling that this one was not meant to be left unfinished.ㅤㅤㅤ "Through tempests fierce and tranquil morn,in mirth and woe – my love for thou, my precious, shall everlast. . .Stride forth, dear one, with head held high,know in thy soul, I'm by thy side. . ." ㅤㅤㅤThe gentle caress of Loa's taloned thumb left a tingling sensation on Trinity's skin, drawing her out of her reverie. She's met with Loa's round eyes, her own gaze unfocused from tears she hadn't realized had fallen. Trinity pivots on her heel, her back now turned to the paladin and Loa casts Trinity an apologetic glance, taking several steps back, observing silently as the half-elf clenches the journal tightly.ㅤㅤㅤA soft sniffle escapes her, prompting Loa to gently inquire, "Are you alright?"ㅤㅤㅤCollecting herself, Trinity steadied her breath and blinked away any lingering moisture that gathered in her waterline, nodding curtly in response. Thallia and Loa exchange an uncertain glance, with the former offering a shrug while the latter's lips wilt into a frown. Trinity's tumult is forgotten with the turn of a page, dog-eared and left for later review. The next few entries unfold abruptly, with mentions of a man named 'Kiirion' littered throughout. Ample context clues provided Trinity clarity regarding Buchra's relationship to this Kiirion. Short descriptions evoke imagery of a dark-skinned man with pointed ears, chiseled cheeks, and a forked tongue. He is depicted as a liar, a serpent who cruelly tore her daughter away, pretending she would have a better life among the more civilised folk of Everska - the 'folk' being elves like himself. But he and Trinity never reached Everska. There was no sanctuary as promised, only the grim reality of a man who had dallied with forbidden magic — a practice his own kind had warned him against for years. A man who was acting on the whims of a lich, a man who traded their child for his own freedom; a betrayal that cut deeper than any blade. Sketches accompanied the terse entries, depicting a gemstone with dark, angry lines of ink carved through it, severing it into three distinct fragments. The earlier reference to a lich was no coincidence; this drawing is of Draven's phylactery.ㅤㅤㅤHer stomach plummets, twisting in knots, as she fights back the bile rising in her throat. Images of her hand stained crimson with the warmth of blood and the heady, metallic scent of it permeating the air thrust themselves to the forefront of Trinity's mind. Trembling arms encircled her waist, drawing her close in a feeble embrace. The insertion of her dagger into the woman's back was quick and merciful. A sputtering breath escaped her victim, her eyes fluttered shut, and her figure slackened against hers. In the haze of that moment, the inexplicable emptiness that filled Trinity as she cradled Buchra's lifeless form made no sense, as if she was trying to decode a cipher written in a foreign tongue. But now, with the cruel clarity of hindsight, the truth revealed itself – that embrace was the first and final time she held her mother close.  ㅤ

Who I oweLeonora last April 28th, 2024HereHereWho Owes me:here here updated owes on April 28th, 2024

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Winter had come early that year.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Though the stone walls confining her offered no glimpse of the world outside, Trinity knew by the chill that surged through her like a shock that winter had arrived. The unforgiving cold seeped into the marrow of her aching bones, clawing at her bare skin with icy fingers.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Sleep provided no solace, for it was unnecessary. Reprieve arrived only when her injuries overwhelmed her, succumbing to unconsciousness induced by loss of blood. But even oblivion couldn't free her; as her body surrendered, he besieged her mind, conjuring illusions of indescribable agony with a pain so tangible that she could no longer discern between reality and fiction.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀She did not know how long the gaps were between her screaming and waking; between the cessation of pain and its resurgence. Days, months, years — they bled together, indistinguishable like the red of her blood from the red of her hair. Time lost its meaning within his lair, a fortress of perpetual torment. A stronghold that might well be fake; another trick of the mind, spun by his dark magic.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀The searing pain in her back, the fiery welts left by the lash of a whip — were they even real? And what of the warm blood running down her limbs like crimson rivers, flowing from where the flesh of her wrists and ankles had been devoured by the iron cuffs? Has she gone mad, and is this torture just a manifestation of her fractured psyche?⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀A jerk of the shackles binding her. They jangle, but hold firm. Metal chafes against her raw skin, old wounds shrieking as they tear anew. Trinity inhales sharply through her teeth, swallowing her cry. Her eyes squeeze shut, then flutter open again. She turns over her bloody palms to gaze at them, flexing her fingers. Surprisingly, they still retain function even though her tactile sensations had dulled. Real.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Awake, are we, Gisella?” Dread coils in her stomach at that voice. Crooning and cold.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Trinity, my name is Trinity, she wants to correct him.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀She had forsaken every part of herself that his hands had ever touched, and now she had nothing left but her name. Trinity.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀He emerged with a swish of robes, flanked by two wights that shambled in after him, pulling two grand oak doors at the chamber's opposite end shut. The only exit was sealed.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Draven towered over most, his gaunt face wrinkled with age. A shock of gray streaked through his ebon-hued hair, his scraggly beard equally dark. He appeared human, with flesh, bone, and blood. Fake. A façade no easier on the eye than the skeletal lich Trinity was more acquainted with.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“You know,” he drawls, stepping toward her. Trinity instinctively recoils, but her restraints hinder her movement. “I wonder if you recall, Gisella—” The name grates on her ears. She hates it, but particularly loathes when it's spoken by him.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Trinity, Trinity is my name, she reasserts. A fierce fire blazes within her, its origins unclear; she ceased resisting him ages ago, perhaps years past. Yet, an unyielding flame persists deep within her, burning with the ferocity of the sun. It rages with such intensity that, were it not for the iron muzzle fastened to her jaw, she believes she could spew fire like a dragon, wild and untamed.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀With the swiftness of a viper, he strikes, seizing her throat with a bruising force. “That night, when everyone deserted you, abandoned you to the merciless waves,” he hisses, drawing near to her ear. “Who was it that came to your aid? I. It's by my grace alone that you stand here now, by my intervention that you were granted a second chance at life. Yet still, you dare defy me? To deride all that I have sacrificed so that you might thrive?”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Trinity’s eyes narrowed into slits and though her tongue was forcibly held, her disdain is palpable, etched into the sharp lines of her face. With a short gesture, Draven beckons one of the wights to come forth, and the half-elf’s mechanical heart palpitates as she watches him retrieve a slim blade from the undead creature’s grasp. He maintains a firm hold on her face, eyes boring into her, alight with fury, “You forget your place.”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀He grazes her temple with the flat side of the dagger. “You owe me everything, yet you repay my generosity with insolence,” his lips press into a hard line. “You have squandered my mercy for the last time. It’s time you learned the true cost of disobedience.”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Lifting the dagger, the man angles it toward her eye, its metal glimmer catching the flickering firelight of a nearby brazier, reflected in the inky depths of her pupil. Just as the blade threatens to plunge into her socket, Trinity wrenches her head to the side at the last moment. The razor-sharp edge catches on the bridge of her nose, slicing a deep gash across her cheek as she twists out of his grasp, collapsing to the ground.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀That was the match that ignited his anger into an all-consuming inferno, her continued resistance stoking the flames of his wrath. Futilely, Trinity tries to break away, thrashing wildly against her restraints as Draven white-knuckles the dagger. With a guttural roar, he reaches out, grabbing Trinity by the hair and yanking her back with a savage force that sends shards of pain radiating through her skull.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Hold me in your tempest, Stormbringer. Trinity silently implores, her soul reaching out to Talos for deliverance, for liberation. She begs, begs and begs. But beyond the cold stone walls, the world lies tranquil, undisturbed. There is no tumultuous storm, no wailing wind to either exalt or condemn Draven’s savagery. Talos remains silent; he, like so many of his divine kin, remains indifferent to the plight of mortals, their pleas falling deaf on divine ears. In the face of such divine apathy, Trinity’s hope wanes. There are no gods here, only barren halls that reverberate with the hollow resonance of her screams.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Neither god nor mortal will come to her aid; if salvation is to be found, she must find it in herself. ㅤㅤㅤ

▏her moniker. ㅤㅤㅤSHE entered into this world nameless – for who would name a commodity bartered for peace between men? ‘Father’ had christened her under another name, and she was reborn. But that girl died too, when she was only twenty summers young; in the embrace of the unforgiving waters of the Sea of Swords, she breathed her last sigh, a memory swallowed by the depths of Umberlee’s wrath. It was not that girl who climbed her way up from the sea's depths, nor was it she who washed ashore, coughing and sputtering, lungs filled with brine. She did not look into the faces of her ‘brothers’ and saw the horror in their eyes – the disbelief, the fear, the realization that death had been denied its rightful claim. It wasn’t that girl who killed them, either. No, the hands that wrought such devastation belonged to another – the tempest incarnate; a creature who skirted the very edge of oblivion, born again amidst the carnage of her previous self’s kin.ㅤㅤㅤA collection of heads – lowered, with clasped hands touched to foreheads –raise in unison, turning to look upon her; the very woman who they cast away to the sea stood before them. Bare feet shamble over cobblestone as she crosses the distance of the sanctum to the altar. Thick silence hangs heavy in the stale air, broken only by the rhythmic echoes of her footsteps. Anxious glances dart among the clergymen, their murmurs of prayer fading into uneasy whispers. For this was not their sister, the docile acolyte they once knew. No, she is something else entirely – a being of unadulterated rage, with eyes ablaze with fervor, her body running on the fumes of a euphoric high, beset by the escape from death’s cold grip.ㅤㅤㅤBehind her, she leaves a trail of damp footprints as she ascends the steps heading up to the altar. Above her, the stony countenance chiseled in the likeness of Talos looms, a silent witness to the impending chaos she intended to carry out in His name. Differently colored eyes lower to the sacrificial dagger before her, caked in coagulated blood, her blood. The same blade used to carve wounds that still ache now she holds, white - knuckling the hilt, the metal cool against her skin.ㅤㅤㅤSwiftly pivoting on her heel, the half - elf approaches the priest leading the sermon. He cowers under her intense stare, taking two paces back as she advances two forward. The dagger, held aloft by trembling hands, rises with lethal intent. Her arm becomes a blur of motion as she brings the dagger down with a decisive strike, its blade catching the flickering candlelight, a silver streak promising death. It finds its mark in the back of the man who, in attempting to dodge the incoming strike, made the grave mistake of turning his back on her. Steel bites into the Storm Herald’s flesh, drawing forth a spray of crimson that stains his pristine robes, body crumpling to the floor with a guttural cry from deep in his soul.ㅤㅤㅤHis vision swims as he staggers away, reduced to crawling on hands and knees – like a wounded animal, making a futile bid at fleeing from the predator that shadows its every move. She saunters at his side, her gaze, as frigid as the ocean that threatened – and failed – to consume her, remaining fixated upon him. With a deft hand and determined stride, Trinity removes the blade embedded in his back, its edge slickened with his blood. A weak groan escapes the priest’s lips, parted in a supplication of mercy that goes unspoken, as his body slackens, his head hitting the stone floor unceremoniously as he succumbs to the pull of unconsciousness.ㅤㅤㅤTalassan clerics understand structure through acts of violence and fear, their hierarchy maintained through the ruthless assertion of power. In an instant, the balance of power can shift, and those once revered may find themselves cast down, their authority usurped by a new order more ruthless than its predecessor. Blade clutched at her hip, the woman lifts her chin, eyes sweeping across the silent throng of clergymen with a predatory gleam. A look that dared anyone to challenge her, and face the same fate as the one that lay dead at her feet; seeking not approval but defiance. How they react matters not, though. She acts as she has learned from them, unwilling to extend to them the courtesy they had so callously deprived her of. Her submission to their authority had not spared her from their cruelty, nor had her pleas for mercy ever fallen on anything but deaf ears. And so, she had decided : they are all marked for death this night.ㅤㅤㅤIt was a bloody baptism; the most macabre of metamorphoses. The serpent molts, shedding her scales; the ashes of her former self are scattered to the wind, and from the embers rises a new being. No holy waters sanctified her, no solemn rites marked her passage, but the storm itself bore witness to her transformation, the roar of its raucous applause thundering in her ears.ㅤㅤㅤAnd it was then, as the storm clouds parted, the heavens opened, and the space between the Prime Material and Outer Planes were bridged, that she – fresh from the womb of slaughter – looked into the singular eye of Talos, the Storm Lord. Within his divine gaze, she beheld the tempest’s fury, the thunder’s roar, and the lightning’s flash. It was as if Talos himself spoke to her in the language of the elements, and she was enlightened with the understanding of her new name – TRINITY – and the divine mandate thrust upon her. She was to be his judge, tasked with discerning truth amidst onslaught, to be the eye of the hurricane. His jury, weighing the deeds of those who defy her Lord’s creed and rendering verdicts with an unbiased heart, echoing the impartiality of wildfires that care not who they burn, of floods that sweep away both the rich and the poor, the good and the evil. His executioner, wielding His wrath as her righteous blade, delivering swift justice to the deserving.ㅤㅤㅤTrinity : the embodiment of Talos’ will, threefold. His most loyal servant, whom would do anything to satisify Him; for in Talos, she was convinced, lay her redemption.ㅤㅤㅤBut, bitterly, she recognises that, no matter how she tries to separate herself from him, she has become exactly what Draven wanted of her : a thing of wrath and malice – an agent of chaos, capable of killing without remorse. His influence runs deeper than any biological connection could ever hope to achieve; he may as well have sired her himself, for his mark upon her is indelible, a brand that will forever mar her soul and flesh; scars, painful and raw, that are both metaphorical and literal. For her body will forever remember his shape, and his teachings are deeply engraved in her brain. In an ironic sense, she owes to him credit for her reckoning; he crafted Trinity from his malevolence. Trinity is his masterpiece, his magum opus – his open love letter to the Storm Lord he praised so highly. 

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Magneto's personal universe is set in 2024. It's similar to X-Men 97 just modern with a few changes here and there.Genohsa has not been created.Sentinels are being built but have not yet been used. The Nazi invasion (or similar) was a few years later.Magneto dislikes humans due to trauma and experiences. He does look down on them and regards them as beneath mutants.He doesn't wish to kill all humans but with the threat of the military and sentinels and more, he will eradicate those he needs to.The world is filled with Mutants and Humans. Avengers, MCU, spider-verse and others would come under a multiverse. I am open to hearing ideas. Pitch them to me.Magneto's universe is dark with the two sides fearing each other.The X-men try to keep a balance while the Brotherhood wants to fight for their rights.Magneto is smart yet manipulative. He is not afraid to twist words in his favor and get his way. Manipulation, fear-mongering and charm are his strongest techniques.Essentially he would be considered a cult-like leader. 

Thread Tracker.https://www.roleplayer.me/THESTORYTELLER"These are the ones that I owe or those who owe me." ⛧ · · ─────── ·☽◯☾· ─────── · · ⛧Discussing With: • None⛧ · · ─────── ·☽◯☾· ─────── · · ⛧I owe starters for: • @Phychokiller (Klaus Mikaelson) [x] - My Group Forum - ⛧ · · ─────── ·☽◯☾· ─────── · · ⛧I owe replies to:• None ⛧ · · ─────── ·☽◯☾· ─────── · · ⛧I’ve written to:  •  @Bloodseeker (Damon Salvatore) [x] - My Group Forum -•  @ Sinsational Writings (Multi-muse) [MCRP] [x] - Via Discord -⛧ · · ─────── ·☽◯☾· ─────── · · ⛧RPG Stuff: • None⛧ · · ─────── ·☽◯☾· ─────── · · ⛧Drabbles: • Drabble # 1: Becoming A Løve!  [x] ⛧ · · ─────── ·☽◯☾· ─────── · · ⛧ "These will be updated as soon as there is need too." template credit.

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1. No minors. I am 35 in real life and no thank you.2. Don't rush me through replies. Sometimes life gets busy and you just have to deal with that.3. Not that there is anything to steal, but if I have something displayed for others to see on here, do NOT jock or "steal" it from me. Chances are that I put some WORK into creating or designing it.4. Put some effort into your posts. I don't want to be the only one coming up with ideas that have to do with the story that WE are creating.5. I prefer messages over comments and please DO NOT ask me for personal information INCLUDING DISCORD. I do not give it out for obvious (or not obvious) reasons. 

----Trigger Warnings----Tauriel remembers every detail of that fatal night. A reverent that curled around her mind in her waking hours or sleep, much like the spirited mist that coiled around the surrounding mountains. A pale noose that sometimes suffocated her, taking her every breath and haunted her mind.When the howling of Rhîw splintered between thin blackened trendies hanging from the tree's hypnotized in its cold embrace. It awakened her from her slumber right before the Orcs entered her village, as if the Valar themselves were trying to warn them all before the pillaging began. The swaying of the pendulum in the next room clicked from left to right as swiftly and clear as Quell. The breeze right before the very first scream pierced the air like the tip of a dagger and a deep, resounding thud as the springs bounced off the wooden floor, awakening her parents in the next room.A heavy silence filled the air before her, nadar's voice screamed out for Tauriel to hide, as he had taught her. She slipped swiftly out of the warmth of her covers for the very last time and under the wooden planks under the privacy of her bed. It was a hidden cubby he made for her, and her naneth if trouble every brewed while he was away. He kept it stocked with a week of supplies and weapons in case they needed to stay for more than a day. She couldn't stop shivering as she backed her small frame into the stone-cornered wall and slipped down, holding her trembling knees against her chest as she watched the shadows between the floor boards. And suddenly, Tauriel covered her ears at once when she heard her naneth's gurgling cries and nadar's final roar before a swift steel blade plummeted into his chest. She cannot recall how long she stayed under the floorboards. Tauriel felt as frozen as a gentle leaf in the middle of a catastrophic Rhiw storm. But the scent of rotten eggs, charred flesh, and iron filtered heavily into the air and reminded her she was still alive as cold, sticky droplets of life spilled between the wooden floor.It must have been a few days that passed, and the last dying cries, moans faded away like the torn pages of an old book her nadar would sometimes use when he couldn't find a dried twig to light their fireplace in the colder months. Her naneth would always scoff at him for doing so, lecturing him on the time it took to make that book, and what if that was the last in existence? The words he just burned would be forever lost, she would scoff. Her Nadar would settle back into his old creaky rocking chair with a wooden pipe between his smirking lips and motion for Tauriel to join him on his lap as he snuggled her in his arms listening to his wife lecture him further. “Aye, its the past woman! And the best stories are always held in our minds and hearts.'"They are passed down from one generation to the next. Not some flattened words scribbled a bout with no feeling at all! I'm sure whatever story that was written in that book is still with the loved ones he had left," he said and began to rock softly with her in his arms in his chair. "Plus you fancy freezing to death? Miss I am cold! I am cold!" He chuckled heartly and kissed the top of Tauriel's fiery locks." I'll never know where you got this colour from lass! But I believe its a reflection of your soul." Her emerald eyes welled in tears again as she sniffled and rubbed her tiny nose knowing she would never have another memory of them again.Lost in her thoughts, she barely registered the creaking of the floor, shifting of light as King Thranduil's men found her there. She was catatonic, and they must have called her a million times before one decided to jump down and a loom of dust from the dirt beneath his feet splattered around, awakening her from her dreams as she looked up towards him. "Are you a Maia?" her raspy, brittle voice from lack of fluids asked in a whispered breath. "No, I am not Henig. Odulen an edraith anlen. We come to take you to the palace where you can recover, and we will find you a new home in the inner sanctuary of the Village." He spoke gently and quickly scooped her up, and she didn't realize how weak she actually felt as she slumped into his chest as he crawled out of her family's secret dwelling, she would see her parents again.Their lifeless bodies lay unnaturally on the floor. The skin was as pale as the moon and hung barely on their bones. Their eyes were still open wide but soulless, and their mouths were agape from their silent screams. In that split second Tauriel went from having no strength at all to kicking and fighting away from the gentle soldier that held her and sunk by her naneth's body. And even though there was pools of blood she crawled into her frame like a baby and laced her small arms over her naneth's lifeless heart. "Wake up Nana! Oh wake up! Please! I do not want to leave here I want to stay with you or come back and take me too! Take me too!!!" She sobbed and squinted her eyes tight and perched her lips as her breathing hitched. "You promised you would never leave me! You promised! Come back! Come back!!!” Her voice hoarse, her body feeling the weight of every tears ahs she pounded her tiny fist into her nana's chest before sinking completely into her motionless arms and tried to lace them around her slender shoulders. At first Thranduil's men just stood frozen. Their eyes peeled at the little girl, and they occasionally glanced at the other unsure what to do. But they knew it was only a matter of time before trouble would befall again and they needed to gather the survivors and the dead too. The same soldier who first held her in his arms tired to at first encourage her gently into his arms. But Tauriel resisted and screamed, spatting in his face and clung to her naneth as another soldier had to assist, even though she was just a little lass. "No! Noooooo!!!," Tauriel screamed before finally sinking into his chest again and she felt even more tired than she did before as the world around her muted into nothingness. "We will give them proper burial and you could visit them whenever you wish," he tried to reassure her. But his words felt as lifeless at that moment as her once vibrant village as he carried her away, and that was all she could remember, as she must have fainted in his arms, wanting to dream it all away.When Tauriel awakened again, her old painted walls were replaced by fine, smooth marble, tapestries, and a heady scent of lavender's and myrrh, and the sound of fresh springs spilling over perfectly shaped rocks could be heard in the distance. Skyward lights from the morning star splintered purposefully through an arrangement of mirrors perfectly orchestrated, filling the area beneath, and even the tiny dusting sparkled heavenly in the room, making Tauriel feel as if she were in a dream. But as a shadow blocked out the light that temporarily warmed her skin, meaning to bring her comfort, but instead reminded her of why she was there. It was the voice of the soldier who must have brought her there.The sacred healing springs in Thranduil's palace, and as he spoke with words meant to bring her solace, all she could see and think of was her parents spread across the floor in her childhood home. Tauriel would not even look at him or cast a single gaze his way. It was too painful and too much for her to bear, and she no longer shook in fear but with the thought of never allowing another village to suffer as she just did. Her emerald eyes fixed on the glint of two swords that hung on the wall in the distance, and she drew in a breath, feeling as if it was the first one she ever took in her entire young life, and she swallowed back the last bit of sorrow and spoke in a pristine, clear voice to the soldier. "Teach me. Teach me all you know, so I can fight alongside you one day. I may be young, barely a knee, but my nadar has been training me since the time I began to walk. I will not let your efforts go to waste.”The little girl she once was no longer what laid on that bed now. She stayed with her parents in her childhood home and was replaced by a spirit that would revenge her parents deaths and not allow another family, nor village to be torn apart again. With a look of certainly unwavering resolve upon her face, Tauriel let the last tear she would cry for that day slip past the curve of her cherub face. Her emerald eyes now fixated upon his dark azure's in the healing room, and she spoke once again. But her voice was strong, almost fierce, and he could tell she would not take no for an answer. "Teach me everything you know, and I will bring you every head of an Orc I come across. I assure you of this." He smoothed his large hand over her own and threaded his fingers with hers as he nodded slowly and squeezed it tight, seeing the determination in her eyes and a soul of a fearless warrior in her eyes. "I will teach you all I know and guide you in the best way I can. You have my word. My promise young henig as long as you promise to not waste the life you still have and seek beauty and be fearless in love again."Tauriel could not speak as he spoke kindly to her and with such care, reminding her of her nadar as tears welled in her eyes, so she simply nodded in agreement and squeezed his hand. 

A Prostitute sat on the throne of a King,a bad omen, a twisted blasphemy,golden crown, diamond ring,that was her destiny.

THE DARK BEFORE DAWN- THE NARROWS-Rewritten drabble/Expanded for Marionette “Well, if you’re lookin’ for work, I could probably use another good bartender in this joint. Especially someone handy like you, who could double as a bouncer when the fightin’ starts. As long as you don’t actually go lookin’ for trouble. You got lucky I saved your ass this time before that guy cut your throat, but don’t push it, pal.”Alfred was dismayed to find himself actually considering Harvey Bullock’s employment offer. After living for nearly a month in The Narrows, Gotham’s impoverished, notoriously crime-ridden island district, the former butler of Wayne Manor knew his bank balance would need to be supplemented sooner than later. The possibility of tending bar where Bullock had taken refuge after resigning from the GCPD was both a blessing and a new low.But Harvey was right. He did stumble onto the scene, after emerging from the men’s toilet at almost the last possible minute, to save Alfred from certain death. Bullock deserved some respect based on that fact alone.“I just may take you up on that one, mate,” Alfred nodded, absently staring down his empty shot glass. “Reckon it’s something to consider, i’nnit? At this stage, at least.” Just weeks earlier, teenage billionaire Bruce Wayne sacked Pennyworth as both his legal guardian and family butler, effectively terminating his salary and all connections to the home Alfred knew before Bruce had even been born.“Aw c’mon, you make it sound like it’s the worst decision you could make around here.” Ever the attentive barkeep, Harvey was already tipping the bottle over Alfred’s glass for yet another refill. “This place ain’t so bad. Sure, it’s The Narrows, but like I said, I like this bar. It’s got history. And besides, with your luck lately, and after what we went through tonight, I’m startin’ to think we might make a pretty good team after all.”Captain Jim Gordon had left their company well over an hour before, having heard the radio dispatch alerting that his escaped murder suspect, Alfred Pennyworth, had gotten into a brawl at a nearby drinking hole with the real perp who implicated Alfred in the death of waitress Tiffany Gale. Alfred was seemingly already in the clear once the real offender was led away in cuffs, but Bullock, refusing Gordon’s subsequent request to return to the force, unapologetically told Jim to hit the bricks. Such drama unfolded while Alfred mourned the fresh loss of his murdered friend, a woman he barely knew despite their intense connection at a nearby diner.If ever a night called for strong booze and commiseration between two disgruntled souls in a Narrows dive bar, this was it.“I shall sleep on it, Harvey.” Alfred lifted his eyes, watching as the former detective defied city ordinance by pouring himself another shot while still on the clock behind the bar. What use was there for law in The Narrows? Thanks to Jerome Valeska and all of Dr. Strange’s mutated minions, Gotham was fast descending into a lawless free-for-all well beyond the city’s usual chaos. If current trends continued, The Narrows might prove safer than the rest of Gotham. So what good was common sense or even decency, anymore?Mr. Yes Sir, No Sir! Mr. Queensberry Rules and Discipline, Alfred’s military comrade, Reginald Payne, once called him. Alfred was starting to wonder if he’d been wrong to believe skill and hard work made it all worthwhile. Without a sense of purpose, Alfred could feel himself becoming dangerously disgruntled.Oh, if only you could see me from the grave now, Reg. You’d have a right good laugh, wouldn’t you?Almost as if he read Alfred’s mind, Bullock clinked their glasses together. Another drink was shared after multiple earlier toasts made in Tiffany’s memory, thanks to Bullock’s Irish sentimentality. “Well, at least you’ll be sleeping in your own bed tonight, and not in a cell at the precinct. Believe me, listening to Gordon’s holier-than-thou bullsh*t right now’s the last thing you need, even if you weren’t already cocked, locked and ready to rock.”“I thought you were good mates, not just partners, you and Gordon,” A bleary-eyed but still conscious Alfred stated matter-of-factly. Being present while Bullock directly questioned Jim Gordon’s questionable conduct with Gotham’s criminal underworld had been awkwardly enlightening. But Alfred was in no hurry to return to his dingy little flat a few blocks away. Patience and persistence paid off when he was forced to secure acceptable housing in the Narrows on a newly restricted budget. But after losing Tiffany that night, and narrowly avoiding being framed as her killer, Alfred did not relish being alone with his rage.“Yeah, well, sometimes friendships aren’t all that, am I right?” Bullock pointed to Alfred’s newly drained glass, but the Whitechapel native refused another drink with a polite wave of his hand.“In light of recent events, I’m inclined to agree.” Alfred could feel the weight of Bullock’s well-meaning stare. Both men were skilled in the art of observation and interrogation. Harvey couldn’t shake his training any more than Alfred could fully shed his own. They were both soldiers who fought very different wars but recognized a commonality between them.“Well, I don’t know what all happened with you and Bruce to get you to leave a cushy life at Wayne Manor for The Narrows,” Harvey offered, “but if it makes you feel any better, just try to imagine Bruce waking up with a killer hangover, a ton of regret and having to make his own breakfast or mop up his own…”.Bullock’s poor attempt to lighten the gloom was interrupted by the buzzing of Alfred’s mobile phone. Reaching into the pocket of the casual jacket he’d been wearing all evening, Alfred produced the phone and stared at the caller ID.Bruce Wayne. Once upon a time, not long ago, the boy’s name had flashed across the screen more affectionately as Master B.“I’ll make myself scarce.” Harvey could read the caller’s identity in Alfred’s expression and was already sauntering away to give the man some privacy. But Alfred merely muted the call and dismissively slipped the phone back into the depths of his coat.You’ve got a lot of bloody nerve ringing me at this hour, Brucie. I don’t give a toss. Not after tonight. Not after the past month. The bitterness of his own thoughts simultaneously broke Alfred’s heart and left him numb, his ability to feel anything threatening to leave him altogether. It was a frightening possibility, and welcome all at once.“That’s what voicemail is for,” Alfred said aloud, surprising even himself at his refusal to take Bruce’s call. “Innit?” Carefully sliding off his barstool, he tried settling his tab but met some resistance from Bullock.“Your money’s only good for the first four, Alfred. The rest are on the house, at least for tonight.” Harvey noted the former butler seemed slightly unsteady, but did not worry much about how Alfred might get safely back to wherever he was currently calling home. The tough old Brit already dodged the Reaper once that night. He could take care of himself for the remainder, even in the Narrows. Judging by the defiance in Alfred’s eyes, Harvey figured anyone stupid enough to try jumping the old guy in some alley would get far worse than a knife to the throat.“Give the job some thought, man. You know where to find me if you’re looking for an honest gig to pay the rent.”“You’re a good man, Bullock. Kindly disregard all the nasty things I’ve called you in the past.” Alfred stifled a hiccup and rifled through his wallet, slapping a handsome tip on the bar despite his unemployed status. “Well, apart from your slovenly state of dress, mate. It’s appalling, really. Have you ever met an iron in your life?”Alfred’s tired grin reassured the other man that it was all mostly in jest, prompting a head shake and chuckle from Harvey Bullock as they shook hands in farewell. It was time for Pennyworth to take his leave while he could still feel his legs.***The night air’s stink of decay, death and corruption, even more prevalent in The Narrows than in the entirety of Gotham City, did little to clear Alfred’s head as he trudged along the shadowy streets leading to his new residence. The quantities of Irish whiskey Harvey so liberally served back at the bar may have temporarily subdued his fury, but stepping back out into the maze of hopelessness and despair only worsened his mood.Visions of Tiffany haunted him from that very night, his last glimpse of her gazing fearfully from her murderous boyfriend’s car window and the subsequent wide-eyed stare projected from her battered, discarded corpse played on loop in his head. He’d seen the intent in the bastard’s eyes, recognized all the signs of violent intent, yet still Tiffany had gotten into that car with her abuser. She didn’t heed Alfred’s warnings, wouldn’t accept his protection. He could have saved her, he was certain of it. He only wanted her to be safe, to still be here. But she didn’t listen.And neither had Bruce. The boy was still out there making bad decisions all on his own while the city’s lunatic villains were wreaking havoc on the city. Bruce was at risk. And Alfred no longer had any say in the matter.Over a month’s worth of emotional blows was taking a toll. Was that all it took to weaken the former soldier’s resolve, to make him lose faith in his own life’s purpose? Four weeks in, and you’re ruffled by some bloody teenager and a woman you barely knew? Alfred spat bitterly to himself as he stared down at his booted feet, no longer caring that his surroundings were so sparsely illuminated by streetlights that anyone with sinister intent could be lurking in the shadows, ready to strike. He blended with the inky darkness in his casual black attire, hands thrust in the pockets of his jacket, a strange state of disorientation overwhelming him. The shock was wearing off, a familiar pang of anguish rising from the pit of his belly.Serve. Stand guard. Protect. It was everything Alfred Pennyworth took pride in doing, his purpose, his meaning. The man was self-sufficient and could certainly look out for himself, but needed a reason that mattered. Having only himself to look after when no one else benefited always led to one grim reality. Without boundaries, his anger would feed upon its host.Discipline, soldier! Sir, yes, Sir!Give me a reason. Just one bloody reason!The rage resurfaced, welling up from some deep recess and flooding his veins like the madness of a were-beast transformed by the full moon. Infuriated by a heap of trash bins partially blocking his path outside an adjacent alley, Alfred roared at them with a savage kick, scattering the barrels into the street. A stab of pain seized his chest, a wave of nausea churning violently in his stomach. Pitching himself into the alley, Alfred braced himself with a palm to the grimy brick wall, dry retching as he fought to keep from falling to his knees.Maybe he was having a heart attack. Or maybe it was heartbreak. Either way, Alfred feared he was coming apart.“Ugh. Bloody hell. F*** it!” Only after his stomach’s multiple attempts to empty itself did Alfred realize he’d started to weep. Absently rubbing his eyes with the sleeve of his dark jacket, he dug into a pocket and produced a handkerchief to wipe at his mouth. This couldn’t be his fate, not shattering into a thousand pieces in a Narrows alley, far from Wayne Manor and everything - and everyone - he’d come to love. He wouldn’t allow it. He needed to persevere, to fight his own downfall every second, if need be. Even if it meant reporting to Harvey Bullock’s as some glorified dive bar bouncer.“One hour at a time, Pennyworth,” he muttered aloud, scolding himself for even thinking of succumbing to bad old habits. There was no Thomas Wayne to save him from the path of self-destruction this time. Alfred had to rely on himself and no one else to make it through.A rustle of movement from somewhere nearby caught Alfred’s attention. He wasn’t alone in the alley.“Hello?” Suddenly he was sobering up quickly. Despite how his head was still swimming, every sense was on high alert. His hands automatically reaching for the pistol tucked into his back holster, Alfred strained to see through the shadows, listening for further movement, waiting to be attacked.And there she was, a young blonde crouched against the wall. Surely she must have witnessed the man’s unraveling from just a few feet away. Lowering his firearm but still keeping a steady grip of the weapon, he blinked at her, confused.“You alright there, Miss?” created by creativian #stardust{ width: 500px; background: #1d1d1d; border: 1px solid #f2f2f2;} .inner{ width: 450px; background: #1d1d1d; border: 1px solid #f2f2f2; margin: 25px 10px 25px 10px;} .secondinner{ width: 430px; background: #1d1d1d; border: 1px solid #f2f2f2; margin: 9px 0px 9px 0px;} .title{ width: 350px; font-family: georgia; font-weight: 800; font-size: 50px; letter-spacing: -4px; text-transform: lowercase; margin-top: 40px; line-height: 90%; border-top: 20px solid #fff; padding-top: 40px; color: #fff;} .uppersubtitle{ font-size: 8px; font-family: georgia; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 2px;} .bottomsubtitle{ font-size: 8px; font-family: georgia; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 2px;} .text{ width: 350px; text-align:justify; font-size: 10.5px; margin: 40px 10px 40px 10px; line-height: 140%; color: #fff; font-family: courier; padding-bottom: 40px; border-bottom: 20px solid #fff;}

full name: rue elizabeth bellamynickname: bells age: 19 year: 7 house: hufflepuffpatronus: calico catwand: sycamore with dragon heartstring coreblood purity: mugglebornfamily: meridith bellamy (mother), alice bellamy (older sister), dahlia bellamy (younger sister).love interest: Noonefriends: ginny weasley, fred & george weasleygender: female, she/they pronouns usedsexual orientation: Bisexualphysical description: medium brown hair and green eyes. tan skin with pretty beauty marks.defining feature: striking noseopinions of you:harry: i don't know her well, she seems sweet though.hermione: she's friends with fred and george. i love hanging out with her at the burrow!ron: best friends with my brothers. she seems fun and puts up with them, kudos to her.ginny: my gorgeous girl. we've known each other always, she's my favourite.fred: horrible, unfunny, disgusting. wait no! tell her i was joking! please, i beg you!george: one of the bestest friends you could ask for. she helped me ask out lee.