pullmeoutalive | Ramey

[ annie doesn't typically spend too much time in graveyards. she's never really saw the point in wandering around with the dead, as weird as that sounds. it just seemed so... cliche, honestly. granted, she doesn't leave her house that much in the first place. ever since normal people stopped being able to see her, the fun of it all kind of vanished.

but for some reason, here she is. maybe she was feeling sentimental, or it was just plain boredom, but annie finds herself wandering from gravestone to gravestone, wondering if each person here was able to move on or if they're still stuck on earth like she is. she made sure to not go to the cemetery where she's buried in. now that was too depressing.

it doesn't take her too long to spot an individual near one of the graves. he's the only other person there that early in the morning. maybe he works here? or he just wants to grieve in private. well, it's a good thing that he can't see her intruding on him if it's the latter then, because annie immediately walks over to where he is. company is still nice, even if he won't know she's there. ]

[The car-ride is an adventure. He's ridden in worse (and frankly, in a world where trench warfare exists, he's not sure he can bring himself to complain about being cramped) but they get to their destination without much fuss, but as soon as they're parked he clambers out of the vehicle somewhat stiffly and stretches.]

This is beautiful country.

[He says that while leaning on the roof of the car, fingers laced. He looks thoughtful about it. There is little of this natural beauty left near his home. Strafing raids and bombs leveled much of it to waste, and warfare ruined the rest. Every place has its history - he doubts this place is without its own trials - but there is no fresh evidence of mortars and gunfire. It's peaceful.]

[ from here. ]

[ Super Hippie Cyborg Ninja indeed, but McCree can at least appreciate a little stargazing. ]

Is drinkin’ usually part of the routine?

[ Just how many times have you gotten stuck up here, Genji? ]

[ In the time Peter spends living in the Griffonix, he saves a few more Talented girls – and maybe it’s the gravity of it all, or maybe it’s knowing there’s another life on the line aside from his own, or maybe it’s just that he doesn’t want to let Madigan down, but whatever it is, he seems to actually improve at it. He’s more careful. He’s quieter. He sneaks in and out like a ghost. When it can’t be helped, though, and the girl ends up having a hefty security detail, the help of Griff’s feather, tucked securely away in his pocket, keeps him safe and unharmed.

And with the help of Madigan’s connections, he starts taking up the odd job every now and again, other contracts – generally more legitimate work than the stuff he was getting back with York and his merry men, which means a slightly lower payout, but it keeps Peter busy, makes him feel like he’s actually doing shit.

He helps out around the club when he can, too, doing some heavy lifting – literally – and standing in the corner, looking intimidating during the late night rush during business hours. Not that Peter’s presence is necessary, considering the Griffonix’s wards and enchantments are designed to prevent any violence, but having some muscle scowl from the shadows adds an extra deterrent. That, and he kind of likes keeping an eye on the club. A lot of the employees here have become his friends – and a couple of them were women he personally fished out of their shitty situations – so he feels an obligation to watch out for them.

It helps, too, that playing bouncer means he gets to hang around Madigan. Which, you know. Is nice. He likes talking to her. He, uh. Likes being around her. But, you know, that’s only because she’s so easy to talk to and so fun to be around, in general. She’s— she’s become a pretty good friend, and he can’t even remember the last time he’s had one of those. (Probably not since he was a child. How fucking sad is that?)

So things are… surprisingly good. Much better than he could have imagined for himself even half a year ago.

And then, like flipping a switch, things are not good. In retrospect, it was bound to happen sooner or later.

The Griffonix boasts a varied clientele. For the most part, its customers tend to come from money. Powerful people with loaded wallets and designer suits and an itches in dire need of scratching. Sometimes, though, customers tend to come in the form of people giving themselves a rare treat.

And sometimes, they’re a handful of mercenaries, splurging as a reward for themselves after a successful job, drunk on cheap vodka and shouting and barking with laughter as they wander into the room, just a couple of hours shy of closing time. And sometimes, they wear remarkably familiar red leather jackets adorned with flame emblems. And sometimes, as he’s patrolling the club, they lock eyes with a certain disgraced, runaway thief, and all of them freeze where they stand.

The air disappears from the room. One second passes. Then two. Then—

—they charge forward. Someone should probably remind them of the no violence rule. ]

[There is a room in the palace of Anor Londo, colloquially known as Ornstein's Trophy Room. Decorating its walls are the heads of drakes both great and small, dead glassy eyes and fearsome maws looming over any who visit. Some might consider them with wariness, but Ornstein himself is proud of his accomplishments. The dead creatures, with their lashing tongues and rigid scales, were fearsome in life; but the Captain of the Knights of Gwyn defeated them regardless, a testament to his own might and skill. It was proof that the time of the dragons had long passed, and that the Age of Fire would continue to burn eternal.

There are some dragons, however, that refuse to be defeated so soundly.

One such creature flies above the knight's head, green poisonous flames flitting around its maw. Its stone scales are a stark contrast to Ornstein's golden armor, the long red plume of his helmet trailing behind with each move. The attack had come unexpectedly, but he is always prepared; he stands at the defensive, wielding a spear that matches the sheen of his plating. And when the dragon swoops low, hoping to catch a nearby stranger in its claws, the man does what he thinks is necessary.

...He shoulder checks the stranger out of the way.

Air is swept out from underneath the dragon's wings, but little more than that; it missed its mark, if only barely. The knight turns to look at the man who had been very much in the way, and a scowl can be heard in his tone, if not visible on his face, obscured by his helmet.]

You would do well to move out of the way.

[This isn't the usual type of mission Ai Thao Kha, esper extraordinaire, signs up for. In fact, she didn't voluntarily sign up to be a bodyguard of a wealthy individual because in a way, she was overqualified for the position. But her superiors had pushed her into this role, mostly to please their client and no doubt receive generous monetary support in return, and partly to have Ai Thao lay low with a supposedly boring job.

Ai sighs as she stands near the buffet table with a flute of champagne in her hands (drinking age in the U.S. be damned, no one asked her). She's dressed in a plain, but nice black cocktail dress, looking at the other guests who are mingling about for the charity event that's currently taking place. She just looks like a random guest because that is the intent; the client's bodyguards look like the usual large men in dark suits, wearing glasses and ear pieces, talking into them while they stalk around the mansion, keeping an eye out for anyone who is out of place. But if there was someone who was trying to sneak in to raise a fuss, Ai would unknowingly be the one they would have to contend with.

Everyone seems to be having fun and enjoying themselves, but she certainly isn't. She's alone, she has to keep herself from trying to eat because she'd be engrossed with filling her plate instead of keeping alert and doing her job. And what's worse, there's no one to talk to. The other guards have disregarded her, making her feel more forlorn than usual.

Another sigh. Ai Thao feels like she's going to spend most of the evening doing that; a sad state of affairs indeed.]

I wouldn't even mind having Lien around... I wish I didn't have to be here.

[The rooftops are slick with rain, dampened from a storm that had recently swept across the city. It had left the streets below spotted with puddles, black pools in the thresholds of the evening. The young empress' boots threaten to lose their traction as she runs across the top of a rather tall building, but her training guides her well; she knows exactly how to plant her feet with each step, how to manipulate her body's inertia to her own advantage. She knows how far she can leap, and the exact timing required for each. She moves with royal grace, and never has the misfortune of mistiming anything.

That is, at least, what she would like to someday claim.

Her last jump is what gives her pause, and the second-guessing floods her mind only after her form is midair, caught in an arch between two rooftops. She mentally curses, and a millisecond passes where Emily wonders if she should blame herself or the slickness of the soles of her boots for the error. Another millisecond later, and she's thinking it won't matter if she's just going to be a red splatter on the ground, anyway.

Thankfully, her feet manage to find purchase on the neighboring rooftop, but her center of gravity is askew thanks to her prior miscalculation. There's a precarious moment that follows, in which she tries to steady herself, to force herself to fall forward and not back if she must fall at all. One direction would mean a humiliating stumble, but safety regardless. The other? A highly embarrassing situation that ends in a crumpled body stories below, and she's doing her best to avoid the latter at this very moment.]

[ Well, that was a terrible fucking day.

By the time he stumbled his way back to the ship, his scarf was wound around his neck twice, and he was working a heavy buzz, the tips of his fingers tingling, the world swaying mutinously, and his mood was no better than before. (Because he had hooked up with a girl at the bar when he was only half-drunk, the two of them making their way into a shadowy corner of the club. It was going well up, until the girl had tugged at his scarf before he could protest, and she spotted the ring wrapping around his throat.

"You didn't say you were taken," she said, practically leaping off in her outrage.

"I'm not. Seriously, I swear, I'm not. I—"

But the damage was done, and she had stomped away.)

Alec stopped him at the bay door, told him he had the spell ready, and Peter led the two of them through the narrow passageway to his quarters, slamming the door shut behind them. He collapsed onto his bunk, yanking off the scarf and watching Alec warily, like at any point he might pull a gun on him. And then he waited fidgeting with impatience and annoyance as Alec worked his way through the spell, referring to his notes. Peter felt— weirdly exposed. Vulnerable in a way he fucking hated, with his head tipped to one side to expose his throat. He grimaced at the flash of purple hovering in the air, tasted something bitter and sour at the back of his tongue. Resentment. Disgust. Shame.

Maybe a bit of actual vomit, but he kept it down.

The spell faded from the air, and Alec informed him it wa finished. Peter's hand immediately went to his neck, and he stumbled his way to his mirror, tilting his chin this way and that to verify. His skin was clean, unmarred by that fucking band, and Peter sagged against the wall in relief.

Then, without turning, he pointed at the door and told Alec to get the fuck out.

Things are tense after that, with the two of them taking pains to avoid the other, ricocheting off each other like a bullet pinging off a wall. Speaking to each other across rooms and passageways only when strictly necessary. The marks are no longer there to damn them, but Peter still feels that noose tightening around his neck, all the same. The more time they spend together, the stronger the connection – whatever form that takes – will get, until the two of them become well and truly bound. Well and truly fucked. The idea of it makes Peter's stomach churn, because neither of them fucking want this, that much is certain, but as time crawls on...

(He remembers Mom on quiet nights, her shaking fingers crawling across the lavender band on her wrist like spiders. He remembers the way she cried, moving restlessly like she couldn't get comfortable, how it made her physically sick.

Always the same answer when he asked what was wrong: I just miss him, baby. That's all.

It wasn't until he was older that he understood what withdrawal was. Matches who spent too long separated went through odd symptoms. Like their skins were two sizes too small. Like there was a gaping, empty pit inside them. Like they were stuck in the dark. Some mates could ignore it, but Mom felt it all, and it left her drained.

Peter's pretty sure it killed her, in the end.)

...he feels that rope settle around his throat, and he's terrified.

Fast forward to a week or so later, once they've parsed through the data swiped from Kove's terminal. Velmin Mansoon is their strongest link to getting at Grun; the latter might be the kingpin of the operation, but the former is the linchpin holding the whole operation together, keeping things moving. Take her out, the Guardians determine, and everything will crumble. Except she's careful, ruthless, and a difficult woman to pin down at the best of times. They puzzle over it after a while, but Alec points out the charity function she holds once a year, around pledge season.

And, as luck would have it, the night of the party is drawing close.

So they secure an invitation for two – the main party and their plus one. In the past, he and Gamora made a good team at these functions. She balanced out his carelessness, and he tempered her deep, unyielding desire to not be there. Except as they gather around the table to figure out their plan of attack (Peter at the view screen and Alec nestled somewhere far, far away), he turns to Gamora who gives a sharp shake of her head.

"Brennan should go with you instead," she says. "His skill set is better suited for this venture."

Peter feels the color drain from his face, and protests immediately falls from his lips, so fast and so fierce he hardly knows what he's saying. He thinks Alec must have joined in, too, because Gamora rises to her feet, snaps at Peter to shut up – and the fierceness of it is enough to make him fall silent.

"I am a warrior, Quill. An assassin. I do not enjoy wearing fine gowns and sipping aged wines." She waves sharply to the wizard. "He will go with you, and that's final."

Peter drags his eyes to Alec's, feels the world tilt, and wishes with every fiber in his being for the bay doors to malfunction and space them all.

No such luck.

Peter's never been so lucky, after all. Not when it counted.

Fast forward again to the night of the party, and Peter waits impatiently in the common area of the Milano in his black three piece suit. As he leans back against the table, compulsively, unconsciously, he touches his throat where the band sits against his skin. Even though he knows it's invisible, he still worries all the same. His collar is buttoned high, feels like it's choking him, and he lets out a noise of frustration. He runs his finger along the inside of his collar, trying to make some space, but he knows it's all in his head.

Doesn't stop him from feeling like he can't breathe, though.

The sooner this night is over, the sooner they get to ending this fucking job, the goddamn better. ]

[ Alec disappears.

That is to say, he certainly has the ability to do so and utilized that particular spell whenever it was necessary – slipping past security or hiding in plain sight. It’s a thing, though Peter wasn’t aware of it until sometime after the start of their dubious partnership. From what Peter could tell, he always left something of a faint image, like heated air kicked up by too-hot black asphalt. He could tell where he was, if Peter paid enough attention. If he stared long and hard enough for any flickers of movement.

But, no. This time, Alec well and truly disappears.

And Peter knows exactly why, too. After the charity ball on Mansoon’s estate, with time and healing, the two of them came to the same conclusion: their connection was growing. Peter felt it – flashes of annoyance that weren’t his own. Of fear, of rage, of desperation. He mirrored those feelings, of course, but sometimes, he felt something that wasn’t him, something outside of himself. A second presence that he refused to let in. He learned could block it out, turn it away like some annoying door-to-door salesman, and he feels it when Alec does the same to him. They’re in agreement on that much, at least. They’re slamming the doors in each other faces, for which Peter can only feel relief.

(And a brief pang of loss.)

So when Gamora comes to him after they’ve docked, tells him that Brennan has cleaned out his bunk and took most of the fucking info on Grun and Mansoon with him, Peter only lets out a sigh and says, Thank God.

Finally, he felt like he could breathe again. He could relax, could feel that pressure around his neck loosen at long last, now that the giant problem casting a shadow over him had disappeared and taken Alec along with it. Good, he tells himself. Good fucking riddance. I’m fucking glad he’s gone.

And he was.

Until he wasn’t.

It starts small: a restlessness, an itching in his fingertips, an odd inability to get comfortable. Then it gets worse: pins and needles beneath his skin. Lightheadedness. An emptiness in his chest that grows and grows and grows until he feels completely hollow. Most of the time when it hits him, it’s not so bad. Enough that he can ignore it. But sometimes, it floors him, leaves him nauseated and feverish, like how he remembers Mom on the worst days. But she was a rare case, Gramps told him once or twice, as if that could reassure him. As if anything could reassure him, knowing that Mom had been fucked over twice: first, by a match who abandoned her, and second, by some quirk of the universe that gave her no choice but to feel it.

Apparently Peter takes after Mom, and he wonders during a particularly bad episode, soul-sick and shivering with exhaustion, How did she live with this?

… But the days between are fine. He lives his life as he always has, and the team keeps trudging along with their work in taking down Grun, eyeing Peter with undisguised concern over the unpredictable nature of his moods, of his health, and his refusal to discuss it. Drax keeps giving him that stare though, the one that says he knows more than he’s letting on, and Peter steadfastly ignores him. The big guy tries anyway. Corners him in the auspiciously named galley, once, but Peter had threatened to stick his hand in the disposal if Drax even thought about asking after him.

(He had conceived of it as a bluff, but wound up as he was, Peter might have actually gone through with it.)

Peter hopes with time and distance, that sickness will pass. Knows it won’t, but he’s always been a creature of half-hearted hope – wishing for the best, knowing damn well it likely won’t come true. But he keeps limping along, keeps picking away at work, because what the fuck else can he do? It’s not like he’s going to fucking chase Alec down just so he can feel normal again.

… And then he’s chasing Alec down so he can feel fucking normal again.

Because that starts off small, too: a feeling of wrongness. A quiet buzz at the back of his head. And then it gets worse: Claws wrapping around his throat. Ice plummeting in his gut. Full-blown panic that set his heart pounding against his ribs, that left Peter hyperventilating and nearly collapsing in the middle of a crowded shop while Gamora grasped his arms and Rocket shouted his name.

“Brennan,” was all Peter could manage to say, body shaking with that gnawing sense of terror. He shoved Gamora aside to get back to the ship. “I’m gonna fucking kill him.”

Assuming he didn’t get himself killed first.

Fast forward to a compound being rocked by explosions, because the Guardians don’t do stealth. Fast forward to bullets and blaster fire pinging off walls and scorching metal siding. Fast forward to Gamora and Drax terrifying their opponents with their war cries and with the speed of their blades.

Fast forward to Peter, just a single locked door away from Alec, taking on a room full of guards. Shooting them with twin blasts of fire and lightning. Headbutting them with the metal brow of his helmet and not giving a single fuck when each impact makes him see white. Killing men with brutal, vicious efficiency.

Fast forward to Peter following a guard down as he falls, turning his face to mash with the butts of his blasters.

Peter has had a very, very bad time. ]

[ breakfast turns into dinner. dinner, into another morning of company and a few offers of, well. a hand here and there. emma's adamant at first that she has everything taken care of, that it's all well within her abilities to see to the broken hinge on her door or the fence knocked down by bogue's men. she's been making do, but— she's also put most of her energy into the town itself, into helping everyone else, and rarely had she looked after what her own home needed (since she regarded it as minimal by comparison). but vasquez offers to help, and when she starts to take into account that it would mean he'd stay, that there'd be a reason for him to hang around rose creek...

she accepts the offer.

she feeds him in return, of course, gives him a place to sleep (even if it's mostly just a bedroll and a few additional blankets and pillows). her small home doesn't have a spare room, after all, but there's space enough for him to get comfortable, to at least have somewhere sheltered from the elements and prying eyes. it's safety, if nothing else. emma, of course, keeps quiet about her houseguest, and she's removed enough from the town itself that no one comes knocking or sniffing around for vasquez — or even has a chance to realize he's taken up temporary residence in her home. emma knows how to be discrete, after all.

but for the first time in a long time, emma finds herself coming home to something (someone) again. rather than a quiet, empty house, she usually makes her way back in time for dinner to see vasquez there already, done for the day just as she is, and it's...welcome. entirely welcome. she's still a little bemused by how easy it is to fall into conversation with vasquez, that he's actually agreeable when he isn't suspicious and defensive and she isn't finding herself suddenly at the mercy of a dangerous man with a gun. no flares of the same temper, because there hasn't been a need for it. maybe it's that odd sense of camaraderie that accompanied the ordeal of rose creek, or maybe some of it comes from the fact that emma doesn't treat vasquez like a dangerous, sharp-toothed beast, ready to rear its ugly head and bite at a moment's notice.

because in reality, emma isn't afraid of vasquez. she's plenty aware of things he's done, of what he's capable of, but what she saw of the man in her town is more than enough to set her at ease around him. he put a lot on the line for a little one horse nothing like rose creek, and to emma, that still means the world.

the first time emma realizes vasquez has become a new sort of normal is when she walks in the door to immediately see two hats hanging from the pegs. it stops her short, gives her a long pause as she stares at the place where, previously, only one hat was waiting for her (the same, every day, never displaced). but instead, something new has taken up residence, and as she stares from the doorway, she recognizes vasquez's hat, and something in her— warms. it's small, just a flicker behind her chest, just a hint of an old comfort, but...

it makes emma smile.

she doesn't say a thing (doesn't see why an odd little gesture like that ought to be significant to anyone else), but in the days that follow, she finds herself looking up, not just for matthew's usual placeholder, but for that second, well-worn hat too.

and she finds...that she likes it.

days slide into weeks, and vasquez somehow manages to keep finding something new to fix around emma's home. it keeps him there, keeps him busy, and there's no real talk anymore of where or when he'll be slipping off again. emma doesn't see the need to ask, when she's sure he knows she'd be immediately upfront about it when he's no longer welcome, and instead, emma allows the routine to build around them as she keeps his presence quiet all the while.

it's not until one particular afternoon that she finds herself yanked back into the reality of vasquez's life.

emma's in town, as she often is during the daylight hours, today offering leni some assistance with her baby girl (and the little thing's just started to walk, much to her mother's delight). with the death of leni's husband, the rest of the town has been trying to lighten the load for the widow and her child, and when emma can, she'll often offer up help with chores or even just looking after the baby while leni has other important things to mind. for now, as leni makes a few purchases in hank's general store, emma just walks the toddler across the wooden deck of the storefront, tiny hands curled around emma's fingers. emma's nothing but smiles as the little girl giggles and coos over each unsteady step, occasionally getting ahead of herself and nearly toppling over before emma can scoop her up again. she's just plucking the little girl into her arms when she catches a few nearby voices, her attention immediately torn away from the child.

"some nerve, them comin' through like that."

"well, can't say they had any way'a knowin' what he did around here. they probably figured he'd'a passed by or the like, y'know? i mean, bounty like that, can't blame 'em for checking."

emma goes completely still.

"that mister vasquez doesn't deserve havin' the likes of them on his tail. what he did here was real noble."

"yeah, can't say i'm not grateful. but $500 is just more'n enough to send people on a wild goose chase, far as i see it. they still lurkin' around?"

"wouldn't be surprised."

...oh, hell.

emma doesn't waste another moment before bringing that little girl to her mother, apologizing profusely, brusquely explaining that something's just come up, and not pausing to answer questions before she turns out of hank's store and heads right back out of town. she nearly trips over her own skirts in her haste, but she doesn't let it slow her down as she makes it to her home in record time. ]

Vasquez!

[ she calls it as loudly as she dares, out of breath, knees buckling a touch as she comes around the side of her house, looking for that damned outlaw. ]

[ once is happenstance.

twice is coincidence.

three times is goddamn enemy action.

the first time bounty hunters came to emma's door, she wrote it off as an unfortunate circumstance, that they'd just been unlucky and careless. the second time, when the men dragged vasquez off of emma's property and kept him trussed up for a bullet in the head, emma was left unsettled, looking for an explanation for how easily they found vasquez.

the third time, emma realizes that something is wrong.

it isn't a catastrophe like the first two incidents, because emma spots the men when they're still in town, kicking their feet up in the imperial with a painted lady or two keeping them company. she's wary of anyone who passes through rose creek these days, any unfamiliar faces, and as soon as she spots them, she ducks into the general store to get teddy's attention.

as always, teddy has a shy but warm smile waiting for emma as soon as she walks in, straightening up when she approaches him and trying to look at least somewhat polite.

"afternoon, miss emma. somethin' we can do for you?"

emma shakes her head. "those men in the saloon — any word on who they are?"

teddy glances out the store's front window towards the aforementioned saloon, then back to emma. "more'a those bounty hunters that've been around these parts lately. lotta them keep passin' through, huh?"

emma schools her expression into something impassive. "they have, haven't they?"

damn it.

looking back to teddy, she offers him a small, somewhat strained smile. "thank you, teddy. you have a nice day now."

teddy starts a bit, blinking at her in surprise — like he's not expecting her to be heading out so quickly. "you, uh, you don't need anythin' else?"

"can't say that i do, but i'm sure i'll be in again soon."

a wave, and then emma is heading out. she catches sight of the men in the saloon, laughing and drinking and all she can think is, good. stay there. this time, she doesn't run home, doesn't want to draw attention when she goes to find vasquez. lord, she's grateful her land is on the other side of the valley, out near the mountains where passersby can't just trot past without purposefully going that far out. (at least that means travelers are less likely, but when they do show up, these days, it sets emma on edge.

for good reason, this time.)

she finds vasquez out of the house in the fields, and unlike the first time the bounty hunters came knocking, she isn't rushing around with the same level of panic. she's anxious, uncertain, but also disgruntled — because this is the third time, and at this point, it's ceased to be coincidental.

that concerns her a great deal. ]

Vasquez.

[ calling out for his attention as the light wind whips her hair across her face, makes her tuck it back behind her ear. ]

[ If there’s one thing Arthur has learned from his adventures, it’s that the worst things ever to wander this earth are morbols.

Cultists come in a close second.

Since Arthur had started keeping company with a blade-for-hire and all-around bleeding heart of a Miqo'te, he’s rubbed elbows with cultists more times than he would care to count. Usually the encounters are much the same, dark magic, demons and creatures from the Void, human sacrifice, just with a different flavor of crazy.

This particular cult had been trying to call up the spirit of a long-dead adventurer-turned-necromancer-possibly-turned-spirit of vengeance, so there were a lot of hooded robes and chanting and flashy purple lights. In Arthur’s experience, a lot of these people were more crazy than they were inclined towards Void magic, so while they sometimes managed to call up a few abominations, it was never all that bad.

Apparently, these people had tapped into something. It wasn’t what they were looking for by a long shot, because reality opened up, a great massive tear tinged with sickly green light, and swallowed Arthur whole.

When he finally came to, he found himself in a very cold cell in startling proximity to a waterfall. He would later learn that the prison sat beneath a massive keep, but only after they dragged him out of the cell for questioning.

Who was he? Where did he come from? How did he managed to come through the breach?

His name meant nothing to them, the names Ul’dah and Eorzea meant nothing to them, and he had no idea what in the seven hells the breach even was, so they were at quite an impasse, but at least their leader (bearing the oh-so encouraging title of “Inquisitor”) took a little pity on him.

They moved him to a room, rather than a cell, though they don’t quite trust him enough to give him back his spellbook. They still kept watch on him, but Arthur never did strike the most intimidating presence, so it seemed to him like they were keeping up appearances more than anything.

It’s been nearly a week in this strange place. Thedas, as he’s learned, a place that wasn’t on any map that Arthur had ever seen. It seems those cultists really had torn a hole in reality, and Arthur had tumbled through to gods knew where. Getting back was a matter he’d yet to be able to focus on, since it was taking him some time to get his feet under him.

He’s in the courtyard- one of the only places he trusts himself to wander around without getting hopelessly lost- when chaos suddenly erupts. The Inquisitor’s party returned to Skyhold, albeit much earlier than expected, and with one of their number injured. Arthur has yet to learn the names of the Inquisitor’s inner circle, but what he does know is battle wounds. One of the women- what Arthur would call an Elezen, but what he’s been told is an elf- caught an arrow between the ribs. Their healers and their resources are spread too thin amongst the refugees and Inquisition camps, and so it’s a race to find some form of help.

Arthur did not spend all his time learning healing magic just to stand by and watch this.

He hunts down one of the few faces he remembers- a commander of some sort, the commander- and demands a little more brusquely than he probably means, ]

Where did you put my book?

no subject

@charlie

tfln continued