MIni Nano Day 18

It’s all @lilyrose225writes‘s fault. Because wings. And Star Wars.

Fandom: Star Wars
AU: Ocean of Night
Word Count: 285
Characters: Maul, unnamed Sith

The robes around her are spread neatly, looking like wings splayed on the floor. Rusty red and charcoal feathers patterned into the fabric. The rest of her is hidden by the stark shadows of the room. A room he does not remember entering, nor can recognize the architecture of.

“Where am I?”

A quiet, raspy chuckle comes from the darkness, the broad sleeves of the robe shifting as their owner moves. Wings lifting, folding back, settling. Perhaps not robes after all.

“Why should I tell you, little apprentice?”

“Who brought me here?” He tries to stalk toward her, letting his anger at her non-answer show, only to find a barrier that keeps him at a distance. And when he tries to prod it with the Force, throws him back.

“That wouldn’t be fair, telling you without giving you a chance to figure it out on your own.”

Maul picks himself up from where he’s been thrown, approaching the barrier carefully, and slowly pacing the perimeter of it. A full circle, and her at the center well out of arm’s reach. Out of harm’s way, in a pool of shadow and light. It has a direction, to hide her face so completely, but he can’t see the source of it – light or window.

“Who are you?”

Another raspy chuckle is followed by a quiet clicking. “My name is not for you to know, little apprentice.”

“What are you?”

“You don’t know? How disappointing.” She shifts, the light coruscating across purple irridescence. A hood or a helm or a crest, but her face is still hidden by shadows. Clinging shadows, even with the light’s direction unchanged. “I’m not telling you, little apprentice. That wouldn’t be fair.”

Mini Nano Day 14

Continuing from Day 2 with a tiny bit of a skip, and rather short, because today has been a day of naps and difficulty concentrating. (But still, words.)

@norcumi @theotherguysride – a little more of Margaret on Tatooine. 🙂

Fandom: 15th Century RPF, Star Wars: The Phantom Menace
AU: Blade of the Force
Word Count: 122
Characters: Margaret of Lancaster | Margaret Princess of Wales (OC)

The gleaming structure is a ship made of metal inside and out, and has no stable, for all that they were able to accomodate the coursers as well as Margaret and her cousins. There is nothing for the horses to eat, though, and no certainty that they will be able to find fodder for them soon, only once they return to a place called Korasant. A city, Margaret thinks, but not one which is close by, and which Obi-Wan says they will take the ship to.

They leave their armor in the same large room as the horses – a cargo hold, Obi-Wan called it – and Thomas does the service of squire for Margaret, since her own has been left behind in France.

Next segment

Mini Nano Day 1

morgynleri:

So, sometimes I write very odd crossovers, and this one was sparked by conversations with @theotherguysride about an alternate early 15th century AU and Star Wars in close proximity, and the observation that one OC from the former and Padmé would get along terrifyingly well. It kinda snowballed from there, and now I have the kernal of a crossover AU to add to my list of WIPs.

Fandom: 15th Century RPF, Star Wars: The Phantom Menace
AU: Blade of the Force
Word Count: 459
Characters: Margaret of Lancaster | Margaret Princess of Wales (OC), Owen Tudor, Thomas Beaufort, John Holland | Earl of Huntingdon, Richard Nevile, Obi-Wan Kenobi

Margaret wheels her horse around with reins and knees, bringing her shield up to block a blow that makes her teeth rattle. The man-at-arms who had landed the blow lets out a scream a moment later, and she gives Owen a grin from behind the visor of her bascinet. He’s been the best of the knights who make up her personal household, and she’s glad for her father’s decision to place him with her.

The others close around her – Thomas, John, Richard – to give her a reprieve from the battle, though she feels not winded at all. Though when the air seems to turn to stone and sunlight around her, she’s glad they are close. More so when she can move again, and around them is not the battle they had been fighting, but sand and bare rock, and something crafted of metal that gleams as burnished armor in the low light of the sun.

No. Not sun. Suns.

Margaret feels her jaw drop as she looks away from the quick glimpse of a pair of suns she’s seen when trying to use the sun to judge time.

“Your Grace.” John has his hand on her shoulder, and Margaret draws in a swift breath, shaking her head. Swaying in her saddle is not acceptable, not when they are lost through some sorcerery, in a place she cannot even begin to imagine.

“I am well, my lord Holland.” She reaches up with her shield hand to push the visor of her bascinet up. “Though I do not know where we are, or how we came to be here.”

“Some sorcerery, I expect, though I did not think those French bastards had such a cursed sort among their employ, for all their faults.” Thomas’s voice is a growl from behind his visor, and Margaret smiles a little. He has less love for the French nobility than the rest of them, after the news his brother had been killed along with her uncle.

“Peace, my lord Beaufort. Your anger keep for later, when once more the squabbling princes of France are within our reach.”

Movement catches her attention, and Margaret looks toward the gleaming structure she had noted before, seeing some ramp lowered from the bottom. The others note it too, and she finds herself neatly surrounded by the four she has kept with her through the strange sorcerous travel, tense and waiting to see what might come.

It is a single man, no older than Owen, dressed in robes in a style Margaret has not seen before, with hair cut short as a common soldier’s save for a braid on the right side of his head. He is watching them with the same wariness Margaret knows her knights are watching him.

Historical notes:

Thomas Beaufort is the son of John Beaufort, and nephew to the Thomas Beaufort who was Duke of Exeter. He was made Count of Perche in December 1427, so a good six and a half years after the initial point of this snippet, and thus is currently without title.

John Holland is eventually the 2nd Duke of Exeter, but at this point in time, it wouldn’t work very well for the AU, and I’m uncertain of when he gained that title. He does, however, have the title of Earl of Huntingdon by 1422, thus it’s important to his character, at least in the listing.

Richard Neville likely married Alice Montacute in 1421, though he is not yet Earl of Salisbury, as Alice’s father dies in 1428, another six years from this snippet. So, no title for him yet.

Margaret is the oldest daughter of Henry V in the AUs she exists in. This version of her is pulled from the AU of Mistress to Queen, an AU which is currently untitled, and in which her older brother is killed at Agincourt. She is the Princess of Wales, and her younger brother is to be Henry’s heir in France.

There isn’t, as far as I can tell, actually a battle between the French and English in June 1422 in history, however, I needed a battle for the beginning of this, so. There is one for the purposes for this AU.

Evening reblog before posting today’s snippet.

Mini Nano Day 1

So, sometimes I write very odd crossovers, and this one was sparked by conversations with @theotherguysride about an alternate early 15th century AU and Star Wars in close proximity, and the observation that one OC from the former and Padmé would get along terrifyingly well. It kinda snowballed from there, and now I have the kernal of a crossover AU to add to my list of WIPs.

Fandom: 15th Century RPF, Star Wars: The Phantom Menace
AU: Blade of the Force
Word Count: 459
Characters: Margaret of Lancaster | Margaret Princess of Wales (OC), Owen Tudor, Thomas Beaufort, John Holland | Earl of Huntingdon, Richard Nevile, Obi-Wan Kenobi

Margaret wheels her horse around with reins and knees, bringing her shield up to block a blow that makes her teeth rattle. The man-at-arms who had landed the blow lets out a scream a moment later, and she gives Owen a grin from behind the visor of her bascinet. He’s been the best of the knights who make up her personal household, and she’s glad for her father’s decision to place him with her.

The others close around her – Thomas, John, Richard – to give her a reprieve from the battle, though she feels not winded at all. Though when the air seems to turn to stone and sunlight around her, she’s glad they are close. More so when she can move again, and around them is not the battle they had been fighting, but sand and bare rock, and something crafted of metal that gleams as burnished armor in the low light of the sun.

No. Not sun. Suns.

Margaret feels her jaw drop as she looks away from the quick glimpse of a pair of suns she’s seen when trying to use the sun to judge time.

“Your Grace.” John has his hand on her shoulder, and Margaret draws in a swift breath, shaking her head. Swaying in her saddle is not acceptable, not when they are lost through some sorcerery, in a place she cannot even begin to imagine.

“I am well, my lord Holland.” She reaches up with her shield hand to push the visor of her bascinet up. “Though I do not know where we are, or how we came to be here.”

“Some sorcerery, I expect, though I did not think those French bastards had such a cursed sort among their employ, for all their faults.” Thomas’s voice is a growl from behind his visor, and Margaret smiles a little. He has less love for the French nobility than the rest of them, after the news his brother had been killed along with her uncle.

“Peace, my lord Beaufort. Your anger keep for later, when once more the squabbling princes of France are within our reach.”

Movement catches her attention, and Margaret looks toward the gleaming structure she had noted before, seeing some ramp lowered from the bottom. The others note it too, and she finds herself neatly surrounded by the four she has kept with her through the strange sorcerous travel, tense and waiting to see what might come.

It is a single man, no older than Owen, dressed in robes in a style Margaret has not seen before, with hair cut short as a common soldier’s save for a braid on the right side of his head. He is watching them with the same wariness Margaret knows her knights are watching him.

Historical notes:

Thomas Beaufort is the son of John Beaufort, and nephew to the Thomas Beaufort who was Duke of Exeter. He was made Count of Perche in December 1427, so a good six and a half years after the initial point of this snippet, and thus is currently without title.

John Holland is eventually the 2nd Duke of Exeter, but at this point in time, it wouldn’t work very well for the AU, and I’m uncertain of when he gained that title. He does, however, have the title of Earl of Huntingdon by 1422, thus it’s important to his character, at least in the listing.

Richard Neville likely married Alice Montacute in 1421, though he is not yet Earl of Salisbury, as Alice’s father dies in 1428, another six years from this snippet. So, no title for him yet.

Margaret is the oldest daughter of Henry V in the AUs she exists in. This version of her is pulled from the AU of Mistress to Queen, an AU which is currently untitled, and in which her older brother is killed at Agincourt. She is the Princess of Wales, and her younger brother is to be Henry’s heir in France.

There isn’t, as far as I can tell, actually a battle between the French and English in June 1422 in history, however, I needed a battle for the beginning of this, so. There is one for the purposes for this AU.

Next segment

Snippet: Tolkien: Northern Night

“If you help the others escape your mistress, I will remain as your hostage.” Legolas knows his father would not appreciate the bargain he’s hoping to strike, but right now, he doesn’t care. He remembers what his mother told him of the uruktar of Gundabad. About Azog and Dazbol and Cúnessa their mistress. The cracks between them that could be exploited if given the chance.

“What use do I have for an elf?” Dazbol is leaning against the wall with her warg leaning against one side, and a messenger from Moria on the other, who had been giving her a report on the state of the mountain fortress.

Legolas draws a breath, knowing he is treading on dangerous ground. There is nothing for it but to step forward as well as he might, and hope that whatever happens to him, it will help his father, and the others. “Anything you want of me that does not outright kill me.”

Dazbol snorts, looking him over. “I can’t trust you not to kill my soldiers, nor they not to kill you. I can’t even trust the breeders not to kill you by accident. I need no instruction from an elf about how to run my fortress, nor to maintain my army. Unless you can run a forge or grub iron out of the ground, I have no need of more hands at the work needing done.”

Snippet: Tolkien: Northern Night

“Razul. What word from my little princes?”

The orc who’d arrived while the Lady of Gundabad had played a pretence of a genial meal looks up from where he’s been sitting against the wall, pushing to his feet. “There have been a few stragglers from the battle who fled and hid before the end. None of any consequence. Summer Snow has found the Raven Crown, as you commanded. Winter Fire has gone to see the dragon carcass, and says it would take years to extract it from the depths of the lake where it fell. Not worth the effort.”

“We have the mountain. A few trinkets lost are of no importance.” The Lady flicks a hand in dismissal. “Tell them if they find the good Lord of Dale’s children, to send them to me.”

Razul bows his head. “As you command, mistress.”

Snippet: Lord of the Rings: Gaearon Rhûnen: Out of the East

Chapter 6: Burnt, Barren Places

“Will you share that name?”

“No.” Randír shakes his head, getting to his feet so he can shake the sand from the cloak recovered from the boats for him. “It is the name of a man I do not know. I would wish to know more of who I was before I take it up again.”

He fixes the cloak about his shoulders before crouching down to touch the horn Thavron had found near where he’d been, and brought down. Cloven in two, familiar in shape, but not in the decoration put upon it by the people of the west. “If, indeed, I do chose to take it up again. I do not know if I should like who I was.”

“A man of courage and strength, to bring down as great a host of orcs as were scattered about where you fell.” Alagosiell ties the first pack closed, giving Randír a long look. “All were cloven by sword, not brought down by arrows, hewn by ax, or smashed by club or stave.” She reaches for the horn he has not taken up, and tucks it into the lightest pack. “Even if you had companions to aid you in the battle, that would still hold true, for there are none other fallen save the orcs.”

Snippet: CSI Miami: Moonlit Miami

Just a snippet today, as the story isn’t ready, and I’m working more on the spreadsheet of doom than writing today.

“It gets easier, at least a little.” The detective pauses, before holding out a gloved hand. “Ray Caine, Homicide. Glad to meet the newest CSI.”

“Tim Speedle.” The handshake is firm without trying to test him, at least Speed thinks so. “I’ve got to get to work.”

“I know. Page me when the evidence gets you somewhere.” Caine leaves, following the cleared path back out of the building, and Speed turns back to the scene. There’s a murderer to catch.

Snippet: Mistress to Queen: Spirit All Compact of Fire

morgynleri:

Today, my brain is very much not in the current century or place. I’m feeling a little more grounded after going out for fast food with mom (because the dissociation earlier was bad enough that no, I wasn’t safe to drive. Still am not safe to drive, I think), but it all still feels… not right. No longer not quite real, but still not right.

(I have left my brain in England of the early 15th century, with a warrior king and a French herald and all the variations of history around them. I will have more words later today because of this.)

So, because of that, and the fact I’ve been in this place for the last couple of days, have a snippet. I am unlikely to post this story anywhere in more than brief snippets until it is done, and if anyone is interested in beta-reading, I’m open for a second (or third) set of eyes (I am going to get back to the beta who did the first story, and see if she’s up for a second).

Margaret glares back at Robert, clenching her jaw a moment. “I did not ask him to come to bear witness to my vows. He came of his own will and desire, no doing of mine.”

“And who is here of your will? Who has failed me in keeping you in mind of your duty to your king?”

“You are not my king!” Margaret’s ears ring with the echo of her own shout, and she clenches her hands into tight fists. “The king to whom I gave all my loyalty lies beside our brother Thomas, and I shall have no other!”

There is silence between them, cold and harsh with words she cannot bring herself to regret, even if they cause her death.

(For those who may not have read Admit Me, Chorus To This History, Robert is the oldest son of Henry V in this AU, and Margaret is the oldest daughter. They are 18 and 14 here, and it is late September of 1422. Margaret has just wed Owen Tudor, who has been in charge of her household since 1418, without permission and has zero fucks to give about her older brother’s opinion of her actions.)

Snippet: Star Trek: DS9: Burning Bridges

Post-Dominion-War Damar-centric snippet.

To know his family live is a blessing that Damar had not thought to have after the end of the war, and it still feels as if it’s a tiny token against the enormous cost that bringing freedom to Cardassia had been paid in the blood of his people. In the flattened wreckage of Larkarian City, where the tiny enclave of survivors all had been those who had – like him, like Garak – given all their lives and hearts to the vision of the State that had been born there.

Something that perhaps is not the same as the State as envisioned by Tain, or by Dukat, but still at its heart the State beloved of Cardassia. Perhaps one that might become greater than what had been lost to the Dominion, if they could build it. Could shape it from the dust of shattered cities, the blood of the dead, and the devotion of the living.

“The Order, what remains of it, is at your discretion, Legate.” The quietly amused voice of the woman who was the eldest of the Order survivors breaks Damar’s reverie. “Provided you do not fail us as those who came before you did.”

“I will not.” Damar is certain that he will have small failures, as his life seems filled with them, but he will not make the mistakes of Dukat, or those of Tain. Focus on home first, and rebuilding, and hope the tattered remnants of the Order and the military would be enough to protect them if treaties were ignored. “What does remain of the Order?”

“A protesting former exile, the survivors of Lakarian City, one human doctor in a Cardassian skin, what agents were deeply embedded and have not been brought home. Perhaps a handful of archivists who had the good sense to lock themselves in the primary archive. Less than a tenth of what we were, but enough to begin from.”

“As much as that?” Damar snorts, turning away from the window he’d been staring out from, meeting Nadya’s gaze for a long moment. “And you can command them?”

“The only ones I do not command are those we have not brought home.” Nadya spreads her hands a moment, amusement lurking in the pale gray of her eyes. “We have few choices, Legate. Tain’s chosen successor wants nothing of the job unless he must – whatever service he choses, it will not be to send others to be his knives in the dark. No one else rose so high in the Order as he, save myself, and one artist of truths, and her truths are deeply radical for such an injured State.”