bakerstreet | To the victor

( info. probably the spoils of war, but could be in possession of someone, too, if you wanna go that way. no smut, but otherwise open to all. )

{{Most likely the spoils, either taken from the battlefield or "traded" by a previous leige to buy peace when military strategy fails.}}

[ castmates/genshins preferred, can do either role! ]

( some vaguely wuxia-flavored AU where dan heng has inherited a war with jing yuan from his elder brother dan feng, and the setting is probably more liyue-adjacent than the xianzhou... anyway, let me know if you want anything changed! )

[ Seated on his knees with his wrists tied behind his back, Caelus can't help but think: I've really messed up this time.

The enemy know him as General Qiong, named for the divine firmament — Dan Heng's right-hand-man, if the rumors are true, and they might not be. They say he is a strange prodigy rumored to hail from beyond the sky, whose eyes shine like the stars on moonless nights. He's not that special, really. It's just one of those things where it's part of the fog of war, to give one's leading officers supernatural histories, and blessings of divine providence. The truth of the matter is that his name is Caelus, and he has amnesia, and he's not even a Vidyadhara, and to some extent it was easier for the long-life species to stomach the idea of being led by a short-lifer after they'd used a bit of propaganda to prop him up. Dan Heng hadn't liked the idea of lying, but the elders insisted. The elders insist on a lot of things.

Still, it's true that he's been an excellent general up until now.

He just wasn't as good as General Jing Yuan. ]

...You must be Jing Yuan.

[ The first words out of Caelus's lips as he hears the crunch of boots against sand. Slowly, he lifts his head from where the enemy soldiers had forced it down when they initially took him alive. The stories exaggerate — his eyes don't really shine in the dark — but they gleam a brighter gold than Jing Yuan's own. Some fables have a hint of truth to them. ]

Gotta admit, it's my first time seeing you in person. [ His tone is intentionally glib, and unbothered, and slightly disrespectful. ] You're fluffier than I thought you'd be.

[ oop sorry for the delay! ]

[ despite this general qiong's disrespectful tone, the first sound that passes jing yuan's lips is a soft chuckle. ]

Would you believe that is not the first time I have heard that?

[ for jing yuan, despite the many exaggerated rumors about him, is in fact only a man. tall, yes, but not the height of a mountain. strong indeed, though his muscle is not hard enough to repel projectiles. he certainly is not shooting lightning out of his eyes, either, though he is surrounded by the distinct scent of ozone, the charged smell of the air before the storm.

standing with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, jing yuan surveys his catch, his head tilted to one side. ]

So this is Dan Heng's genius general, hm? The rumors of your ability are not without merit - you were not an easy man to catch.

[ oh, but he enjoyed the chase. few enough have given jing yuan such an opportunity to stretch the muscles of the mind so thoroughly. ]

[ Could go either way - prized experimental specimen or a soldier who ended up with spoils despite not having interest in that sort of thing. ]

( would be the spoils of war. more than happy to plot <3. info on blog. )

( could be either one. )

[ anybody he acquires will mostly be baggage he doesn't need/want, but pillaging comes with the barbarian territory. ]

Hmmmmmm

[So you've managed to catch and collar the wastelander. She is going to be a major pain in the ass.]

[ She'll be taking the spoils. There's even a French term for this, droit du seigneur or in her case it would be, droit de la dame. Men slightly preferred for this but women are still welcome. ]

Edited 2024-03-13 20:23 (UTC)

[so, maybe she conquers an organization Hei is apart of, and she takes their top assassin for reasons? Does that work?]

[ I dunno? Who else you got? ]

[ likely the spoils ]

( castmates preferred. either role. toss me a surprise starter or message me to plot if needed! )

[Look, she's going to be happy just not getting Drac'd.]

[crown prince of an empire if crown prince was synonymous with "middle management." voted most likely to be forced to deal with your character's politically sensitive ass with all the grievance of someone whose family member said "yes, i will walk the dog if we get one!" and then proceeded to become a liar.]

[The phrase “Do it yourself if you want it done right,” should have a limited number of times it ought to be applied in one's life.

If only. The thought is a wistful one as Korel resists the urge to wipe the sweat from his brow in front of the soldiers- the wretched heat having beaten a weary fever into his core. Not for the first time does he longingly think of the Northern Front- the endless mountains and their fields of white. Cold, in his opinion, has always been preferable to heat. Small mercy, then, that this campaign is nearing its end.

A premature conclusion, some might say, but he knows better.

It had begun with troubling reports- pagan worshipers and the like tainting the land. That they themselves were responsible for the drought and the wrath of El- utilizing forbidden magics in flagrant defiance of all that was holy. He, personally, wondered if this was not a poor attempt at redirecting the anger of the beggared and impoverished by both the Church and the nobility of the South. Why answer the troublesome questions of what the Empire had done to deserve such misfortune, after all, when you could simply scapegoat the unfortunate instead? Why take accountability?

And he, ever his father’s faithful dog, had been sent in answer. To purge the unworthy. The unworthy being the desperate and starved, seeking only to survive… and their lone mage of unknown origins.

How this mage had come to be the leader of a “pagan cult” is a mystery to him- somewhere between superstition and bored soldiers idling at campfires, no doubt- but leader they had been labeled and the source of all this “unholy magic.” Thus, it fell upon him to ensure their capture.

The problem, then, was the near fanatical devotion the entire Southern Plains had developed for their would-be martyr. More than once he had found himself faced with such zealotry- to the point of recklessness on the other’s side. Threats of poison, torture or anything else equally unsavory had no effect- they truly believed this mage to be a god in their own right. And while the might of the Esmarian Empire was considerable, the Southern Plains were vast and there was only so far one might get chasing locals into their territory. Especially if said locals were willing to die for their cause. An unpleasant situation, all things considered, but not an impossible one. For if the rat will not emerge from its hole, then one must burn the hole.

It’s a grand city, all things considered… and so very dry in the months of heat. Reports have stated this is where the mage has been situated in the later months of the Campaign and it’s not entirely a concern if those reports are false. If intel is anything to go by, just the mere threat will eventually draw forth that which he wants. He’s instructed several El-veined mages to start fires in the city over the last few weeks- persistent enough to cause real, tangible fear but simple enough to eventually be diminished by the citizens while the soldiers fend off the attacks. He has the manpower for it since Esmaria is never shy about showing their might. War is good business.

He’s sure the citizenry- both here and at home- will make a spectacle of him for attacking non-combatants once this is over. That he pushed this far into the Southern Plains so quickly and so cruelly without heed for casualties… but a swifter conflict is better than a drawn out one, if there is to be conflict at all.

He hopes this “leader,” once they read the terms of surrender he sent over last night, will be of a similar mindset. It’s a simple enough one- asking for a meeting at a middle-ground at sunset. Surrender the leader, enter the city into martial law and the bulk of the Esmarian forces will withdraw with no further need for bloodshed. Enough to appease the nobility on the southern border and the loveless tyrant on the throne back home.

That the death of said leader is implied, needs not be said.]

[ooc: aaaaand book.]

[The Southern Plains though ruled by its own nobility and of course, the church, are not the only governance of note, though the others are certainly marginalised. They are inhabited by several Tribal groups who live wild in the plains led by councils of elders. Some of these are hereditary, some entirely democratic, but no matter their methods, they must all prove their worth and mettle and can be challenged at intervals if their leadership is found wanting. Though they must answer still to those that call themselves the masters of the land, the tribes are left to govern themselves each according to their own personal values otherwise, but were linked by core politics, culture, and beliefs.

All are united in their grief of the ruin of the Emerald Heart Sea. It was their pride and their bounty, their joy and their gods-given blessing. It was, in fact, no true sea at all, but the largest of the plains, so named for the lush, verdant grass that shone in the wind beneath the sun, stretching boundlessly into the horizon. It was interspersed with clear, branching rivers and streams that from a falcon’s eye view mimicked veins. The heartbeat came from the thunderous gallop of the horses they so revered, the pounding of feet in dance be it holy or secular. It was the heart of their culture, of the life as they knew it and had always been. Without it, all they were and knew were as good as dead.

They were dying, now.

It seemed impossible to believe. That the illusions conjured from those that remembered to the youngest, by such careful fireside now, were not more than flights of fancy. They might have been if their expressions had not been carved and set by the weight of loss, their voices reedy with thirst and raw with grief. Time had not healed it in anyone, but paved the way for festering and despair as their lot worsened.

A persistent drought ravaged the Heart and spread outward throughout the lands entire. The brilliant green had faded to a wan shade, a ghost of its former self where any colour could be seen at all. The grass that clung to the blighted earth was fragile, crunching underfoot like so many forgotten bones. Great swaths were simply gone, long carried by dusty winds. The beds of the rivers and streams were drying and cracked reflecting the lips of so many whose only relief was their own blood to fill the fissures.

It spread to the city, where those lowest of the low fared no better.

Until, slowly, they did. No one paid attention, no one ever pays attention to the invisible, but there was water, food, and medicine. Discreetly distributed under the cover of night to those that needed it most. The numbers of the “cult” grew, like the shadow of a tree borne of the setting sun, its branches quietly creeping across the land. Their fervor for the figure was as voracious as the succor they craved and needed. It would have been easy to use, to exploit, but they never did, only bid them use one hand to receive aid and the other to pass to their neighbour. Nothing else. The sincerity of their devotion to the good of those overlooked, which encompassed everyone shy of those higher ranked, only fueled their devotion. The poor, the craftsmen, the scholars, the masons, the weavers, the harlots, the tribes, all were made equal in their suffering, and all deserved to be saved.

It was fierce unity for the betterment of all that was commonly espoused in church doctrine, but actually realised and under the auspices of another, so of course others took umbrage with that.

The “leader” in question is invisible among the citizenry though the invaders when they set the fires though do not know it. They receive the message. They read between the lines. It’s a funny thing, because they are not for the nobility *to* surrender. The perfumed poms have no idea who they are. They have to hope that all goes according to plan or risk the consequences. A plan they have no control over and yet who would be so foolish or bold to walk into such an obvious trap?

Well.

The meeting is for sunset, but the location’s been surreptitiously scouted from dawn onwards, and there may yet be some surprises, but someone does arrive at the appointed time in nondescript, hooded clothing.]

[The arrival of someone is hardly a surprise, since Korel had made sure there could be no other possible recourse save an all out war. Whether or not it’s the right someone, however, remains to be seen.

As the sun dips into the horizon, golden rays casting alight the sky in hues of vivid orange, what appears from the Esmarian side is, perhaps, significantly less of a response then one might initially expect for an apparent trap. No more than a handful of soldiers on horseback dressed lightly with hoods and scarves to protect themselves from an overbearing sun despite the late hour.

But while most of the riders are content to slow their mounts to a halt quite some ways away from the proposed meeting ground, only one urges their mount further- right up until they are within proper speaking distance. He’s dressed a bit more reasonably for the heat in looser fitting clothes with a lighter colored cloak wrapped about his shoulders, but it is still mild summer Esmarian attire and thus completely unsuited for the warmer weather of a land drowning in El’s wrath.

Curious, then, that he should seem completely unbothered as he dismounts- the motion catching a glint of sun on the silver embellished sheath of a no-nonsense longsword strapped to his hip. An unusual weapon for an Esmarian noble to wield, to be sure, most opting for the much more elegant rapier- but it bespeaks a level of practicality for a man a touch too accustomed to the brutalities of war. His boots are also, as they hit the sand and dirt, made of sturdy, well-worn leather rather than polished steel plating. A man who by all appearances is suited to the titles of Esmarian nobility but bears in the gaps the hidden implications of one who is unafraid of getting their hands dirty.

The wind turns, as he steps forward, and brings with it a cool breeze- like a blessed relief after being made to sweat beneath an overbearing heat.]

I am Vas Korellion t’Esmaria, first-born of his Radiance Val Verendelle, Emperor of Esmaria. [His voice carries clearly in the space between them- no more than a few feet, but it is clearly a rehearsed thing as he expressionlessly gives the person before him a once over.] Are you the one who claims to speak for the unpious?

[And there is something to be said, perhaps, for having engaged in negotiations alone. Of either arrogance or, perhaps, something a little more sinister.]

[They’re masked, the sharp shadows cast by their tattered hood further obscuring it. It would not be surprising, a number of the cult members wear them, sometimes. It was not a constant thing, for the best way to hide was most often in plain sight, but it lent the enterprise an identity, community, and mystique. It was a simple thing in white and black, where the white part was shaped in a crescent within the bounds of it form, encompassing the mask’s nose and half its lips. The other half, naturally, was the dark side of the moon. The eye of the white half was black, the eye of the black half was white. They both appeared to be solid, the rays of sunset reflecting off the opaque, concave shapes, so how anyone wearing it could see was unknown.

As the man approaches, the figure does not appear perturbed or staunchly on their guard, they take Kore’s coming entirely in stride. Conversely while the man is decorated, if practically, they are cloaked, their figure obscured as the wind billows their cape about them. If they notice any of Vas Korellion’s idiosyncrasies or have any thoughts about his bearing or measure they do not betray it in expression, obviously, or body language.

The figure tilts their head, but it’s a dramatic lean that does not stop at their neck, like they’re a marionette on strings. One could nearly hear the click of joints from the motion.

They raise a hand in the same vein, smooth yet abrupt, and curl back their fingers one at a time from the little one until only the index and thumb remain.]

His first-born, but no longer first-in-line to succeed him. No. Tell. Did your father send you because you are effective or because you are expendable?

[It’s a remark that warrants a weighty response- to disregard him so boldly on a field of negotiation. There is, after all, an etiquette that must be adhered to when one is weighing the supposed fates of those who owe them allegiance. Blue-blood frippery, is how Korel has come to see it, and often utterly impractical anywhere but the royal court. Still, to show upset would proclaim him a child- lacking in composure and confidence. Granderel’s choice of response. But to show nothing would have others perceive him weak- easily mocked and disrespected.

It is a test, and an uncreative one. Forever are people lauding his lineage and titles over his head.]

What need is there to move the king when a pawn should suffice? [The smile that graces his mouth is as cool and cold as his gaze, the wind flickering only once in reply- as if in taunt. That this “rebellion” is worth only a pawn’s attention. Yet, even so... his talents are not a secret. Not the element, nor his mastery of them. That the other is seemingly unnervous is of note- denoting a trap or some other unseen trick. The movement... hmm.]

What, [he adds,] is here that is worthy of a king’s attention? What, [and he takes one step forward, ice beginning to creep from beneath his boot to spread outward like a stain on cloth- crawling over deadened grass cracked soil, parched from the sun’s rays.] -makes you think you could warrant the heir-apparent?

[It isn't creative, but it does not need to be, it only needs to serve its purpose. Now, whether he truly thinks himself a pawn or means to obfuscate his role and skills is another matter. The latter is a waste of time. Sifting silver truth from the filth of rumour can be challenging, but what is undeniable is the knowledge of the fortress around the North and the one who built it.

He is not one to be trifled with.

It is subtle, but they bristle at the provocation, body stiffening in a very natural way this time, seemingly striking a blow to their ego and betraying their pride, but they regain their mental footing.

They notice the ice creeping beneath his feet. They do not move, yet.]

So you say. And yet someone has come all the same. Out with it.

Edited 2024-04-11 18:12 (UTC)

[There is an implication to those words, for always have his talents been apparent. Behind all the rumors and stifled titters hidden by silk gloves, his is the name that ended the war and brought about a reform pleases only the unseen. Esmaria's warrior prince and its second Elemental Master. That he would call himself a pawn, despite all that, begs the question of what might a King be capable of.]

It is courtesy to allow the accused to speak for themselves. [His words remain light in tone, composed and seemingly uncaring as the frost continues to spread- seeping over dried blade of grass and twig without care. Already it has reached the knights who came with him- knights who cannot help but to pull their mounts back in unease, even if the horses themselves seem unbothered. In spiralling fern and wisped feather do the patterns crawl outwards until all too soon they come to her feet, flowing right on by with little more then a chill curled round the ankle as a sign of their presence. It shows no sign of slowing.]

So I ask you again, are you the one who speaks for the heretics?

There are no heretics. Many are as devout as they have ever been. More than I can say for those so quick to condemn them and do nothing. But if I should be their speaker, what of it?

[If they notice the creeping chill they make no moves toward, away, or against it. Whether they register it at all is difficult to say with their mask so thoroughly obscuring their features, but nothing flits across their body language either.]

[Before long the frost has come to encase every blade of grass and creeping ant as far as the eye can see, sending what little life might remain upon this desiccated wasteland scurrying into the dirt. Perhaps, after having endured the blazing heat of the sun for so long, the impromptu appearance of a chill- no matter how welcome a respite it might be- is unpleasant to endure.

Although if the one across from him perceives it as such, they give no indication. There was a moment- a brief split of time in which they gave way to their irritation earlier- but it was brief and fleeting. So much so that Korel is left wondering if it was the implication that they should be unworthy that upset them, or that he didn't respond to their provocation in turn.]

You have read the terms of your surrender. [He reminds them, noting the faintly heated prod upon the devout nobility back in Ladelle. It is unsurprising, truthfully, for rare is the one who would go against the Empire without the youthful, simplistic idealism to see it through. Revolutionaries are, after all, ones who cannot survive without principles.] Cooperate and those within the city shall be spared further bloodshed.

[He likely needn't say what should be the consequences of their refusal. Esmaria does not deal in mercy.]

[Their tone is marke with growing disdain.]

No inkling, none at all. "No bloodshed", he lies and lies and--

[They do not finish and instead a slim knife coalesces in their grip and is thrown in his direction in one smooth motion, but they do not remain idle and dash quickly to follow up, but their footing--it's sloppy.]

Edited 2024-04-29 12:16 (UTC)

[It is a curious thing, to see the path of your life laid out before you and think yourself at a crossroads when the road is predetermined.

The sudden mark of her hostility is nothing unexpected- the foundation of it having been laid long before either of them ever stepped upon this barren field. Nor is the manner in which it is revealed for always and ever has his life been sought by those who would see it a stone to trod upon- in vengeance or ambition.

For a moment he deliberates simply… doing nothing, and allowing this life of his-fleeting and insignificant- to pass in the moment. A brief gasp of anguish before blissful respite… but no, the knife is not thrown with killing intent. Merely a distraction for something else making it, at best, a nuisance. Pity.

He echoes a long familiar sigh within the silence of his mind, and closes his eyes. He does not move, but neither does the blade meet its intended target- striking instead some glimmering thing hovering before his face and bouncing off to the side to be seized in a wave of ice that crashes upwards- seizing it from the air and freezing it in place. His realm of ice- expanded for as far as the eye can see- has already long since been established.]

Who here has lied? [He remarks, as near an insult as is allowed upon this field of failed negotiations as the wind rises, carrying with it a white mist. From afar, it must seem dazzling- trails of white snow catching the sun and flickering like cascading diamonds. Up close, it brings with it a chill and hinders one’s vision as it swirls up and around, snatching at loose clothes and hair.]

[ spymaster. you're his spoil of war ♥ ]

( if you are cool with ocs would you want to start something? if that's okay. you don't have any preferences, so i figured i'd ask first. )

It isn't that Childe got caught out by noted spymaster Kamisato Ayato. But Inazuma's victory against the Tsaritsa's forces, even if it is only temporary as several of the highest Harbingers have said, means concessions must be made. Childe is the youngest and the 11th ranked, but more than that, he's hard to control. It makes him the natural choice to send back to Inazuma.

It's a hostage situation, he's told, some sort of assurance. Childe isn't sure he believes that, but the Tsaritsa's will is still his duty and he goes.

He half expects to be stuck in some prison cell or something. He's still a Harbinger, after all, and that incident in Liyue isn't exactly a secret. His reputation precedes him, though he doesn't mind. He's fairly open about things, after all, as long as his little siblings don't find out what he does.

But there is no prison cell (at least not yet). There's a bedroom in the Kamisato estate and a promise that running will get him nowhere. Childe scoffs at that idea. He came here mostly willingly, so he has no reason to run. He's sure he could, but it's irrelevant. As long as he's not bored to tears, he'll stay put and behave. He gets bored too easily, but, details!

It's a couple of days before he actually meets Ayato face to face. Thoma brings him to the spymaster's office, a secluded room towards one end of the sprawling estate complex.

Childe, unable to be quiet or totally respectful at any given time, starts this new acquaintance off not with a regular greeting but by saying, "This is a much nicer bout of captivity than I'd expect."

[ Going with him being the spoil of war. ]

[ could go either way, but more likely the spoil of war. ]

[Clearly a spoil. He's too much of a princess to be anything else XD.]

The battle is over, the rangers defeated (he's oddly... melancholy about that), and humanity conquered. It's only a matter of time before they are all killed. The Evil League doesn't leave pesky opponents alive to undermine their victory. However, there's forms to be filled out, execution methods to be determined, and all the normal bureaucracy.

Most humans get to go on with their lives. Some are dangerous enough to warrant observation. One such human has been entrusted (a generous word for forced upon with triplicate paperwork) with him, a general of the Evil League. He stares at the human with a grimace on his face, his work clothes on and intimidating. Evil energy oozes out of him. He's about to clock out, and he doesn't want responsibility for this human. He planned to get a treat after work.

"You are to stay with me at all times or you'll be immediately executed," he says with complete lack of enthusiasm. "Understand? If you go beyond"—he checks the paperwork—"thirty feet away from me, I'll kill you."

[ spoil of war. ]

[The Spoil. Congrats, you captured a Phantom Thief.]

[King of a rival nation, could be either the proud victor over yours or the humbled loser.]

[ Either role is fine! ]

[ Could be either depending on how the situation went down. ]

[ You've managed to capture a 1 inch tall little monk dude. ]

[Either, though if he's the war bride he's absolutely doing it for the shits and giggles.]

[The spoils. OTA shipwise for this, but for f/m I prefer femdom.]

[conqueror]

either - he usually wins at things. not a nice guy, but hey, he might not turn you into slim jims. for now.

[The spoils of war! He's a proud boy though so have fun with that.]

To the victor

sylvie gallard | lest they leave | ota

Eligre, the Lady Crow || fantasy OC || OTA 30+

jing yuan | honkai: star rail

no subject

no subject

Cloud Strife | Final Fantasy VII/R

Basil Mulberry . My Hero Academia OC ( open to crossover ) . Ota

shika hayakawa | original | ota

conan.

no subject

The Lone Wanderer || Fallout 3 || F/M

Remilia Scarlet (Adult) | Touhou Project | OTA

Re: Remilia Scarlet (Adult) | Touhou Project | OTA

Re: Remilia Scarlet (Adult) | Touhou Project | OTA

genya safin | shadow & bone | ota

aether; genshin impact

caelus; honkai star rail

Shiny \ Fabulous Killjoys OC \ OTA

korel, oc + ota

@failedfailsafe

rolls in here

ROLLS BACK

rolls u into a burrito

rolls self into trash

it's where we belong

home is stinky

not so bad once you feng shui the compost

no subject

short one to keep it moving but i will do better i promise!!

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kamisato ayato | genshin

no subject

♥

Levi Ackerman ( Attack on Titan )

Nara Shikamaru | Naruto Shippuden

Edogawa Ranpo | Bungo Stray Dogs

Re: Edogawa Ranpo | Bungo Stray Dogs

Riddle Rosehearts ( Twisted Wonderland - m/m )

Makoto Niijima || P5R || F/M

Theseus | Hades

Adam Monroe | Heroes

Marina Ismail (Gundam 00)

Bean - Dimension 20: Tiny Heist

Tianlang-Jun | SVSSS | M/M (exception Su Xiyan)

Paris | Greek mythology

Red Sonja | Red Sonja | OTA

feyd-rautha • dune

Tsukasa Suou | Ensemble Stars!!