Lif stuff here

"I might be seeing you all sooner than you think," said Charlie, grinning, as he hugged Ginny good-bye.

"Why?" said Fred keenly.

"You'll see," said Charlie. "Just don't tell Percy I mentioned it.. . it's 'classified information, until such time as the Ministry sees fit to release it,' after all."

"Yeah, I sort of wish I were back at Hogwarts this year," said Bill, hands in his pockets, looking almost wistfully at the train.

"Why?"  said George impatiently.

"You're going to have an interesting year," said Bill, his eyes twinkling. "I might even get time off to come and watch a bit of it."

"A bit of what?" said Ron.

But at that moment, the whistle blew, and Mrs. Weasley chivvied them toward the train doors.

"Thanks for having us to stay, Mrs. Weasley," said Hermione as they climbed on board, closed the door, and leaned out of the window to talk to her.

"Yeah, thanks for everything, Mrs. Weasley," said Harry.

"Oh it was my pleasure, dears," said Mrs. Weasley. "I'd invite you for Christmas, but...well, I expect you're all going to want to stay at Hogwarts, what with. . . one thing and another."

"Mum!" said Ron irritably.  "What d'you three know that we don't?"

"You'll find out this evening, I expect," said Mrs. Weasley, smiling. "It's going to be very exciting - mind you, I'm very glad they've changed the rules -"

"What rules?"  said Harry, Ron, Fred, and George together.

"I'm sure Professor Dumbledore will tell you. . . . Now, behave, won't you?  Won't you, Fred?  And you, George?"

The pistons hissed loudly and the train began to move.

"Tell us what's happening at Hogwarts!"  Fred bellowed out of the window as Mrs. Weasley, Bill, and Charlie sped away from them.  "What rules are they changing?"
But Mrs. Weasley only smiled and waved.  Before the train had rounded the corner, she, Bill, and Charlie had Disapparated.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione went back to their compartment.  The thick rain splattering the windows made it very difficult to see out of them.  Ron undid his trunk, pulled out his maroon dress robes, and flung them over Pigwidgeon's cage to muffle his hooting.

"Bagman wanted to tell us what's happening at Hogwarts," he said grumpily, sitting down next to Harry.  "At the World Cup, remember?  But my own mother won't say.  Wonder what --"

"Shh!"  Hermione whispered suddenly, pressing her finger to her lips and pointing toward the compartment next to theirs.  Harry and Ron listened, and heard a familiar drawling voice drifting in through the open door.

". . . Father actually considered sending me to Durmstrang rather than Hogwarts, you know.  He knows the headmaster, you see.  Well, you know his opinion of Dumbledore - the man's such a Mudblood-lover - and Durmstrang doesn't admit that sort of riffraff.  But Mother didn't like the idea of me going to school so far away.  Father says Durmstrang takes a far more sensible line than Hogwarts about the Dark Arts.  Durmstrang students actually learn them, not just the defense rubbish we do. . . ."

Hermione got up, tiptoed to the compartment door, and slid it shut, blocking out Malfoy's voice.

"So he thinks Durmstrang would have suited him, does he?"  she said angrily.  "I wish he had gone, then we wouldn't have to put up with him."

Lif

The only sound was the stamp of hooves, the clank of metal and wood, the creak of leather. The resounding echo of his pulse pounding steadily within his own ears. Vision was narrow, peripherals nearly completely blocked by the steel of his visor. Through the slit he could only see his opponent and the straight and narrow path upon which both of them traveled. His horse carried himself with dignity, his foot falls sure and steady, matching Lif's own steed. Closer. Closer still until he could see the flare of the enemy mount's nostrils, soft pink against the pearlescent finish of his sleek coat. It was warm today, despite the approach of winter. The horses' withers would be drenched and frothed in sweat by the time they were finished here.

All other sound returned in a tidal wave of cacophony as the lances splintered in a violent spray. His eyes narrowed, but he dare not risk the tilt of his head to disrupt the good balance he had as the blunt weapon shattered against the shoulder of his armor. The force blew over him, a point certainly for his adversary, but his aim had also found its mark. Both jousting polearms broken and he would fluently discard his as he readjusted himself in his saddle, trying to quickly regain his breath. Tia had, of course, advised him against the tournament. She had worriedly claimed he was not yet in a condition warranting further punishment, and yet he had insisted that he was. He persisted that the deep bruising addled him naught and that he was perfectly fine to participate, besides they had already paid their entry dues and put up their family crest before the war had called him away. He had missed part of the contest, but was assured that he could still enter if he did so today.

And any distraction was welcome.

It wasn't until Hades reared, a shrill leaving his mouth as the great ebony stallion turned, that Lif witnessed that he had already won the duel. The percheron dug at the sand, stepping anxiously in preparation for another charge as he tossed his massive head to and fro. On the other end of the dividing poles, Banshee (or so he believed the announces had claimed the opposing beast to be dubbed) continued to drag his rider while the attendants raced to try and catch him. With any amount of luck, the man would be largely unharmed, only his pride subject to injury as his foot was unceremoniously caught within its stirrup. He seemed to come to his senses, rapidly lunging up in an attempt to free himself, to which he was successful.

He'd earned his spot within the finals to be held the next day with this victory. Hands rose, unstrapping and removing the heavy helm, settling it within his lap while his free fingers would trace through the hair pressed firmly to his brow. His own aid appeared shortly after, their cheers and congratulations warm like honey as they retrieved the pommel of the spear, his helm, and assisted him down. The heavy weight of his gauntlet smoothed along the side of the massive shadow as the handler guided the still excited Hades away. Unlike Destriar, this one was more spirited, not quite a mount he would trust with his life on the battlefield, but his wild enthusiasm was great for the showmanship of this sport.

Just the same, he was also in need of a drink, one he sought out once he was resolved of the weight of the armor - at least for the most part. His shirt clung to him, but being able to feel the press of the breeze through it was a heaven-sent, one he grinned to the vendor about as he downed the goblet of chilled water provided. The arcane wasn't often something he was grateful for, but it certainly was right now.

Their return wasn't heralded with the keen of victorious trumpets. The only clarion calls had been the screams of those who neared the wagon at their end. Those that had watched their grim parade with baited breath, hopeful eyes searching the faces and helms atop horses and marching by foot. When they were not greeted, their hands wrung at smocks and aprons and dress fronts as they instead anxiously waited the toll of the dead.

He'd have a drink for them tonight. He'd spoken with some of the others while they had quickly worked and on the way back. Some had put on faces of apathy, their brows drawn darkly and the cavern of their frown carved imperviously deep into the ridges of their face. A canyon a smile couldn't hope to cross or bridge. Not only had they failed to regain the farmland, but they had also witnessed first hand its complete and utter destruction. The feeling of unease ran just beneath his skin like the very lightening he had seen rain down from the smog of the burdensome cover of clouds. Was it sorcery? He knew those of the undead able of mystic feats beyond what many would see as possible. They were even able to summon great shades to blot out the illumination of the sun.

This had felt like.... something else however. Maybe it was the damning mar upon his own flesh that told him so, but it was another sense he had inherited. The arcane was something he could nearly taste upon his very tongue. But this was... something different. Something primordial. Savage.

He was jarred back to his current surroundings and the present itself when a heavy gauntlet clapped upon his shoulder, metal on metal ringing obscenely loud within his ears in his lack of awareness. Stiff back would relax faintly as his sights swung around to face Myrt, a man he'd been serving with for quite some years by now. "Welcome home, boy." He said on a heavy breath and Lif would mirror it with a sigh, though a smile would hang from his mouth like it dwindled by the gallows. "You too. Catch up with you lads later."  The leather underside of his gloves would sweep along the curve of Destriar's throat.

The procession continued, a long march by the Erangora estate that he made his way into. Passing his reigns to the stable hand. He wasn't expecting his father to greet him, so it was of no surprise when only his faithful maid had gleefully met him at the door. Her palms were soothingly cool against the tawny curve of his cheeks, but it wasn't a company long kept.

No, after getting cleaned up, he simply made his way to a local tavern. One that wasn't in the heart of the city, not one that would be bogged down by the homecoming. "Can I get the usual?" He inquired, taking a seat at the bar. The tender gave him a surprised smile, but obliged without word. The humdrum of the atmosphere was already becoming a more welcome warmth with the heat of the whiskey.

!

"Are you fucking serious, Lif?" He nearly rolled his eyes, hands up in a placating manner, one easily mistaken for being mocking. Perhaps because it was. The wolfish grin unfurled across his lips was a perfect match, cold, distanced from the woman as she prodded her finger into the hard lines of his chest. "Listen-" "Viera. You remember my name at least, right?" He exhaled, hard, his hands lowering as his cheek rested within his palm. Mean. He was being mean. "Right... Viera." He reclined against the bar, the hard edge digging into his back and his elbows rested against the polished wood. His stare swept her, shameless in the observation that made a slight flush color her cheeks. Was that what it had been to draw his attention to her to begin with? How easy it had been to fluster her? He couldn't help the slight chuckle that coiled from his lips as he looked away. "Listen, I already told you then. I don't stay in one place. Of course I left, darling." His words, while spoken with a saccharine disposition, came across as anything but. It earned him a firm slap across the cheek, but his simper didn't fall as she stormed away. It definitely wasn't a first. Something strange told him it wouldn't be the last either. Gaze flickered around the bar, drawing through the veil of smoke that clouded the air, the scent of singed tobacco heavy in the dark atmosphere. It stung at the edges of his vision and he would release a pent breath, a strong exhale from between his teeth. "Don't dump my drink." He minded the bar tender as he rose to his feet. He took another big drink from the glass, a light grimace drifting across his features at the burn. "I'm coming back for the rest." Fingertip tapped the neck of the bottle in emphasis. After all, he'd actually paid for this one. He wasn't about to see it kiss the drain. The door opened easily at his beckon, allowing him out. Once in the open, he drew in a hungry inhale, running a hand through the mussed locks of red. His peace, didn't last however, as he heard the quick advance of footfalls coming in his direction. If it was a pick pocket, they would be as sorely disappointed as he the last time he reached in. His peripherals found the owner first, another freak of Lavalles, he pinned. A beast who couldn't control their appetite, perhaps? Someone who'd escaped the red light district? The twisted humor was lost immediately as he realized the figure was definitely intent upon his presence. His mouth opened slightly, brows drawing downwards in a frown before he was sharply cut off. “Svabol tir wux vucot zahae nomeno Vs'shtakvi? Jahus jaciv ir de wer ajikis thaczil?” He blinked, his head tilting slightly as he closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, wondering if he was further down the bottle than he'd thought. "Hold on, hold on. Say that again, slowly." The last word ended, slightly quieter than the first few as he noted the weathered parchment in the unidentified's hand. The one they tapped sharply against in emphasis. Something that probably went along with whatever the hell said. Had the posters already made their way even here? However, his inspection didn't reveal his own face, rather that of some manner of lizard. Was the ass trying to say that was him? "Wendreda." The name was little more than a grunt as it left him, shaking his head slightly. "Sorry, can't help ya. I don't deal with that kind of cold blood."

Jahi

You've Got the Heart of a Leo
The Boy Who Swallowed the Sun
It'd been a bit since he'd had a drink worth taking. The piss poor quality of the bootlegged goods produced at the camp was like drinking spiked water. Disgusting, and even lacking the potency to inebriate. Needless to say, he would call the gang's attempt at hooch a failure. Sobriety lead to sharper senses, yes, but even those of late he wished to have buried and forgotten. That smoldering burn at the back of his throat grew in intensity until it felt as if he'd swallowed hot coals. Certainty followed the thought that his mouth was split like dried earth after a merciless drought, no matter how much water he downed it wouldn't slake this hellish thirst. He swore he could drown and still be ablaze.

Regardless, he had found himself drawing the short straw. It was his turn to bring supplies in exchange for goods his... comrades were in need of. None of them intended to answer this demanding draft - others a far cry from his own reason. He'd once attempted to join their ranks. To be a good and honorable man, yet they'd nearly spit in his face. They may as well have. He was a young homeless whelp. Starving, fit for a militia, but not the main force of a military, not something that would put coin in his pocket and warm clothes on his back for the grueling winter. If they wouldn't accept him then, the bastards were daft to think he would give them the time of day now.

His thoughts were scattered, his stare cutting sharply to the door of his destination. It was like a sixth sense, this intuitive feeling of magic. He could nearly hear it, like a nail sharply filing down the strings of a harp. The woman's shop often served as a safe house, and it was she he had intended to do business with. Pushing open the door, he found her, still standing behind the counter, her arm outstretched in gesture as her eyes seemed hazy and unfocused. His sights would follow, already knowing what she pointed to, and yet, it was not the guard of Vufrien she had sold the secret bunker out to, but rather a trespasser as well.

Because no one who belonged in this side of the continent could use such magic.

His gaze hardened, soft, attentive blues reflecting not the ocean, but the cruelty of the ice that sealed it. The pommel of his father's blade was beyond comfortable in his hand, the chosen of his two weapons for this particular encounter. For only it was well equipped to dispatch of parasites. Measured footsteps lead him to the top of the stairs, ruthless attention fixated upon the stranger that graced them. The eager point of the sword's tip would attempt to hover in the vacinity of the man's throat should he turn. "Well, friend, you're a long way from home."