Repentance
A Skyrim story
Safe.
No, that wasn't quite right. No one in Darklight Tower was ever truly safe – not from one another, and not from the two Hagravens that called the tower home and its inhabitants minions. Definitely not from her mother, the oldest and longest-serving witch in the tower. It took a very rare brand of ruthlessness to survive a decade in a hagraven's coven.
Though technically serving for the same duration herself, Illia was well aware that she had only survived her early years, and many of the subsequent ones, under the protective wing of her mother. The knowledge that she would be long dead if not for the affection of a ruthless hag was a sobering thought, and only recently had she begun to stand on her own.
But as she locked the door and stepped over the Ice Rune at the doorway, the tension dissipated from her body, and she relaxed in the space she had claimed as her own: a dimly-lit storage closet, just the wrong side of snug. The witch plopped gracelessly into an uncomfortable chair and picked up a well-worn copy of Mystery of Talara, v2, the last gift of a wayward monk who had met an unfortunate fate.
At the door, Gyna kissed the old woman's cheek and thanked her. Not only for the healing spell and for the cloak, but for everything else of kindness she had ever done.
Three annoyed knocks on the door shook Illia out of the tale of Gyna and Ramke, and the witch carefully tucked Mystery of Talara behind a ruined brown book (formerly The Wolf Queen, v4, until Arvisa had set it on fire in a temperamental fit).
"Illia! Get out here, your mother's looking for you!"
And there was the skank now. The Dunmeri hag, formerly of Morrowind, had wormed her way into the coven a year ago and turned into a major annoyance shortly after. Illia trusted the dark elf about as far as she could throw her, which was not at all.
Icy blue light gathered in her palm for a moment before Illia unleashed a Frost Rune on the wooden door. The magical trap detonated immediately, muffling the sound of curses, and the witch quaffed a magicka potion as she unlocked the door, stepped through the remnants of the icy particles, and locked it, flicking the now-empty vial to shatter at the Dunmer's feet.
"Fetcher," Arvisa snarled from five feet away, having staggered backwards at the icy explosion. Fire began to gather in her palms.
Snow swirled at Illia's fingertips as she crouched, scooping the Dunmer's Elven-style dagger from the ground outside her door. "If you think you can take me," she said softly, "you're welcome to try."
They faced each other for a tense moment in the thin corridor before Arvisa backed down. "Don't want to make your mother mad if we're late," she sneered, emphasising Illia's relation to the oldest witch in the coven – the jab of a snake without fangs.
Illia ignored the implied insult. "Lead the way," the witch ordered, and Arvisa pushed past her, scowling. Arvisa had once, quite literally, stabbed a fellow hag in the back, and while Illia now had the Dunmer's knife, she didn't much feel like presenting her own back to her.
"Daughter," Silvia greeted, as Illia and Arvisa emerged from the dark, dusty tower into the afternoon light at its summit. "And you've brought Arvisa. Very good," the elder witch complimented, even as the Dunmer scowled.
Illia fidgeted, but the light of affection hadn't left her mother's eye. "Good afternoon, Mother," she greeted formally. "I see you've been busy."
"Yes," Silvia agreed, "I have been busy." Deliberately, she turned her back on her daughter and the Dunmeri witch (and how Arvisa's scowl deepened at the insult!) to examine the items atop an adjacent stone altar – a dead goat, a handful of soul gems of varying sizes, a few cured wooden bowls containing unknown reagents, and a single wooden staff wrapped in leather, topped with spikes of polished bone, and adorned with a few Hagraven feathers. To Illia's practiced eye, it resembled the preparation work for a ritual, but her mother hadn't had to do such menial work in years.
"These past weeks," the elder witch elaborated, "I've been consulting with the Matriarchs. The ritual I've been preparing for – the Initiation – is the culmination of our discussion." She gestured dismissively at the altar, and Illia stepped forwards, careful to keep Arvisa in her sight. The common-looking ingredents, for the most part, were the same as always. Some of the sticky-looking liquids in the wooden bowls were unknown to her. Not unexpected, as her mother was still her superior in ritual casting. Still, it looked like she had forgotten the Taproots again, a frequent enough occurrence that Illia had taken to carrying a couple of them on her at all times.
"Are you missing Taproots, Mother?" The young witch ventured politely, and Silvia blinked, examined the reagents arrayed on the altar, then sighed.
"Of course I am. It's always the Taproots," she griped, accepting the two that Illia handed her. "Thank you, daughter. Now, I have a job for you."
Illia straightened up from her slightly slouched position, schooling her face into neutrality, even as pride warred with nausea. What fresh horror, she wondered idly, would she be asked to commit today to earn her mother's approval?
"As part of the Initiation," Silvia informed her briskly, "I will need a live human sacrifice. Preferably someone younger than thirty."
Ah, Illia thought bleakly, long years of practice keeping her expression blandly respectful. That fresh horror. Illia had very carefully managed to avoid killing the innocent – directly, at least. Her young age, long service, and, yes, the protective wing of Silvia had worked to her advantage in this regard, so while she had assisted in malignant ritual preparations and even looked blandly on as her coven captured and slew wayward travellers, the only times she had killed were in defense of the tower, usually against bandits. It looked like that was about to change.
Her gut roiled at the very thought, but she swallowed the nausea. "If I may, Mother," she asked carefully, "what does the Initiation ritual do? And what role does the sacrifice play in the ritual?"
There. Outwardly, Illia smiled placidly and – wait, the ritual did what? No, focus, one thing at a time – nodded along to Silvia's explanation as she took the time to force her emotions into a calm state and quell the weakness in her legs.
"Are you satisfied, daughter?"
Oh. Illia looked back at her mother, vaguely surprised at the affection in her eyes. Of course her mother loved her. Illia had never doubted that, never had reason to doubt that. Silvia had talked her through casting her first spell, had kept her safe from the machinations of the other witches in the coven, had come down with the wrath of Mehrunes Dagon when three of them had attempted to kill her.
And now Silvia was ordering her to kill someone else.
It wasn't like she had a reason to suspect that Illia didn't think highly of this; the younger witch had always gone along in the past, and even now she was faking interest in the magical details of the Initiation ritual. She nodded calmly, betraying none of her discomfort. "Thank you for the explanation, Mother. Shall I set off at first light?"
"Take some time to prepare," the elder witch advised. "Tonight and tomorrow morning should suffice. Have your midday meal with us before you go." Illia nodded again in acquiescence, and Silvia continued, "Oh, and take Arvisa with you when you do. Show her a thing or two." She gestured dismissively at the increasingly incensed Dunmer.
Illia was pretty sure either herself or Arvisa would be suffering an unfortunate accident within the week. "As you wish, Mother. May I take my leave?"
"Go," Silvia said, dismissing the two witches, and Illia carefully followed Arvisa down the winding stairs, breaking off to re-enter the storage closet she had claimed as her own. Stepping over the Frost Rune at her doorway, Illia hastily locked the door and collapsed into her uncomfortable chair. Safe.
But the tension didn't drain from her body as it usually did in her safe space.
The Initiation ritual. Mother is going to become a hagraven. And she wants me to find someone for her to kill.
She wouldn't be the one doing the killing, of course, but that was cold comfort to Illia, who would be leading the innocent to her mother like a lamb to slaughter. Quite possibly by force.
But her mother would be so proud of her. Surely... surely it wasn't so different from what she had already done. She'd slaughtered more goats than she could count, she'd watched enough humans die – bandits, her coven-mates, and travellers – to lose count. It wasn't so different.
Right?
Sleep that night was a long time coming.
Illia jolted awake, heart pounding as sleep fled from her eyes. Disoriented, it took the witch far longer to catch her breath and calm down than it normally would have.
Nightmares were old hat; she'd been tortured, rendered down for potions ingredients, and stabbed in the back enough to shake it off like water off a leaf. Dreams where her mother discarded her like so much refuse... were rarer, more piercing, but she'd always recovered.
She stood at a short distance, her mother at her side, watching Arvisa toy with the Nord traveller in monk's robes. Once a handsome man, blood and bruises now marred his face as he begged for his life, for release, for the gods to help him, for a reprieve from the pain.
His eyes locked onto hers, and he must have seen a flash of the... sorrow? regret? pity? in her eyes. "You," he begged. "Please, I know you don't want this, either. Help me. Please, I have a family. Let me go, have mercy on me!"
But Illia merely stood beside her beloved mother, looking blandly on as the Nord gasped out his last words. "Mother Mara, I..."
Shaking, Illia staggered over to the cluttered dresser which doubled as storage space for her books and personal effects, tossing aside her ruined copy of The Wolf Queen, v4 to reveal Mystery of Talara, v2. Carefully, she lifted the book from its resting place, opening the cover to the first page and tracing the handwritten message by firelight.
Beloved Soren,
Though you may be going far away, know that you will always have a home with us. We love you, and we are so proud of you. Spread your wings and fly.
Mother, Father, Alfa, and Aetta
P.S. Write us a lot so we know what it's like! -Alfa and Aetta
Idly, she wondered if Soren had loved his parents, too. Would her vic- whoever she and Arvisa brought back love their parents?
Doubts continued to plague Illia as she prepared to leave the tower. As she packed a few days' worth of rations, a stash of potions, and a change of clothes into her bag of holding and strapped her dagger, an ornate blue weapon forged from malachite, to her waist. As she lunched quietly with the rest of the coven. As Silvia kissed her forehead goodbye.
"Travel safe, daughter," she whispered into her hair.
"I'm waiting," Arvisa grumbled, just loud enough for Illia to hear her.
"Alright," Illia promised, and turned to go, a step and a half behind Arvisa. She still didn't trust the Dunmer enough to present her back. "East, towards the city," she ordered, as they descended the stone stairs and left the walled, overgrown courtyard. Did you love your mother, Arvisa? Did your mother love you?
Mother is proud of me. Mother loves me. I can't let her down.
Even if it meant taking an innocent life?
Illia grit her teeth and hardened her heart. She could do it. She loved her mother, and her mother loved her.
Enough to take another beloved daughter from her mother?
The witch stumbled over a loose rock, quickly regaining her footing as her companion's head whipped around to look at her. They glared at each other for a long moment before Arvisa slowly turned back around and continued walking.
Well, it's nice to know that she thinks I'm going to backstab her and probably intends to backstab me first. That was really not helping the situation.
Keeping half an eye on her companion, Illia did something she had never done before, and stepped into someone else's shoes.
She stared up into Arvisa's cruel face, begging for her life. She thought of her beloved mother, whom she'd never see again. Who would never be proud of her again, who would spend the rest of her life wondering about the fate of her wayward daughter. She turned to look, but the rest of the coven looked on in varying shades of apathy, delight, and amusement. One woman, only about her age, looked on with a spark of sorrow? regret? pity? in her eyes. She begged, pleaded for mercy but she only looked blandly on as she died, choking out her last words.
"I don't want this," she murmured.
"What was that?" Arvisa half-turned to look at her, and in the face of the domineering witch, she was suddenly uncertain.
"I... I'm thinking of leaving," she answered, uncharacteristically letting down her harsh walls to reveal the uncertainty beneath.
"The coven," Arvisa clarified.
"Y-yes. It's just-" Illia groped for an excuse- "I've been here for a decade, I don't even remember what life was like before I came to Darklight Tower. I want to take some time when I'm still young to explore the world. See what I can see. You can bring the sacrifice back to Mother, can't you?" Yes, that would be for the best. Now that she thought about it, she'd only seen a tiny fraction of the darkest corners of the world, only touched a fragment of the vast arrays of magic there were. Arvisa could bring the sacrifice to her mother – and Illia herself could write letters, visit from time to time, and never have to live with the guilt of taking an innocent life.
The Dunmeri witch regarded her for a moment, then began to chuckle condescendingly.
Illia stepped back, suddenly on guard as the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. "What?" She asked, "What is it?"
"It's you, little girl," Arvisa sneered, hatred colouring her face. "You just gave me the perfect excuse to kill you and get away with it." With a flick of her wrist, the hag sent a firebolt sailing at Illia, who twisted out of the way and called icy light to her fingertips.
"Then we'll find out once and for all who the better caster is," Illia murmured to herself. For all that their relationship had been characterised by antagonism, the two had yet to actually fight; Arvisa knowing that Illia's age belied a talented spellcaster, her mother's daughter in truth, while Illia had been unwilling to bet against Arvisa's aggressiveness and experience. The road to Riften, bordered by grassland to the south and Lake Honrich to the north, provided no valuable cover to either combatant, making for an ideal dueling ground.
Two more firebolts sailed towards her, and Illia stepped to her right, keeping away from the lake, and returned a quick, sweeping stream of frost.
The Dunmer was older and probably magically stronger due to her age, which meant Illia would have to fight smart, and Frostbite, while weaker than her Ice Spikes and Arvisa's Firebolts, could hit a wider area in a quicker amount of time. Sure enough, Arvisa, expecting her to return fire with a projectile spell, found chilling cold creeping into her muscles. The hag stepped backwards, attempting to outdistance Illia's short-ranged Frostbite, and took the follow-up Ice Spike spell clean in the shoulder.
Howling in fury, Arvisa conjured a Flame Atronach, which glided forwards in defense of its master. Immediately, Illia was forced to duck a firebolt from the daedra, but took her opponent's follow-up high on the arm; her blue mage robes began to smolder as she called another stream of frost, aiming at her opponent's conjured minion, causing it to back away. With her other hand, she tossed an Ice Spike into the atronach's midsection, carefully sidestepping three more firebolts as she did so.
"Lie down and die," the Dunmer snarled; her hands flickered with brighter flames.
"I don't think so," Illia returned stonily as she flung an arm wide and summoned a minion of her own. A wolflike familar stepped into being a short distance away at an oblique angle, and immediately followed its master's mental orders to rush down the Dunmeri witch. Surprised, Arvisa's next spell flew slightly wide, and Illia stepped away from its projected path, registering the louder roar of the spell only too late.
The Fireball detonated three feet away, throwing her to the side. Immediately the witch staggered to her feet, returning a handful of Ice Spikes as she pulled herself upright. Some of the spells flew wide, but her opponent's Flame Atronach took two of the spells to what passed for its head, crumbling into ashes and vanishing into the mists of Oblivion.
Seizing upon the opportunity, Illia advanced at a staggering run, as Arvisa finally finished off her familiar with a firebolt. The hag conjured a second Atronach as she turned, only to find Illia right in her face, instead of at the medium distance normally favoured by spellcasters.
"Surprise," Illia hissed, plunging her dagger to its hilt into the other woman's neck – a fatal blow that could have been turned by even the weakest of mage armor spells, had Arvisa elected to call upon one instead of assuming that her opponent would rely exclusively on spells. The witch tore out her dagger with a spray of blood, and her opponent collapsed, gurgling, to the ground, as her newly-summoned Atronach winked out of existence.
"Stendarr's mercy," someone swore aloud from behind her, and Illia shrieked, clumsily dropping her glass dagger as she spun around on her heels, backpedaling a couple of steps.
Oh, by the gods. She spared a glance at Arvisa's now glassy-eyed corpse, still bleeding sluggishly from the neck, then looked back at the two travellers, a young man and woman in scaled armor, both armed, who had stumbled upon her murdering the hag in cold blood.
"I- I know this looks bad," she stammered, holding her hands up placatingly. "Let me explain!"
The man relaxed slightly, lowering his two swords a hair, but his companion remained on guard. "You killed her," she accused, leveling her sword at her and bringing her shield to bear.
"I didn't want to," she protested, only for the man to raise a single, disbelieving eyebrow as he twirled his sword flashily. "I didn't! Even if she had it coming."
"That doesn't really help your case," the woman said, and Illia winced.
"Then you are really not going to like the rest of what I have to say," she mumbled, and the man bit back a laugh, his posture relaxing completely, though he stopped short of sheathing his weapons.
"I like her," he smirked, and all Illia could think was that seems a bit premature and you don't even know what I've done and, more quietly, you shouldn't like someone like me. "So, if you didn't want to kill her," he continued in an accented voice, "why did you? Any relation to the rest of what you have to say?"
"Well, she attacked me," Illia answered evasively, not wanting to bring up the whole human sacrifice thing. "I couldn't stay. Told her I wanted to leave, see the world. She said that was a good excuse to kill me and get away with it. Skank," she muttered under her breath.
The other woman seemed satisfied at that, but the man's smirk had slipped off his face, and while his swords still hung by his sides, there was an undercurrent of tension in his body. Hurriedly Illia ran over what she had just said to them again in her mind, trying to pinpoint exactly what had set the man on edge.
"Couldn't stay," he said evenly. "Why not?"
Illia bit her lip, hesitating momentarily as she flipped through a variety of lies in her head. "I needed to return to my family," she answered.
"Before or after you saw the world?" The swordsman asked, and Illia froze.
"Good catch," his companion said, impressed.
"I was feeling stifled by the atmosphere," Illia tried again.
"You're still lying," the man said. "I've been working for merchants and traders all my life. I can tell. The truth, please."
Illia squeezed her eyes shut. "I- I couldn't be a part of it any more. I couldn't!" She cried, shivering, as the doubts that had been piling up in her head broke past the dam. "The things we were doing- evil, evil things. I didn't want to. I never wanted to!"
A short silence stretched, punctuated only by the witch's heavy breathing.
"Truth," the man finally said. "A part of what? What things?"
Mentally exhausted from the long morning and even longer night, Illia relented. "I'm from Darklight Tower," she said, her eyes still closed. "I'm a part of a coven serving the Hagravens there. I was a part. I guess I'm not, anymore."
The man and woman exchanged glances, clearly conflicted. "What do you think, Rune?" She asked.
The newly identified Rune frowned. "She sounds honest. If it were just that, I'd believe her story. But something's still off."
"What is it?" Illia asked, hoping to lay their fears to rest.
"You say you got into an argument, and she attacked to- stop you from leaving," Rune began. "So my question is, how did that happen here, in the middle of the southwest road, instead of back at your Tower, all the way over there?" He waved a hand in the general direction of where Illia had come from.
Illia promptly turned pale.
"Hey, you okay?" The still-unnamed woman asked, though she didn't lower her weapon.
Rune, the swordsman, seemed a little less concerned about her. "You're thinking of lying to us again, aren't you?"
"How'd you know?" Illia asked, perplexed. The swordsman merely raised an eyebrow, gesturing with his weapon to get on with it, and she sighed, gathering the ragged remains of her will.
"We were supposed to find a sacrifice," the witch admitted, swallowing her nerves and glancing away – dead body, look the other way, Arvisa's corpse was not what she needed to see right now. "Human sacrifice," she continued shakily, squeezing her eyes shut as words spilled from her lips. "I- I couldn't do it. I told her- no, I didn't tell her, I invented some excuse about exploring the world, and then she attacked since she never liked me, and I just defended myself. I've done horrible things, but I've never taken an innocent life! I couldn't just- find some person for them to kill, couldn't leave their families lost and confused and grieving for someone who never came home."
As the rush of words ceased, the witch deflated, sobbing quietly into her hands.
"She's still telling the truth, right?" The woman whispered to her companion, not quietly enough. Rune's response wasn't quite audible, but she continued, "Should we say something? What should we say?" Another inaudible whisper from Rune. The woman cleared her throat, saying brightly, "So, uh, why exactly did you need a human sacrifice?"
"Ria, no, that is the exact wrong thing to say," Rune hissed, rubbing his forehead with a pained expression.
"Well, next time you say something other than 'I don't know, change the subject'," the woman – Ria – hissed back.
"The Initiation ritual," Illia answered with a faraway look in her eyes, and their focus snapped back to the witch. "M- One of the witches is going to become one of those... things. A hagraven. She needs a sacrifice for the ritual. I... can't be a part of that. I can't. I just... I can't."
"See?" Ria whispered to Rune. "It worked." Rune didn't deign to reply.
Illia, however, wasn't paying any attention to them, as, unbidden, a familiar vision played before her eyes. Wayward Soren, probably travelling west from Riften and having the misfortune to stumble upon Darklight Tower. Begging for help, for mercy, as a malicious Dunmer witch stood above him, his eyes casting about the room in panic.
Only this time, Illia with the sorrow? regret? pity? in her eyes wasn't there, and he died alone. And died again. And again. And again, because Illia was too weak too absent too loving to stop it. Because leaving here, leaving now, was the exact same as looking blandly on as he died again because she couldn't stop her again didn't stop her again looked blandly on again-
"I can't," she repeated, steeling herself to voice the inevitable conclusion. "I... I can't run away from this, can I?"
"Wait, what?" Ria asked. Rune shushed her, but Illia answered anyway.
"From... this. From Darklight Tower. From what they're doing. I... I have to stop her. Stop them. This has to end." The witch carefully met the eyes of both Rune and Ria. "Listen... I'm going back to stop her. I'm not sure what brought you here, but you both look like you can fight. If you're willing... I could use some help."
Closing her eyes, Illia slowly, deliberately turned around, carefully ignoring the hushed discussion that took place behind her. She tried, but couldn't suppress the flinch as Rune and Ria stepped forwards to her unprotected back.
"You say it," Ria whispered.
"It was your idea!"
"Remember what happened last time you told me to say something?"
Rune sighed, then spoke aloud. "We'll help you."
Eyes wide, Illia turned to look at them. Rune's expression was a mix of resignation and careful thought, while Ria wore a reassuring smile. Involuntarily, Illia beamed, so radiantly that her cheeks hurt at the effort. Had she ever smiled so hard before? She couldn't remember.
"Thank you," the witch whispered. "My name's Illia. It's... good to have you at my back."
The two fighters exchanged an amused glance.
"I'm Ria," the woman offered.
"Rune," the man said. "Now, which way is the tower?"
author's notes:
So this is what I spent Camp Nano (July) writing. I did get a bit further into a chapter 2 before getting distracted by important family bonding time but I'm quite pleased with this chapter. The original plan was to expand it into a full-sized Skyrim story (you will notice that three characters were very carefully chosen to be a mage, a thief, and a Companion. How did a thief find himself travelling with a Companion? Handwavium. Actually I came up with a half-decent reason, but since it's probably never going to show up I'm just going to say Handwavium.) but upon some further consideration I think it works better as a oneshot. Maybe a second chapter where I expand to the tower itself. Any bigger than that and I start running into some trouble with treading familiar ground (after all, we've all played a lot of Skyrim).
There's some mood/tone whiplash near the end of the short, when the overtly sombre story suddenly starts drawing humour from bumbling/amusing dialogue and lines like dead body, look away. I could have cut it quite easily to keep the story's tone serious throughout, but after that pit of angst some humour was probably in order and this is sort of when Illia's life starts to turn around and look up anyway, so I elected to leave it in. That sort of kind-of-amusing-sitcom-dialogue joke is a little more reminiscent of my writing style anyway, so if the story did ever get expanded it would probably be more normal.
So you might be wondering who our PoV character is. Illia is a follower in the base Skyrim game; she's holed up in Darklight Tower southwest of Riften. I picked her up late in my first ever playthrough of the game; she is astonishingly competent for a follower, held back primarily by the fact that she's an Ice mage in Skyrim. It's not something that can't usually be solved by liberal application of Ice Storm. In that sense she is a little like Marcurio. Adept spells are really good in Skyrim and you can probably dump a Conjuration staff on her (Frost Atronach, for her icy theme) for great results.
Your initial meeting with Illia in Darklight Tower plays out more or less like I wrote it, substituting Rune and Ria for El Dragonborn - you walk into the tower, happen upon her murdering a hag in cold blood (but with an Ice Spike spell instead of a dagger), and then she starts making excuses to you (who has probably murdered a hundred hags by this point). For the most part the game presents her as a good soul born into a bad family whose naturally good nature has finally won out against her evil nurturing. One of my favourite lines in Skyrim is Illia's last one when you ask her to Follow you, she says, "I could also do some good for a change. Sure, I'd go with you." It's pretty touching. Or it felt it, when I first recruited her.
That said, if you've been in a Hagraven's coven for a while and your mother, probably your last family ever, is there and still loves you, something's got to have changed for you to turn your cloak. And I'm not 100% on board with the game's explanation of "I've never taken an innocent life and don't want to start" (half of the El Dragonborns are the absolute worst at this). She's already done horrible, horrible things, as she'll have told you immediately before that line about innocent life. And if you escalate slowly enough, people are more and more likely to follow along. There had to have been some kind of trigger, so I invented one. Because I'm a jerk, I pulled at Illia's one remaining heartstring - her mother, whom she loves and who loves her back. I'm not certain I did it justice, but it makes sense, I think, for the realization that this is wrong to come in a little more slowly.
Once you get that idea in your head that this is wrong, though, it's still just all too easy to close one eye, stick your head in the ground, and stand aside. Go to the College, study magic, write home, visit occasionally, and just pretend that your mother isn't murdering bunnies. And this is exactly what Illia intends to do. Right up until she's slapped in the face that half-assing it is the exact same ------- thing that she's been doing all her life. I like the idea of this, but in execution it maybe turned out a little clumsy.
Getting into a character's head like this is really challenging for me, though, so on the whole I'm pretty happy with the way this turned out. Also just a little sad that I'm being such a jerk to poor Illia. I do actually adore her, I swear.
Comments
Anyways, it's great to see some non-OC s... more