Here's a chapter I've been waiting to post - all within a time period of a few days before the battle to an hour after. Order of snippets actually goes from most recent to least recent, so opposite chronological.


Blake had long repressed his first language - a dialect that stemmed from the normal Sylvan language many faeries were taught in the factions, aside from English. He took longer than he meant to reading the message he had been given, the characters thin and sprawled along the papyrus scroll sheet. Mouthing the words, he could not help but feel a shred of guilt, as if somehow, he would have been able to change the tides of battle. To him, the Unseelie had never been good at recovery, for consistent success was what powered them, and he did not know what they would do.

A message of their defeat was something he had not seen before. With the immediacy of the message, he knew the blood that had been spilled was still warm. Perhaps it was only the start to a war that he knew would be drawn out for centuries with the Seelie, but he had only been involved in wins and stalemates. Swallowing bile, he folded up the paper and tucked it into his pocket. He hated to lose, and he hated that the Unseelie now had to retreat to lick its wounds.

Numbly, he walked down the street, keeping to the sidewalks and out of the main view. Slinking down a nearby alley, he caught a glimpse of the forest, his feet carrying him over to the edge on instinct. If asked, he could name and detect all the entrances to the Faerie. He had grown used to searching for them, looking for new ways to slip from the Unseelie to visit Lily. He had lost her too, but he wasn't sure if she had ever been his to begin with.

"Malkoran. Heard the news?" Some lowly Unseelie shopkeeper stood by the door of her establishment, her head rested against the door-jam. Her dark skin didn't show the weathering her mundane blood and detachment from the Faerie had done to her, but Blake could tell she was weary, and time was testing her faerie blood. "There have been fights like this before. You shouldn't grieve for too long."

"Maybe." The hostility had been sucked from his voice, and he inferred that now he only sounded tired. "I have not heard the Unseelie to be like this before."

"They have. The Seelie too." She dusted off her hands, her apron charred from crafting weapons. "When I was a child, before your time, the Unseelie's numbers were reduced by almost a third from an infiltration of unaffiliated. After I served the Unseelie soldiers, they conducted an assassination attempt on the Queen and killed their medics and their servants. Of course our group was killed, but we've all seen hardship."

"The Seelie scum-" Blake could not help an exhausted hiss, shaking his head. "Have they no sense? We will murder them, given the chance."

"They are certainly scum, but that is the faerie way." She seemed equal parts mournful and unbothered, working her plain hair into a bun. "We yearn for bloodshed until it's our own."

Blake only stared at her for a moment before he found it best to not answer. Her words had not helped his mood much, but Unseelie were not known to be easily consolable. Murmuring a quick faerie expression of farewell, he turned to walk the length of the forest edge. He was not one to prolong conversations, like many Unseelies, and he did not think he was in the mood for one anyway.

If he had been there, could he have saved some of his people? And more importantly: would they have saved him?

There was no misunderstanding that his imprisonment in the mundane world had been entirely his fault, and though he had worked for his acceptance, it seemed he always did more wrong than right. What he had already done to prove his loyalty obviously hadn't been enough for them. He had no power, no ability to help them as if his wings had been clipped and he was in waiting until they grew back. Even then, he did not know if he would be allowed out of his cage.


Zander never particularly saw himself as being in the line of any danger. During battles, he either hid behind the thicket of the Hunt or perched in a tree, drawing arrow after arrow to shoot into the mist of the rival forces. That was his job. If he did fight on the ground, it was to lead the wolves, and the particular one he had grown used to was overly protective, often fending off anyone that got too close.

This time had been no different, balancing precariously in the branches high, and higher up as he closed an eye to get a better shot, his bow humming in his hands. One arrow, and an Unseelie staggered. Another, and she was on her knees. He'd let a Seelie or a Hunter finish them off. He had no reason to kill. It was only mandated that he fight.

Was the Hunt worth it? Perhaps it was. He had no real close friends, no one to confide in, but he liked the solitude. The wolves were easy enough to take care of, and he amused himself with the thought of how someone else might have to care for them, should he be off on some mission, like he would ever be chosen. The Hunt had surely rattled his mind, or what was left of it after being given his second chance, like Lazarus arisen from death. Would the wolves have a second chance? Surely not, for their transformation was not nearly as tied to the Hunt as the faeries were.

His gaze tracked the ground for a split second, trying to find the remainder of the wolves, a few having retreated off before they were killed. They were smart like that, for death was often unnecessary after incapacitation. He only saw his clan-mates and the Seelie, though, beating the Unseelie into the ground as if to water the Faerie with their blood. Far off, he heard a bark and perhaps a snarl, but he couldn't be sure, for the clatter of swords made it too difficult to discern one sound from another. A hint of panic offset his aim as he readied another arrow, hitting some Unseelie in the hand. His eyes were searching again. Nothing.

It was silly to be so preoccupied with some sentiments for an animal, but he could not help it, for he did not think he had much else in the Hunt for him. So he shifted, ever so slightly, a little less balanced, but with a better view, his gaze cleaning the scene, unable to focus on one singular object. Still, he searched, worry spreading over his expression. His hand gripped his bow, his hood falling off, and all he could pinpoint were faeries hissing and spitting and one driving a blade through some Seelie's side, only to be finished by a Hunt faerie as he swung at him with a sword, and Zander could see another Hunt faerie laughing as he fought, his blades glinting as he fought off some Unseelie girl and some archer aiming with his crossbow, and he wanted to shout to warn him but then the air was knocked out of him and he stumbled backwards.

His free hand grasped at air, grazing a branch, but there was nothing, only air and the smell of forest and an incredible pressure right below his collarbone that he didn't quite yet place. Perhaps he had imagined it to be in slow motion, falling as he cloak fluttered around him, but his landing was neither slow, nor gentle, his head snapping roughly against some rocky floor, the arrows in his quiver snapping even easier as his weight startled them into uselessness.

A faerie stepped over him and there was some weight in his left hand, from his bow, no doubt, but he could not feel his arm, and he thought maybe he had broken it. That would put a damper on his archery for a while, but it was certainly something he could recover from. And his vision - it was spinning, probably from the fall, but it would regain itself. He willed himself to sit up, but he could not shift, a groan drawing from his lips. His good hand fought for some purchase on the ground to push him up, but it only scraped against rocks and grass, and he could not help but think his head felt extraordinarily heavy. And wet. Some hot substance gluing dirt to his hair and the back of his neck.

Attempting to balance himself, he breathed in, the air tightening his chest with the sound of pneumonia, as if he had inhaled water. His fingers shifted, moving to feel over his chest, seeking some reason. His fingertips met the shaft of a cool arrow, too high to hit his heart, but just on target to send him reeling with a punctured lung.

He got to thinking that he could not feel his legs. In fact, he did not think he could feel much of anything. He could only think that his thoughts were dripping out of him and his head was throbbing, but it was dull, and he could not understand if something was wrong. Only that he could not entirely pick out the shapes of people fighting beside him.

...

Had time passed?

Was the battle over?

Perhaps.

Time was never something he had a grasp on. He was only aware that things were growing quieter, and the fact that the skies were dark. So dark that he could not make out the treeline, the leaves, wherever he had fallen from. A pair of hands lifted his head, studying him, before they made a sound of disapproval and they whisked along, leaving him unattended to. They smelled like herbs.

Another faerie walked by him, and then paused, their footsteps stilling. It sounded like they were underwater. They leaned over him, and he could not recognize their face. Zander just kept his head to the sky. There wasn't much else he could do. And he couldn't help but get to thinking that maybe he had done this before.

before the finality of the Hunt, before the death that had started his new life, when he had first started riding the black steeds, he had been quick to cover his heritage. it would not have been favourable for them to know he was part of the Shadowhunters. "anything that isn't reflective of Raziel," he asked, and received from an illusionist warlock in the Towns. it was not the colour of the Hunt, but nor was it the colour of the Nephilim. when he had woken up again, reborn, it had taken him a long, long while to figure it out.

they could brush it off to his half-breed blood. perhaps they would assume he had some strange relative that did not mesh with the Hunt conversion. either way, he was never questioned. his profile was low, and it was only Kellan who came to dig things up.

He blinked once, twice, and the last time, and violet flickered to gold.


ACT THREE

SETTING: The Downworlder Towns. It is eerily silent save for the footsteps of the young Shadowhunter and warlock. The Shadowhunter is dressed in gear while the warlock is dressed more mundanely, in a red hoodie and black jeans. The floor interchanges between concrete and cobblestone, depending on where they walk. Lamp posts line the street. Soon, only one is visible on the street they have entered. They seem to have been speaking about business.

PARK: Walking beside the young Shadowhunter, looking invested in the conversation. Yeah. I'm always down to help the Shadowhunters. I figured I should let someone know about it, especially since I know what might happen.

ABEL: I just don't want to be seen as the little kid, you know? I'm as good of a Shadowhunter as anyone. Looks annoyed, but determined.

PARK: Okay, dude. I still don't want to get into trouble.

ABEL: Yeah...I know. Rounds the corner of a street. You think we'll be able to see where she goes?

PARK: Well, I saw her passing by that one shop in that...vision I had, or whatever you want to call it. Sometimes I'm pretty unsure about what I see, but I'm fairly certain this time. Tail swishes impatiently, expression keen in anticipation. The Towns aren't a particularly nice place, usually. I don't want to linger here too long.

ABEL: Withdraws Ssanggeom. I'll be careful. I'm not looking for a fight. I realize it's dangerous, making you come out here with me.

PARK: It's okay. Shrugs. Pretty much everyone knows I'm helping the Shadowhunters. Usually, people don't give me crap for it.

ABEL: He nods, noticing the light has darkened as they progress down the alleyway. Sheesh. I don't know why it's always so dreary here. Pulls out witchlight, holding it up to illuminate their path as he pulls a few steps ahead.

PARK: Probably because we're all just a dreary bunch. Grins crookedly. I mean, here we are, lurking in some place, and I'm with some Sha- His words are cut off and he suddenly looks concerned.

ABEL: Park? Pauses and turns to look back at the warlock.

PARK: He doesn't answer for a few seconds, and he looks visibly disoriented. Dude-...Shit. I, uh...really didn't see this coming. He staggers and shakes his head. Have...have timelines changed? Pausing, he coughs up blood and then crumples forward on the the concrete, a long throwing knife deep in his upper back.

ABEL: Crap. Nervously. Who's there? He looks almost scared at the silence. You're interfering with Shadowhunter business and you'll be put on trial for this. Voice raises, but it's shaky. Show yourself.

There isn't any sound for a minute, and the Shadowhunter is frozen. He's a good fighter, but inexperienced, and he forgets to look up. The warlock is motionless. The Shadowhunter trips over his tail as he circles, holding his Ssanggeom out in front of him.

He hears the figure drop behind him from the roof a second too late, and he doesn't get to turn around. Instead, he feels the crunch of a dagger being shoved through his back, the blade not long enough to reach the other side. Crying out, the Shadowhunter tries to swing back with his weapon, but he's immobile in the grasp of the figure. His movements grow fretful.

ABEL: What-... The words do not come to him.

As soon as the dagger is withdrawn, the figure whisks away. The Shadowhunter loses his grip on his witchlight, and he cannot see the face of the figure quickly enough. Feeling lightheaded, he lurches back against the wall. He slides down it and sits, his breaths quickening as they grow shallower.

ABEL: Whispers. Crap. Crap. He spits up a bit of blood and his Ssanggeom falls to the ground beside him. The pool beneath him grows larger and he starts to hyperventilate, but only for a one long moment until the tension gives out.

The scene ends after a minute as he sinks down. It's a clumsy death and an unremarkable one. Both of them are. They certainly will be quickly forgotten by most that ever knew them, for their ties were few and far between. Those who mourn them will be even fewer. Like the beginning of the scene, their ending is only filled with silence. A few streets away, a warlock woman walks uninterrupted by a few shops, passing one, two, three, and then entering the fourth to start her night.


also a quick rip zen. shortest time a character has been in an rp :((