Open Chronicles Hear ye Hear ye All Bleeding Hearts (A Valentines Thread)

[Irman Harefoot]

Irman moved in an awkward manner through the crowd and out into the side streets. His gait was that of a man at war with himself. For as much as Irman wished to pull away from his Amorous draw, each moment of lacking focus drew him ever further along the path of tugging red thread.

All around, others bound by this affectionate magic united with their spellbound others in scenes varying from sweet to saucy. In similar fashion, the pairings ran the gamut of looking no different from normal romantic couples seen throughout the city, to extreme mismatches liable to turn heads if not for most gazes being locked by unshakable love.

Most, save for Irman who through his struggles could see all of this playing out around him and hear every sweet nothing whispered through his painfully acute hearing. The things he heard chilled him, terrified him, and blended with the ethereal image of his magically compelled obsession.

“Will my sweetheart whisper sweet nothings to me as well?” Irman blurted out before promptly slamming his head against a wall.

“Ugh, it’s like I’m fighting myself… and besides, if anyone’s going to whisper sweet nothings it’s me!” *Slam!*.

Once again, Irman’s head made contact with stone leaving a crack in the wall Anna bit of blood on his forehead. The rabbit-man staggered, nearly tumbling onward as his pace sped up and slowed down sporadically— Until all of a sudden, Irman turned a corner and saw the figure from his mind jogging down the street towards him.

“Six above…” Irman muttered, his heart aflutter with a pit drilling into his stomach.

 

[Vyx'aria]

The moment the tavern door slammed open, Vyx’aria felt it.

Recognition.

Her spine stiffened beneath the cloak as the presence snapped into focus. The voice followed a moment later, sharp syllables in a surface dialect she did not speak, the cadence aggressive, demanding.

Her mug was still half-raised when the woman’s gaze locked onto hers.

Red eyes met brown.

That was all the warning Thraah received.

Vyx’aria moved with predatory speed, the table between them overturned in a violent crash as she closed the distance. One long-fingered hand snapped up, iron-hard around the woman’s throat, and drove her backward with brutal precision. Wood splintered as Thraah’s back hit the tavern wall hard enough to rattle tankards and silence the room in a single collective breath.

The impact shook dust from the rafters.

Vyx’aria leaned in close, forearm pinning her there, boots planted wide and unyielding. Her hood slipped back in the motion, spilling a stark shock of chalk-white hair down her shoulders. Unnatural, unmistakable. Several patrons recoiled instantly.

A drow.

Whispers rippled through the tavern like a spreading stain.

Vyx’aria’s grip tightened just enough to promise what came next. “Speak,” she growled, her accent thick with venom as she forced the words into the common tongue by sheer irritation. “Plainly.” Her red eyes burned inches from Thraah’s face. Her thumb pressed into the hollow beneath Thraah’s jaw, calculating, clinical. Despite the fury, the touch of her hand on the woman’s skin sent an unexpected surge of heat through her.

“Explain why you are using tricks,” she hissed, voice low and lethal, “or I let you bleed out on this wall.”

Thraah

 

[Thraah]

"Me!?!?"

Thraah struggled under the dark elf's might. The whole display was kinda sexy in a way she knew would probably get her killed if she acknowledged it so she tried to keep her focus... even if the dark elf did smell good this close up.

"You put your face into my head..."

She raised her hand and lit a small flame in it.

"I am Thraah, Dreadlord of the 3rd rank of the 5th Vel Arin Republic Volunteers. Drop me."

Her brown eyes almost got lost in the red that close, so very close.

"Look, I know I'm short, you don't have to flex like this!"
She dangled her feet to prover her point. There was at least a foot between her and the floorboards.

Vyx'aria

 

[Samantha Black]

The moment that glamour dissipated gave the Anirian cause to arch those eyebrows even more. Beyond that, she did not move a muscle, rooted to the spot by the image of a creature deemed especially rare to see in the sunlight. He was certainly not the first elf she'd ever met, not by a long shot, but she'd never seen one of his kind before in person.

It was ... novel. As if seeing a unicorn which up until her last year at the Academy she'd been certain didn't exist. That was until she'd been taken in by a fae and discovered an entire realm of tall-tales living and breathing on the same world as she. All those years she'd rolled her eyes and sneered at Chasmine and her fairy stories.

She knew better now.

". . . well, now. I--" He sucked air through his teeth. "Oh -- hm. This is a little awkward."

"You don't say..." awkward for him, perhaps. Mostly she was transfixed by the curiosity of the moment, "is this another trick of your Lady?"

Part of her hoped not. He wasn't hard on the eyes at all.

 

[Magdalena Elbion]

If nothing else in all of Arethil were true, the fact that Magdalena Elbion slept like the dead was. Through scritching and scratching of quill across paper; the shuffling of parchment; the gentle hum of thought; the clinking of inkwell; the creaking of chair ... she dozed on.

The elf had yet to vacate her dream which was rather odd considering the lucidity of her dreams had a habit of morphing in tune to stream of consciousness. Idle thoughts and rememberings from the day lead the array of curious visions and phantasms of her mind while she slept. Yet here was this elf and though sober of thought but not especially aware, she had the faintest notion that she'd seen him somewhere before in passing.

When he moved he didn't make the gentle sound of shuffling material or tapping shoes, but the scritch-scratch of quill against parchment. As a matter of fact, his steps trailed handwritten notes, some of which caused dream-her to snort at the preposterousness of it (dozing her gave a light snort in tandem and mumbled something about literary constipation of thought).

This continued on for some time. 26 papers to be exact until the bell tower just beyond her open office window gonged the new hour. Magda startled awake, sitting bolt upright with a paper glued to her cheek with drool.

"Hassafuh!-" she stammered, blinking blearily around, "I told you... not to touch that book M-mack."

Her gaze finally landed on the elf. No such effort was made to remove the parchment clinging to her face, "You!"

 

[Mirthwind]

Mirthwind smiled cheerfully as the Maester woke, wiping the ostrich feather dry and setting it neatly on the blotter.

“Ah! Good afternoon, Maester! I must say - I quite envy your third-years. Most seem quite engaged with the material! Many very astute analyses, some laudable leaps of logic. Well, save this fellow here….” The half-elf’s fingers nimbly flipped a dozen essays back in a blur, before lightly thumping the offending paper for emphasis. “If he’s cracked a book this term, it’s because he tripped over it…”

He paused, emerald eyes meeting hers, a chestnut tousle tumbling into the middle of his forehead as an eyebrow arched, then both eyes widened in surprise.

“You genuinely don’t know why I’m here at all, do you? And that makes me more than a little curious, and perhaps even a bit impolite - Mirthwind, Maester Ulman’s tenth-year, at your service. Shall I explain?”

He turned lightly in the chair to face her, legs casually crossed, leaning forward and reaching a hand toward her cheek with the paper stuck to it, but politely stopping short- “May I?”

Magdalena Elbion

 

[Zxandor]

With dynamic mechanism Zxandor skidded to a dusty halt inches before the target it was given and looked down on the smaller being. In the bustling city street.

"Irman Harefoot..."

Kneeling down to face Irman more directly Zxandor extended a glove hand.

"...come with me if you want to live!"

It said with genderless matter of fact sincerity.

Irman Harefoot

 

[Vyx'aria]

Vyx’aria’s lips peeled back in a snarl at the word Dreadlord. Not in fear. In irritation.

“Dreadlord,” she growled softly, the sound more beast than elf. “An elf hunter.” Her gaze flicked briefly to the small flame dancing in Thraah’s hand, unimpressed.

She could feel it now, the tavern shifting, the weight of too many eyes pressing inward. Whispers thickened, chairs scraping back, hands hovering near knives and prayer charms alike. Panic always smelled the same on the surface. Acrid. Weak.

With a sharp, decisive motion, Vyx’aria released her grip.

Thraah dropped unceremoniously to the floorboards, the impact loud in the sudden hush. Vyx’aria stepped back at once, boots planting with controlled distance as she loomed over her, red eyes blazing beneath the spill of white hair now fully exposed.

“I cast no spell on you,” she snapped, voice low but cutting, pitched just enough for Thraah alone.

Thraah

 

[Thraah]

Dropping like a sack of spuds Thraah rose to her full height which was just to Vyx'aria's chest level and rubbed her throat as she shook the flame to snuff it from her other hand.

"Yeah, I'm a Dreadlord... but I'm no Elf hunter."
In this instance she supposed that was not *technically* true, not entirely, not the way Vyx'aria meant it.

From between Vyx'aria and the wall she poked her human head out to let the other patrons know.
"And this is Dreadlord business so unless you all want trouble EYES ON YOUR DRINKS!!!"

The bar cowered a bit. Clearly the mixture of a Dark Elf and a Dreadlord at each other's throats provoked much fear and suspicion, which was fine with her so long as she could leverage it which seemed to work as the murmuring quieted and faces turned down towards their tables.

"Nosey cunts!"
She added half to herself as she adjusted her coat and then her hair before addressing Vyx'aria again.

"Okay tall, dark and se...eecretive!"
Nice save.

"You say you didn't do it fine. I didn't cast anything on you. Heck I didn't know you existed before tonight. So what happened?"

Something in her Dreadlord training sparked and she remembered how to identify an enemy.
"Who gains from letting me know you and you know me, do they want us to fight or..."

The unspoken word hung in the air like a bad smell for a moment as Thraah played it off by flipping her coat back and putting her hands on her hips.

"... or what?"

Vyx'aria

 

[Vyx'aria]

Vyx’aria watched the Dreadlord reclaim the room with a mixture of irritation and reluctant approval.

Not an elf hunter, she had said. Of course not. The surface was full of people who claimed not to be exactly what they were. Still, Thraah snapping at the patrons, forcing their eyes back to their cups instead of gawking at white hair and red eyes? That earned a silent mark in her favor.

"Who gains from letting me know you and you know me, do they want us to fight or..."

“Well,” she said matter-of-factly as Thraah tip-toed around her words, “it sounds like they want us to fuck to me.”

She reached out with her boot and kicked the overturned table back upright in one smooth, casual motion, wood thudding back into place as if the chaos from moments ago had never happened. Vyx’aria dropped into the chair, long limbs folding with lazy ease, and leaned back, one arm slung over the chair’s back, posture open, unbothered.

Red eyes lifted to Thraah, slow and assessing now rather than hostile.

“So,” she added, tone cool and faintly amused, “If this is Dreadlord business and I’m already implicated, you may as well buy me a drink.”

A corner of her mouth curved, not quite a smile, not quite a threat.

Thraah

 

[Magdalena Elbion]

Mirthwind smiled cheerfully as the Maester woke, wiping the ostrich feather dry and setting it neatly on the blotter.

“Ah! Good afternoon, Maester! I must say - I quite envy your third-years. Most seem quite engaged with the material! Many very astute analyses, some laudable leaps of logic. Well, save this fellow here….” The half-elf’s fingers nimbly flipped a dozen essays back in a blur, before lightly thumping the offending paper for emphasis. “If he’s cracked a book this term, it’s because he tripped over it…”

He paused, emerald eyes meeting hers, a chestnut tousle tumbling into the middle of his forehead as an eyebrow arched, then both eyes widened in surprise.

“You genuinely don’t know why I’m here at all, do you? And that makes me more than a little curious, and perhaps even a bit impolite - Mirthwind, Maester Ulman’s tenth-year, at your service. Shall I explain?”

He turned lightly in the chair to face her, legs casually crossed, leaning forward and reaching a hand toward her cheek with the paper stuck to it, but politely stopping short- “May I?”

Magdalena Elbion

Took some time for her mind to catch up with the elf and his words, though it hardly mattered even when it did. Who was he? He was... him. From her dream! Wasn't he? How did he do this? Had he magicked her mind? To what end would an elf have any purpose of invading her dreams and trouncing through them trailing hand written messages?

Or... had she suddenly developed prophetic dreams? Fething helles, that was the last thing she needed. Magda already had trouble getting a full night's sleep.

She caught up right about the time he questioned her own awareness of the situation. Eyes squinted, she peered at him, nonplussed. What in Arethil was he going on about? Then he reached for her face and she jerked back, feeling the weight of the parchment pull at her skin from drying drool-glue. Drule.

"Neh-" her hand snatched at the paper and yanked it away, blinking in bewilderment at the strings of saliva forming between it and her face as she did so, like melty cheese. Only far less appetizing. Making a sound of disgust, she quickly wiped her face on her sleeve and attempted to toss away the parchment.

It stuck to her hand. She flapped it about.

"No I do not know why you're here Mirthwi--oh for Frag's sake get off--" shook her hand a bit more insistently, slapping at it with her other one until it finally released and flopped to the floor with an odd squelch.

"Why are you here," she asked forcefully, her eyes finally landing on the stack of essays and bugging, "...did you grade all my papers?"

 

[Mirthwind]

The green-robed half-elf kept his cheerful demeanor through all of that, patiently letting her finish waking up and take full stock. And somehow, he stifled so much as a chuckle.

“Yes, Maester. And yes! To begin: a short while ago, I was walking into the library from the alley side - the rose-trestle always puts my nose in the proper place before a musty, dusty dive into the old stuff, you see. I had hardly shut the door when I felt some manner of charm strike me from behind - right squarely in the chest! And then I saw you, sitting here, trying to diligently get through stacks of essays. I felt the charm influence me: I was desperately needed right away. Here. To help you. To make you happy. Being part-elf, I nipped the charm off right below its bud, but I was left quite intrigued… I mean, whoever would try such a charm? So I came, the door was ajar, almost as though I was expected… but when I rapped a spritely rat-a-tat-tat and greeted you, I realized that you were sound asleep. Hoping to get to the bottom of the mystery, I thought, why not play along? And so I quietly pulled up a chair, borrowed your paperweight to use as ink and a quill - no harm, I promise it! - and set about grading your third-year stack. Not my first encounter! Maester Ulman has been putting me to it lately in preparation for the trials next month. And there we are, caught up to the present.”

He leaned slightly forward, a bit conspiratorially.

“And Maester, from a couple of the looks you have given me since you woke, I wonder… were you struck by a charm as well? And if so - any guesses as to by whom?”

Magdalena Elbion

 

[Thraah]

*Badump-ump*

A wave of warmth leapt from Thraah, enough to move her hair and kick off a noticeably higher body temperature than she had been keeping.

But she kept her head and bit her tongue to keep it running away from her. Picking a chair and swinging it around to sit on it backwards, coat gracing the floor. First things first, drinks.

"Peppered stout please landlord, two bottles, two glasses!"

Slapping a handful of sheckles on the table she turned her attention to Vyx'aria.
"So, you feel that too."

That was a relief. Thraah never had much difficulty with desiring others but this felt, extra intense.
Another stick of purple came out from her coat and she popped it into her mouth and lit it with a snap of her fingers causing the landlord to startle as he dropped the drinks and took the coin without a word. She breathed a thick cloud of purple smoke into the hazy room and rubbed between her eyes with her free hand.

"So, there's some mysterious wingman shit going on or we are being set up."

Her eyes met Vyx'aria's red orbs and saw the not quite smirk which prompted one of her own as she took one of the bottles and ignored the glasses completely.

"Way I see it we can either get a room here or hunt down whoever did this to us and kick their shit in so hard they feel it in their next life. I'm not gonna assume how you feel about it but I'm good either way."

Vyx'aria

 

[Vyx'aria]

Vyx’aria watched her the way a predator watched weather roll in, without hurry, without blinking.

The purple stick. The smoke curling lazy and thick through the tavern’s haze. The way Thraah’s hands moved when she spoke, animated, restless, heat bleeding off her in visible waves.

Yes. She felt it too.

When the bottles thudded onto the table, Vyx’aria didn’t bother with ceremony. She popped the seal with a practiced twist, lifted it, and took a long, unapologetic swig. The stout was sharp, pepper biting at her tongue. Acceptable.

Her red eyes never left Thraah as she lowered the bottle.

The mention of a room drew a slow, lazy grin from her, one that started at the corner of her mouth and took its time spreading. Vyx’aria tilted her head, white hair slipping over one shoulder as she leaned back into the chair.

“Mmm,” she hummed, voice low, amused. She took another drink, then set the bottle down with deliberate care.

“Before we decide whether we’re tearing out someone’s spine or testing the structural integrity of the beds here,” Vyx’aria said calmly, “why don’t you enlighten me.”

Her gaze traced Thraah slowly. Unashamed, assessing, very aware of the heat between them.

“Tell me all about how you’re a Dreadlord,” she continued, tone smooth, “who does not hunt elves.”

Thraah

 

[Thraah]

A shrug followed by a swig were Thraah's accepting start of a reply followed by another puff and the throaty texture it gave her voice as she spoke through it made her words feel deep and heavy.

"What's to tell? Elf's are my people as much as humans are. One of my moms is an elf, my sisters are elf-born. I grew up in the elf slums of Vel Anir..."

Another puff and a pause to tap the ash into a glass.
"I mean I hear you. A lot of Dreadlords hate anything that isn't human and for whatever reason elf's get that worse than most. Anirian's are stupid, racist cunts, mostly!"

Not Maseno or Stormy though and not Perrine.

"But there are a lot more Anirian's who don't accept that than you'd think."

She took a longer drink this time, partly to hide the sting of losing her friends.

"Shit, look at me."
Gesturing to herself, the scar the hair the coat. She wore her status loudly as ever, Anirian accent thick and clear.
"I'm in Alliria, this is somewhere few enough Dreadlords would come without a battalion. I'm here on my fucking vacation!"

Pulling back Thraah popped the stick of purple back into her mouth and hung back on her arms, turning it into a stretch. Speaking from the side of her mouth.

"So that's me. I'm not married, no kids, I create and control fire and if my proctors are to be believed I have "innate resistance to authority figures". Whatever that means."

Now she pulled herself forward again and crossed her arms over the back of the chair to rest her head upon them looking at Vyx'aria intently.

"Your turn. What's a dark-elf doing on the surface? Don't you all go blind in the sun or something?"

Vyx'aria

 

[Vyx'aria]

Vyx’aria listened without interrupting.

She watched the way Thraah shrugged, the way the purple stick lived so easily between her fingers, how the smoke altered her voice. Her gaze lingered there longer than strictly necessary, red eyes half-lidded as she took another slow drink.

When Thraah said dark elf, Vyx’aria’s mouth curved. “Drow,” she corrected lazily and specifically, the word rolling off her tongue like a blade being drawn. It was a word that made surface folk clutch pearls and whisper prayers, and she wore it exactly the way they feared.

Her grin widened.

“Yes,” she said pleasantly. “We go blind the moment sunlight touches us. Horrible screaming. Very tragic.” She tilted her head, mock-considering. “And after that, the spider legs come in. Usually four extra. Makes sitting in taverns difficult.”

She took another swig.

“I came up for a vacation,” Vyx’aria continued, utterly casual. “Fresh air. New scenery. Fewer priestesses trying to stab me in my sleep. The surface has its charms…briefly.”

Her eyes slid back to Thraah then, sharper now, amused and intent in equal measure.

She nodded toward the purple smoke curling between them.

“What is that?” Vyx’aria asked, genuinely curious despite the lazy drawl.

Thraah

 

[Rae'twyn Suvalissaere]

"You don't say..." awkward for him, perhaps. Mostly she was transfixed by the curiosity of the moment, "is this another trick of your Lady?"

Quick enough, he found his stride again, waving his hand, adopting a theatrically abashed gesture.

"Oh, no, this trick is entirely my own. I find it helpful to mingle with the locals. Not everyone takes too well to our kind up here, after all. But alas, magic has failed us." Or has it, the wiggle of his smile seemed to say.

Even in this weak remainder of sunlight, his eyes still had to squint painfully. The glamour had allowed him to hood off some of its light, but now it came back in full force, driving little needles into his dark-adjusted eyes. He turned his back to it, now leaning both elbows against the parapet like it was a reclining chair, exposing the full curve of his back and slender, athletic torso; akin to that of a dancer, each muscle and tendon shaped by persistent, graceful movements. He gave her the side-eye from there, purposefully not yielding even an inch to face the dim sun.

"But you, my lady, why, you seem less shocked by my ancestry. At least, I spy no pitchfork yet. Could it be you might have met with any of my kinsmen before, perchance?"

Samantha Black

 

[Thraah]

Vyx'aria got a toothy grin for her teasing and a nod of concession about the dark-elf thing.

"Drow it is, apologies."

Not the first time she had said the wrong thing, she was used to putting her foot in her mouth but this time it was more about the failings of Anirian education which she found more and more amusing as she got older.

"Hah, good one. Does your butt get bigger too?"
Her eyebrows raised suggestively at the thought. It reminded her of some fish she's heard about who get bigger closer to the surface of the water... was she remembering that correctly?

"This..."
She took a pull on the stick to savour it, letting her voice deepen and another thick plume into the air between them.

"It's lotus stalk. Native to the Vels and pretty good at taking the edge off any situation."

Smiling she offered it to Vyx'aria with a playful tone.
"It's super deadly to non-humans but I think you'll be okay."

As far as she knew it was completely harmless but Thraah relished the opportunity to give a fib for a fib and to share something intimate with Vyx'aria.

Vyx'aria

 

[Esmoria]

"You mean, Teiflings?"
Her statement raised many questions which Voe found he could not contain within himself. Not when she offered the answers so openly.

"H, how many of us are there? WHERE are they all, why are we so scattered?"

Esmoria gave a soft chuckle. It was a reasonable reaction she supposed so many Tieflings must feel as this one did. She herself had once had such questions.

It was then that Voe seemed to gain sight of their red tie. It seemed with good fortune that it was not an unwelcome one. Being that Esmoria reveled in the details and gossip of such things, were it possible for her to see all visions the incantation brought herself she would. She could to some degree feel the presence of the red strings between two ties but the visions were sacred things. Not even she who cast the spell could peek at them.

"What just happened? Did you see her?"
He turned back to face Esmoria, his face completely befuddled by the experience.
"Who is Phelaia?"

A delight smile bloomed Esmoria's features. "My~! Phelaia is it? I'm afraid I am not familiar. visions are personal things. I merely facilitate the bonds. So I am not privy to such things, nor can I guide whom such ties bind. Though I must say that in Malakath I never saw the tie bearers fly so far. Perhaps there is something special here, or perhaps Our Resilient lady was especially amused with this celebrations attendants. I have rarely seen such a ceremony held outside our clergy."
She cupped her cheeks in her own hands terribly pleased with knowledge of how many new bonds were blossoming in this moment. Esmoria was oblivious to any animosity this might have brewed for who could be ill tempered over a new love found? It was unfathomable to her.

"I should be very pleased to answer you many burgeoning questions....but I shan't begrudge you should you seek to chase your tie. Such passions are the joy of this festival."

Voe

 

[Irman Harefoot]

“Irman Harefoot…”
"...come with me if you want to live!"

It said with genderless matter of fact sincerity.

Irman Harefoot

Questions buzzed in the back of Irman’s throbbing head: Who was this being? Why did it know Irman’s name? Where did it come from? What even was it? There was so much that was on his mind— that should have been on Irman’s mind but wasn’t. Not really.

Irman felt a blush creep onto his face though it could not be seen through his bristly fur. The sensation that this invisible warmth gave him was quieting to his thoughts.

“Hey…” the rabbit-man said, almost stuttering, almost mumbling.

“If I’m being honest, just seeing you could be a good enough for me.”

There was a magnetic charge in the air that kept drawing Irman closer. Focus was pulling apart as his body was pulled closer with slow, deliberate steps.

“But ‘living’ somewhere else sounds fine as well. As long as you’re there of course. I actually know a guy in town who can help(hurt) this thing we’re dealing with.”

Irman wasn’t sure what he was saying anymore. Everything was so jumbled.

“I think going there can do us some bad (good) and we need good (bad). But I won’t (can’t) go alone, so please, don’t (do) just drag me away…”

 

[Voe]

Being pulled in two directions was testing for Voe. He felt an urge to get to Malakath as quickly as he could but that was an unknown. A mystery to be solved later.
For now Esmoria was right before him, clearly reveling in... whatever she had done.

"No."
Voe's voice was calm and he gave Otho a good chin scratch.
"Passions pass and my questions would remain. Not that I'm not tempted, sorely but she is far and I have you right in front of me."

He tried to relax, not fret about what might yet be and focused on the questions that mattered.
"Why Malakath? Is that where we come from?"

Esmoria