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bakerstreet2018-01-05 08:39 pm
oakensocks) wrote in bakerstreet2018-01-05 08:39 pm
Entry tags:
Come into these arms again, and lay your body down.
  Still, what is an adventure without an adventure of the heart? You are not alone, and you'll find that trying times can forge ironclad emotions. Of course, you'll find that the path of love is no easier here than anywhere else, be the person you admire an arranged fiancé you're not too fond of at first, a forbidden object of desire, a traveling companion, an enemy, a lifelong friend, an ally...or another species from you entirely. Yet, in any case, this is no time for romance, is it? Only moments can be stolen, and you must set aside your feelings for the greater good. In this time, in this place, will you get your happy ending, or will this story prove to be a much darker fantasy? 
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Mordred | Arthurian legend | M/F
Yuri Plisetsky | Yuri!!! On Ice | m/m
Merlin | Mythology
Link | Ocarina Of Time | OTA
Default is closer to a bard or rogue than a pristine knight, but if you need a quiet fairy (well, adopted) with a sword, Link's your best choice! Humbler origins such as goatherd, stablehand, blacksmith apprentice, etc, also very much on the table, but my favorite is playing Link as a wild child, growing up in the woods and all. I'm a sucker for the cultural differences/from two different worlds trope.]
Glawen Elesis | OC | F/M
'cause I'm an absolutely sucker for that shit.]Thorin Oakenshield | The Hobbit
Eren Jaeger | Shingeki no Kyojin | M/M
John Watson | Sherlock
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Hawke | Dragon Age | M/F preferred
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Susan Delgado | Dark Tower | OTA
Éowyn | Lord of the Rings | OTA
John Constantine | Hellblazer (comics) | OTA
Claire Bennet | NBC's Heroes | OTA
Mattias | Spellforce OC
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I'm just always interested in having Furiosa interact with other bamf warrior women.]]
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[[Like you say, the battlefield would be great but also would definitely end up with them killing each other, so... Yeah.]]
𝒔𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒕𝒆 ( snow white and the huntsman ) f/m*
Sam Murphy : OC : F/M
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Talks with the defeated Southrons are nigh interminable. The trouble is, they were never a nation as such, merely a large, loose collective of tribes and clans, most of which hated one another and were only allied together under pressure. Thus, while most of the leaders are willing to carry on with Gondor and Rohan in above-board negotiations for truce, there's constant back-biting between the clans, jockeying for position. If they weren't all hurting from the War, it would probably be tempting to just give up and tell them all where to shove it, metaphorically speaking.
But this is important. War is a wildfire that tears everything down. Peace is a white tree that needs careful watering and maintenance, particularly now as it's merely a delicate sprout.
This clan's delegation is different than some. They come with their old emblem--a skull in a wheel of fire--torn in half, and hung under the banner of a skeletal, red left arm and hand, pointing into the distance. It's perhaps no less ominous as a logo, but the other difference is that the delegation is led by a woman, and amongst the burly warlike men at her back are a handful of other women, dressed in armor and long light robes appropriate for desert conditions. They wear scarves of green and black.
The leader also, noticeably, has a left arm made of metal and strange pistons, and the tick and hiss of the machinery is audible when she bows in greeting. She is introduced as Lady Furiosa, and while she makes a slight face at the title, as if she's aware something in the translation hasn't quite made it through, she doesn't protest.
Peregrin Took | Lord of the Rings
Pyria Elessedil | The Shannara Chronicles
in love with a druidso going in-universe/canon is possible or playing around with AUs is also fun. Or both!]Inquisitor Lavellan | Dragon Age
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Although she's clad in a fine lady's gown, green velvet and white samite, there are hints to her role in the war. Her shield-arm is still bound in a sling, albeit loosely, weak where the Witch-King's mace shattered it, and there is a hardness and hollowness to her look that speaks of the fighting. Stitched onto the collar of her dress, white horses and white trees interweave.
"Lady Furiosa." She smiles, more warmly than she feels. The hurt of the war is not yet salved, and she is still wary of these foreigners, these killers of her countrymen. "I am the Lady Éowyn, sister to Éomer King. You are welcome here." A lie, but a necessary one. Her eyes flicker over Furiosa's delegation, taking a mental reckoning of their number and their arms - and the women, too. The women are unexpected. She had not realised that the Southrons had shieldmaidens of their own.
"You have travelled far, and must be tired," she says after a moment. "Come, sit. I will call for wine."
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"Well met, Lady Éowyn. You speak with grace," Furiosa says, fluently but with an accent that marks her origins. "But there is anger in your eyes."
She smiles a little, wry. "That does not offend us, but maybe we will do better if we acknowledge it before we seek to mend it."
Glancing back, she speaks to her followers in the harsher tones of their own language, and they settle down, prepared to sit peaceably until she says otherwise, although one of the women seems very alert, still on guard even as she sits with her legs folded under her.
"Thank you for your welcome," she says, turning back. "We'll be honored to drink with you."
They may find a mild cultural misunderstanding at work here in a moment. Furiosa's retinue are used to strong drinks and stories around a campfire, not political discourse over wine. Still, if that's the worst diplomatic stumbling block they hit in this, they'll do very well at peacemaking.
Margo Hanson | The Magicians
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Still, it seems ill-mannered to point this out, so she wordlessly reaches down to sweep her skirts around herself, kneeling nearby. The dress will take some washing, but that is a small concern.
Looking up at Furiosa, she pushes a lock of hair out of her eyes and considers for a moment before replying.
"There is anger in all of our eyes," she says at last, gravely. "And in all of our hearts. If you feel it not, then I wonder at your serenity, for our people have been long opposed and we have all lost much." There. That acknowledges it, to her mind, well enough. "Such ill-feeling does not pass in a moment, with wounds yet raw. But that is why we meet, is it not?"
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She seems to approve of Éowyn joining them, anyway, giving her another small, cautious smile. Her gaze sweeps briefly over the swaddled arm, then back to her face. It's not beyond the realm of possibility that shes heard something of Éowyn's heroism on the field of war, but she may also just be noting a small similarity between them. Furiosa's arm has no chance of recovery, unfortunately, being long gone and replaced with metal.
"I am named for anger," she says in response, mild enough in spite of her claim. "The day I stop feeling rage is the day I stop feeling everything, forever. But ill-feeling and violence are two different things. For my tribe, our need to spill blood died with our last chieftain."
She gestures at the torn banner that hangs below the standard on their staff. "We only want to rebuild; like your people do, I think."
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"I think, in that if naught else, we are of a mind," she agrees, after a moment. "Our rage need not lead us. But you were right, it is better spoken of." Turning her head, she beckons to the servants emerging behind her, who look rather startled by the way the delegation - and their own lady - are huddled on the ground. They hurry over, setting down trays of cups and flagons of wine, and once they have poured them and passed them around, quickly withdraw to watch from a distance.
That comes as a relief to Éowyn. It gives her a chance to take stock, to think how best to proceed. She is trained in courtly ways, but she was never raised to be a diplomat, either. It is helpful to have a break in the conversation to consider. Furiosa intrigues her, both for her sex and for the wheezing metal in place of her arm. She had not known women like that existed, least of all in the savage wilds of the South.
"You are not what I expected," she admits aloud, as the servants withdraw. "Before we continue, forgive me, but I must know - did you fight, in the War?"
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That, and perhaps she made a promise to someone, a long time ago, to keep trying.
She gives Éowyn a sober nod in acknowledgement, but refrains from speech as the servants approach and pass around wine. The women with her, notably, don't seem too startled by this sign of hospitality, but a couple of the men look awed, as if this is a treat or a show of good faith they didn't expect. One of the women, the darkest of skin and the smallest, murmurs something to her companions and takes a small sip from the cup, as if showing them how to drink it politely. Furiosa glances back at her with a smile and a little nod of approval, and turns her attention back to Éowyn.
"I could say the same," she tells her mildly. It's true, although in fairness she didn't have many expectations. But it's a welcome relief to see a woman at the negotiating table, and even more so one who will attempt to meet them halfway.
"I fought," she says, sobering. "The cause was not of my choosing, but our chieftain...did not welcome dissent."
She sips her wine, brows knit as if she's trying to think of a way to explain more fully, then sets the cup down and gestures to the torn banner beneath her own standard. "I carry his banner so that your people will know with whom they are meeting, but he was not a good leader, or a good man. I say this not to curry favor with his enemies, but because it's true."
"I was permitted to take the field of War because I will never be able to bear children, and because I proved myself against his best men."
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She clears her throat, and looks at the standard. "If he was such a man, then I am glad it is you we treat with. I cannot think he would have given much heed to me." That's one thing she has discovered, of late. Even in defeat, some of the clansmen she has spoken with - like some men closer to home - will not listen seriously to a woman.
Besides, she finds herself liking the strange, shaven-headed chief with whom she now speaks. They are enemies, after a fashion, but she feels a certain kinship, too. Knowing that Furiosa had to prove herself so against men only strengthens that sense.
"What is it like, your land?" she asks, after a moment more. It isn't a purely polite question - she has a poor sense of the lands beyond Gondor, and what she knows is only from maps. The shifting boundaries of clan lands are beyond her. The more she understands of where Furiosa comes from, the better they can negotiate.
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A little cold for a woman to say, perhaps, but honest.
She makes a subtle face, then. "No...he would speak with you, but his thoughts would not have dwelt on diplomacy." Okay, maybe she's too honest, but behind her one of the women snorts and nods a little, concurring with her chief's assessment.
Furiosa takes a small sip of the wine, and her eyes close for a moment, as if the flavor is a pleasant shock. Truthfully, fruit can be quite precious where they come from. This is a luxury. She sighs softly and answers, "The lands we own are very dry, as are most of the others around us. We value water above everything else. There is no life without it. Our chief hoarded it; we have...a source, within our city."
Not that she thinks Éowyn or any of her people would care to come for her own tribe's water, but spilling too much information might make her look weak. She continues. "And some small gardens, a little livestock. Enough to feed ourselves and no more."
She gives Éowyn a wistful smile. "You dress yourself in green, you come from the North where the lands are green, too. Everything is red where we come from. Rock and dust and scorching sun, and blood. Only the strong survive. Envy drove us to war with you; envy and the manipulations of Mordor."
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"Envy has ever been the Shadow's friend," she says, nodding. Unnoticed, her hand creeps up to the fabric of her sling, probing at the damaged arm beneath for a moment. It isn't the first time she's found herself doing that, when she thinks too long on the fighting. With a sigh, she lets her hand drop back into her lap, and clears her throat.
"Your arm. Have your people many such things, such works of artifice?" She is not a merchant, nor any kind of trader, but it seems to her that the thing of most value in all Furiosa has described may have come with their delegation. The machine in place of Furiosa's arm is one more complex than she has seen before, though heavily worn and brutal-looking. To a woman from a place like Rohan, where tradition holds and much of their works are simpler in make, it is something of a wonder.
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She's never seen a horse outside the battlefield, though. Maybe that's an indulgence she can request, if these talks go well.
Her eyes follow when Éowyn touches her wounded arm, and when her eyes meet the other woman's again, there's concern in them. She'd ask after her healing, but that seems...presumptuous, particularly in front of their various entourages. Another time, maybe.
The uncertain sympathy clears when she's asked about her prosthesis, brightening into the warmest smile she's shown yet. "We build, yes. Vehicles, machines for lifting great burdens, pumps for drawing up water, and other devices. This, I built myself."
She extends the arm as if to show it better, and it's clear she's proud of the work. "It's the fifth version. Every time I try to make it lighter and stronger. I've made some for others, as well. Arms, and legs, and braces for the back."
They are a warlike people, and war means scars, but sometimes it also means innovation.