#//She can handle herself just fine; but he likes to preserve her innocence and fun by cleaning up every mess she makes for her; taking her

[dutybcrne]

Hsr!Klee is an Emanator of the Elation, a fact Kaeya, who took it upon himself to be the seemingly younger Fool’s guardian after first encountering and vouching for her before the Knights, is very jarred By, even after all the time he’s spent by her side.

[miserable-pile-of-lies]

The Sleeping Prince of Wallachia Ch. 2 (Full)

Here's the entirety of chapter two in all of its glory, I hope you guys enjoy the small lore that I created regarding Greta!

Summary: Wallachia is in great peril at the behest of Death himself; all those who have attempted to battle the creature have swiftly been executed and made an example of. The key to defeating the beast lies in Dracula's castle, located twenty odd miles out from a small village by the name of Danesti. In this village, the headwoman Greta must act quickly to save her people from the onslaught of attacks by night creatures and other ungodly minions who have sworn their loyalty to Death. Will she alone be able to stop Death or will she require additional aid to save her people and those in Wallachia?

Roasted walnuts indecorously bestrewed the forest floor, being tossed from a perch high above that stretched into the sky. Humming a cheerful tune that foretold the story of Queen Dido, a thirteen-year-old Greta smacked her lips obnoxiously as Marius attempted to scamper away from the branch they sat upon. The young girl hurled an emptied shell of a walnut into the air, given to her by the portly baker Grigore, a Wallachian native that had recently settled in Danesti to toil his goods.

“That isn’t how the founding story of Carthage goes, Queen Dido was bewitched by Cupid’s arrow,” a twelve-year-old Marius moaned wearily at his older friend who crossed her lanky arms unimpressed by the explanation. The Roman boy dug into the pouch that sat between him and his companion, uttering a cry when he felt a pinch twist the doughy skin of his love handles. Offering his finest glare, the adolescent lobbed a walnut at the lass who only ducked backwards in response to the sneak attack with a snigger.

“That cannot be, Prince Aeneas deceptively seduced our founding mother with sweet words only to leave her high and dry in the pursuit of his journey, ultimately courting Princess Lavinia of Italy,” Greta bit out with a scowl as she described the cowardly philanderer that covertly escaped into the night when leaving Carthage at the command of Jupiter. Prince Aeneas went on to become the founding father of Rome, previously recognized as the city of Lavinium when the metropolis was founded by his followers to honor their queen.

Marius merely shrugged at the latter details relayed by Greta, knowing how the rest of the myth went. Queen Dido, in a fitful rage, committed suicide out of spite at the abandonment of Aeneas and sparked the Punic Wars that led to the annexation of Carthage. Presently, both civilizations were relics of the past and the descendants of Aeneas and Dido had long forgotten about the dissension that divided the two to begin with.

“Who cares about any of that, it’s all ancient history anyway; more importantly we should talk about Faiza,” Marius clucked out with a cheeky grin as Greta’s face promptly flushed at the mention of the girl who currently held her affections.

Nimble fingers tapped bashfully against the coarse bark of the tree as she thought of the remarkable Moroccan beauty, two years her senior with an unmatched intellect that could not be found elsewhere in the village. Clearing her throat with a thunderous cough that echoed amongst the thicket of trees, thick chestnut brows quirked up to implore Marius to continue his line of questioning.

Sighing heavily in exasperation, the young man reached across to tug at his closest playmate’s cheek, earning an appalled yelp in reply.

“You vexing little runt, what was that for,” Greta demanded with a scoff, lightly slapping the terracotta toned hand away as Marius held his rib from chuckling harshly at Greta’s indignation. Thoroughly riled by the taunts, the daughter of the headman gracefully descended from the tree, stirring up the emerald leaves that laid in the low grass below. Lips curved upward at the sound of an astonished choke, knowing that Marius would take much longer to get down than Greta.

Leaves crunched in protest, alarming the teenager, who speedily pulled out her short sword to defend both herself and Marius from a potential assailant. Pale green eyes squinted in concentration, rising from the thick branch he sat upon. Marius tactically retrieved his elm bow and arrow to target the source of the commotion hidden by the overgrown shrubbery. Palms were presented in a mock defense manner and soon both sword and bow were lowered without further inquiry; the newcomer was a fellow inhabitant of Danesti who went by the name of Felix. The scrawny queer man looked affright when he saw their weapons drawn, shaking like a white flag in the wind signaling a surrender from a defeated camp of soldiers.

“Greta and Marius, I’ve come to retrieve you both on behalf of Tobias, he says that your mother is nearing the end of labor,” Felix squawked out nervously forcing his hands to his sides while tipping the crooked point of his jaw in the air, an attempt to reinforce his position as an elder among the children who innocently snickered at the poor fellow.

Tobias was the current headman of Danesti, father of Greta and husband of Iman, patiently awaiting the arrival of his second child with the rest of the men in the village. As per custom, Iman was currently being attended by several midwives and parish priests recruited from the capital of Târgoviște; a far journey that took the travelers weeks to make it to the settlement in time for the birth.

The leader of the village had forfeited several family heirlooms to afford the care needed for Iman and adequately compensated those assisting in the birth. Childbirth was an unforgiving ordeal; one could never be too safe to preserve the life of both mother and child even with the aid of experts.

Honeyed eyes crinkled in joy; the youth absolutely thrilled that she would finally meet her younger sibling. The young girl had been praying that it would be a boy so that her father could be at peace and have a successor that would eventually inherit the role of headman. If that occurred, her father would stop stifling her fun with Marius and the other village children, forcing her to sit through tedious meetings with the village council about the daily state of affairs in their community.

Regardless of the gender of the newborn, Greta promised her mother that she would look out for her younger sibling and her mother beamed from ear to ear while affectionately carding her rich brown hands through her daughter’s silken hair. Often wrapped in colorful linens covering her form and adorned with intricately knotted scarves, her mother dressed in the traditional garb that was expected of women hailing from Somalia, a resource rich country found in East Africa. Though it was rare to see out in the open, Greta adored seeing her mother braid her kinky curly hair into the fine thin rows of braids decorated by glassy beads and golden hair cuffs imported from North African traders passing through the area to sell their finery.

The relationship between Tobias and Iman was an anomaly to all onlookers based on the traits of the two; Tobias was a brash man who had no filter and the shortest temper that could set off at a moment’s notice while Iman was quiet spoken yet assertive in her demands, effortlessly carrying herself like a member of royalty. Additionally, Tobias carried the wide frame of a brutish bull, but he was slightly below average in stature while Iman towered over her husband with long slim legs and a slender frame hidden by her garments.

“We need to hurry, I don’t want to miss the birth of my baby brother,” Greta complained impatiently while Marius climbed his way down the birch tree with cautious steps, ensuring that his footing was secured along the way.

“You keep saying that you will have a brother, but how can you be so confident,” the boy queried warily with a suspicious glance, unconvinced that intuition alone could predict such a momentous event. Landing upon the ground, the youngster hollered upon Greta roughly grabbing and shaking him by the shoulders in frustration. Hoping that Felix would lend a helping hand against the rambunctious girl, Marius silently implored the middle-aged man to intervene and separate the two.

“You sound so skeptical my dear Marius, you should know that I’m quite clever when it comes to these matters,” Greta pledged eagerly, forcibly disconnected from the lad by an already fatigued Felix. The old man wished to return to the village before the three lost daylight and encountered the mischievous spirits of the forest.

“Enough out of you two, come along now,” the farmer churned out with difficulty, feeling hoarse at the thought of the journey back to the township.

Nose scrunched with a harrumph, Greta filed behind Felix with a small pout and Marius walked beside her feeling a small pang of jealousy. His friend had spent a great deal of time boasting about the new arrival of her sibling that he could not help the thorns of envy that pierced the entirety of his being. Thick as thieves, just about everyone in the colony had known how close the two were, rarely seen without one another. With the arrival of a newborn, Greta’s responsibilities and chores would increase tremendously as her mother recovered over the span of the next two months.

What if we grow apart Marius mused gloomily, instantly prickled with guilt at the selfishness of his thoughts but was shaken out of his stupor when he felt a hand roughly the same size as his own. Jade orbs welled up with teardrops as a thumb brush against his palm and he gripped the hand back in silence.

“What are you thinking about,” Greta murmured with great care; a tone rarely used in their conversations due to the spitfire personality that defined the young maiden.

Brushing away the tears in his eyes with his available hand, Marius contemplated how much he would be able to disclose without feeling entirely embarrassed by the pettiness of his emotions. Initially shrugging his shoulders in deference, his ample cheeks burned in shame as he slowly treaded along the path hand in hand with Greta.

“Promise not to laugh,” the boy pleaded with a defeated look, not being able to make eye contact with Greta who openly stared at him with such unease. Taking a deep breath in, the young girl released her hand from Marius and grabbed her friend’s knobby shoulders with an intense hawk-like gaze.

“I swear upon our friendship that I will not laugh, nor will I reveal the contents of this discussion to any soul,” she assured with a heavy sense of conviction, unconditional love filling her freesia eyes. Lips parted in mirth from the sheer honesty of his friend, a chuckle threatening to bubble up from his throat at his own foolishness.

“Can you promise that we’ll always remain friends,” Marius entreated faintly, inspecting the approaching dusk of the sky that precariously peeked through the treetops.

Although dumbfounded at the soft plea, Greta did not dither in responding to the vulnerable request, “Even if we were friends for an eternity, it still wouldn’t be enough time together.”

A wave of warmth washed over Marius at the declaration, assuaged by Greta’s consideration of his intrusive thoughts. Playfully knocking his shoulder into her own, the childhood friends smiled at one another, before redirecting their attention to the approaching sight of their settlement.

The trio slowly came to a stop at the barricade that was currently bolted shut from potential new arrivals in the village; Felix hesitantly craned his willowy neck upwards to see who stood guard at the top of its walls. Sure enough, a stout man roughly in his late thirties beamed at the sight of the three, quickly retrieving the bast rope to lower the door of the enormous, antiquated gatehouse. Squeaking in protest, the barricade slowly opened to the three, dust settling in the air upon impact. Without further notice, Marius and Greta speedily dashed across the oak wood of the gate while Felix’s knees trembled from exertion as he slowly limped into the community.

“Didn’t think the three of you would make it in time,” Luigi snorted cheekily, teetering towards the post to relatch the gate on the headman’s orders. Shortly after, the hefty man climbed down the shifty ladder that squeaked every step of the way before reaching the ground to properly greet the triad.

“If these two hadn’t been gallivanting about in the forest, we could have been back much sooner,” Felix complained rubbing his sore shoulders. Holding his rounded stomach while unleashing a booming guffaw, Luigi playfully shook his balding head at the mention of Marius and Greta’s predictable antics. The adolescents wordlessly exchanged a sour look before politely excusing themselves from the drawn-out discussion between the two chatty adults.

Heading towards her family’s residence, Greta and Marius spotted almost every villager crowded outside of the gate of her ancestral home. The gate was carved with several strokes belonging to the Punic alphabet and astrological formations that foretold the perilous journey of her forefathers.

Standing at the forefront of the assemblage, Tobias paced back and forth worriedly awaiting the nursing aides who instructed him to stay outside until the birthing ritual was completed. The sound of a woman wailing reverberated within the family home and Tobias wished for nothing more than to be by his wife’s side. A sizeable number of villagers swaddled their leader in support, all holding celebratory gifts to offer protection against any harm that may come to Iman or the arriving infant.

Lengthy, partially braided chestnut tresses fell past sun kissed broad shoulders; the headman possessed a striking profile that was disrupted by the prestigious wide hook of a nose displaying his Carthaginian roots. The warrior’s features were that of a handsome hero residing in an epic poem, his Herculean body cladded in his finest olive tunic befitting the occasion. Despite Greta clearly resembling her mother far more, both father and daughter shared the same honeyed gaze that resembled the jewel tones of amber.

The entire village of Danesti recognized the headman and his wife as the most handsome couple in the village, both easy on the eyes and charming in their own way. However, the couple had eyes for no one else; the village leader was completely smitten and dedicated his every waking moment to Iman while Iman could not see another man loving her the way Tobias did. Tobias claimed that he fell for Iman from the moment that he had laid his eyes on her, formally the daughter of a Somali livestock peddler who regularly passed through Danesti on route to the numerous towns in Wallachia.

Whenever Greta asked about the tryst, the older villagers professed that no one had silenced Tobias in quite the same manner that Iman did upon their initial meeting, the headman completely bewitched by her stunning beauty and graceful manner. Falling to his knees shamelessly, the newly appointed leader of Danesti begged for Iman to allow him to worship her for the rest of his days and Iman accepted the shocking proposal with a shy smile. Despite the two reciprocating feelings for one another, her father Assad was completely against the courtship as he had plans to marry Iman off to a thriving merchant who lusted after his eldest daughter.

In the end, Tobias challenged Assad in a physical brawl for the hand of Iman and the rest was history. The two wasted no time in conceiving a child within the first year of their engagement, naming Greta after the precious gem that adorned the ring Tobias gave to his wife, formerly worn by his late mother who died in the aftermath of his own birth.

Bushy brows seemed to cement into a permanent pinch, clearly distressed until he heard a familiar voice.

“Father, how is mother doing,” Greta questioned tensely, pushing through the crowd while Marius was herded in by his folks despite the boy’s protests.

Exhaling with a frightful glower, Tobias channeled his anxiety into outrage at the late arrival of his daughter, “Have you had your fill of prancing off with Marius?” Ears ablaze in mortification at the scrutiny of the villagers who went silent at the confrontation, the young girl stopped a few feet shy of her father.

“I needed to go somewhere quiet to complete my gift for mother,” Greta confessed weakly, digging into the goatskin satchel slung across the finely threaded olive tunic that mirrored the one that her father donned. Carefully, her uncertain fingers produced a small carved sculpture of a woman holding an infant while shameful tears muddled her vision. The craftsmanship of the small carving was remarkable, the creation a labor of love worked on by Greta and Marius over the period of a fortnight.

Rumpled brows sheepishly slackened at the admission, knowing that if Iman had been present, she would be livid with her husband’s arbitrary treatment of their daughter. Hesitantly, the headman closed the distance between himself and Greta who stubbornly withheld her tears as he approached.

Lifting the corner of his mouth minutely, the gruff man reached out and gingerly carded his chunky fingers through the beautiful chestnut hair of his daughter, not one for sentimentality or overt displays of affection in front of others. Peeking from beneath the reach of her father’s labor-thickened hands, Greta gathered the courage to blow a raspberry in retaliation. The sound of laughter erupted amongst the crowd of villagers, thankful that the situation had not escalated any further. The tense line of Tobias’ mouth relaxed for the first time all day; a small smile coaxed from the outrageousness of his adorable daughter.

Seemingly out of nowhere, the door of the cruck home belonging to Tobias and Iman flung open. In the doorway of the home stood the principal midwife, looking to Tobias with a weighted gaze that forebode tragedy. All went quiet in shock, the exultant air of the villagers immediately vanishing in fear of what would come next.

Face crumbling in misery at what lied ahead, Tobias sucked in his plump lower lip, approaching the doorway of his home with solemn steps. Before fully making it over the threshold, the headman threw a backwards glance at his daughter whose eyes carried a sorrow that was beyond her years.

“Restrain your grief,” Tobias uttered cautiously, directing a grim expression to Greta before entering his home. Marching past the chaste kitchen of his abode, the man followed closely behind the midwife who remained quiet as a mouse before arriving at the door of the room that had been prepared for the birth. Closing his freesia eyes with a silent prayer, he opened the door and his husky body crumbled to the ground.

His beautiful wife had never been so pale, the rich brownness of her skin ashen from the exertion of labor and her mouth ajar as she wheezed harshly. Her lithe form sagged uncomfortably on the birthing stool that she sat upon. The maternity gown cloaking her frail form was drenched in excess blood from the pelvis down, the essence of life puttering silently onto the floorboards of the room. The secondary midwives turned their remorseful glances upon the speechless headman who saw the swaddled form of his stillborn son, laying in the woven basket of his crib perpetually silent, never to awaken from his eternal slumber.

“Where is our boy Tobias, they refuse to let me hold him,” Iman churned out deliriously, blearily making out her husband who still sat in the doorway. With great difficulty, the thirty-five-year-old rose to his feet, ambling towards his wife who reached out her hand in search of her beloved. Arriving at her side, he pressed his lips to the clammy forehead of his wife who shook like a leaf in his embrace. Shushing his wife with a gentleness that only she inspired, Tobias softly asked Iman to rest despite her repeated question. Eventually, she dozed off from the sheer pain of her loss and the weakness of her body while Tobias held her fragile hand to his cheek.

“There is something I must tell you,” the central midwife addressed miserably, knowing that what she was about to disclose would break the man before her beyond repair. Heartbroken from the loss of his ill-fated son, Tobias shook his head refusing to part from his spouse.

“No more, not now,” the warrior beseeched quietly, incessant tears drenching his face, looking down at his doomed wife; the village leader had spent enough time entrenched in death to know the telltale signs. Even in her sleep, Iman breathed with difficulty and her body was soaked with cold sweat from the feverish trot of impending death.

Nodding with a heavy heart, the midwife stepped out of the room with her aides, giving the couple their much-needed privacy with the promise of addressing the village in place of the grief-stricken man.

Setting foot into the dusk of the evening, the middle-aged woman was immediately met by the mob of villagers who had not breathed a word since the departure of their leader. Hands were gravely clasped in prayer with heads bowed, hoping that at least one of the poor souls had survived the traumatic birth. The daughter of the village leader looked at the midwife with lifeless eyes, slowly stepping forward with clenched fists, nails digging violently into the skin of her palms.

“Where are my parents,” the minor queried weakly; she looked nothing like the spirited girl that danced gleefully at the arrival of the midwife with her aides. Lip trembling, the adolescent brushed past the midwife with an anguished cry, marching into her household completely distraught. Marius observed his friend from afar, feeling the pit of his stomach drop into the deepest depths, wishing that he could provide an iota of comfort. Nothing he said would erase the sorrow that would forever mark this day; he could only hope that Greta would find the courage to smile again one day as tears ran down his face.

Spiraling into complete panic, Greta made her way through the simple structure of her home, wiping her tears with the sleeve of the cotton blouse her mother had just laundered a few days ago. Arriving at the door where her parents were surely behind, her face flittered between dread and hysteria. Intaking a deep breath, she pushed the door open silently and an ear-shattering scream reached the villagers who all mournfully turned to embrace their own families. The village men removed their hats out of respect while the women held their children close to their breast, some too young to understand what was going on.

Tobias abruptly removed himself from his wife who was still barely holding on at the sound of his daughter’s screech, silently standing up with his back facing Greta. Nose flaring irritably, ire scathed his irises when he looked at his daughter who was amid a panic attack. Chest heaving up and down in apprehension, the child convulsed as an ugly cry cut through the silence of the room, not knowing whether to stare at her condemned mother or brother.

Tears still lingering in his eyes, Tobias savagely stomped across the room, standing before his firstborn without penitence.

“Straighten up now daughter of mine, you need to grow up,” he shouted venomously, grabbing the girl roughly by her slightly too large tunic to ground himself. Blunt teeth bared wickedly for all to see, the chieftain burrowed his daughter against his strong chest with silent tears, words at odds with his current actions.

Nothing reached Greta who continued to wail, the strength in her knees disappearing entirely as she slid to the floor, her father silently sinking with her. Thick snot and tears ran amuck, her breathing clearly affected by her frenzied state while a hand gently rubbed her back. The edges of her vision blackened as she fainted; Greta vaguely recalled her father raving like a mad man in his native tongue, sobbing harshly as he brought his beloved child firmly into the embrace of his burly arms. It would be the first and last time the future head woman would see the resilient man brought to tears, the love of his life stealing them away permanently with her unexpected departure.

_____________________________________________________________________________

I have lost my other brother Greta thought ardently, turning the statement over and over in her head a million times, wondering when the immediate grief of Marius passing would slither away. Presently, her muddied sleeves were rolled up to her elbows as she gathered the remains of the corpses strewn about her village. Dismembered bodies were carefully laid on thick tarps customarily used to protect the produce cultivated by the farmers of Danesti. One thing was certain after last night’s invasion; the village of Danesti had fallen and it had occurred under Greta’s charge.

Invisible unrelenting fingers pointed at her in a silent accusation, calling for her execution and demanding that the head woman be replaced by a more capable hand. Loading up a wooden cart with rows of bundled corpses, amber eyes sorrowfully looked onto the Earth that bled her people dry in this latest attack. Less than forty percent of the inhabitants of Danesti and those belonging to other nearby villages survived, many children becoming orphans while the women were widowed in the aftermath of their closest victory against the night hordes.

Humiliated by the string of her latest failures, the village leader could not bring herself to thoroughly engage with anyone. If a villager approached her for further instructions regarding their task, she cowardly evaded eye contact, automatically generating an appropriate response. Despite the fatigue eating away at her strength, Greta refused to stop busying herself with the innumerous number of tasks before her. Very few members of the village council had survived, leaving her with an excessive workload to keep her out of her thoughts for a decent stretch of time.

If the previous headman could see her now, he would probably double over in shame from beyond the grave, wondering why his daughter failed the colony given all that he had taught her. In his last days, Tobias constantly reassured Greta of her position as next in line for the leadership of the village, silencing anyone who stood in opposition of her inheriting the role.

“Only you have the abilities to lead Danesti beyond its current splendor,” Tobias affirmed maniacally before he passed from a broken heart, his health steadily declining over the years, leaving a depressed and scared eighteen-year-old Greta to pick up the pieces of his ambitions.

Watching her once indestructible father devolve into a mass of sinewy muscles on his deathbed emotionally ravaged Greta. However, she could not afford to mourn for months like she did with her mother and baby brother, for the sake of the villagers now depending on her counsel. Burying her emotions deep in her breast, Greta only divested her authentic emotional state to Marius in moments of deep insecurity. The young woman feigned abundant confidence in the presence of her people, strategically dispatching a witty remark here and there at anyone who dared to challenge her position of power.

With the hammer of Tobias, Greta led a new age of prosperity in Danesti over the next four years; encouraging the expansion of the village as well as carefully managing the resources to supply the newcomers settling in the community. Branches of commerce grew as well, the wardress carefully researching the highly sought goods of Wallachians nearby to encourage her people to communicate with others from their native countries for trading purposes, utilizing the diversity of her community.

Slowly beginning to recover from her past traumas, a cruel God deemed that it was time to awaken Greta from her dreams of a brighter future, Wallachians region wide receiving a wave of brutal attacks by the night hordes. Death was an inevitable foe that she knew she would never be able to completely curb, stealing her villagers every now and then due to tragic accidents or old age. What she was facing now was entirely different; mass graves were being dug due to the surplus of carcasses that cluttered the lands, because there were not enough hands available to dig individual graves.

Snapping out of her thoughts, she looked to her bounded shoulder to find a tanned hand planted there, meeting the eyes of the Speaker who saved her life the previous night. Once again, finding heavy worriment in those cerulean-blue orbs, the young heroine found herself almost cursing the woman for rescuing her and Marius in that instance. At least if she died then, it would have been at the side of her dearest friend whom she considered to be the last member of her long-gone family.

“We need to talk,” the ginger-haired woman whispered gently, seeing the vacancy and pain that traversed the head woman. Stopping her task at the bidding of an invisible force from the ether, Greta allowed herself to be led away from her people who stared at their leader sympathetically.

What the fuck am I doing the hammer-wielding warrior questioned, chewing her lower lip aggressively while darting her eyes to the back of the Speaker’s fiery strands that bounced at the beating of the morning wind. Finally, the two ceased further movement upon arriving at a patch of undisturbed land that had not been scorched. The unknown woman turned to Greta with the irritated twitch of her nose, the stench of smoke still filling the air long after the Speakers had put out the flames.

“My name is Sypha Belnades, I’m the granddaughter of the Elder Speaker that leads this particular caravan,” Sypha extended politely, introducing herself with a small bow out of respect for the chief ruler of the village. The young mage happened upon Greta shortly after the night hordes fled from the assault on Danesti, feeling an unconscious link form between the two at the vulnerability that the young leader displayed for her people. Tears of empathy sprouted at the sight of Greta sprawled over the newly deceased Marius, knowing the importance of bonds and how easily a community could translate into the bonds of family.

Nodding in acknowledgment, Greta bowed as well with a forced smile, “I’m Greta of Danesti, daughter of the deceased Tobias and Iman,” responded punctually before allowing the sorcerer to continue her train of thought.

Clearing her throat in discomfort, Sypha attempted to regain her footing in the exchange, finding it difficult to formulate her thoughts amid the tragedy that she had witnessed firsthand.

“Our chapter of Speakers have spent the last couple of weeks traveling throughout the region of Wallachia, striving to put an end to the massacres that have swallowed up these lands,” Sypha started with an explanation, recounting the horrors that she had seen in her travels with a dire countenance, clearly bothered by the amount of death she had seen in the last two months. Unspeakable calamities had been dealt out without reasoning, leaving the group of Speakers at a loss in how they should advance and lend aid.

Unsubstantiated rumors circulated around the fabled entity known as Death personally commanding the army of night creatures; however, accounts from the commonfolk reported several different descriptors identifying the mystic general behind the current campaign of genocide. Some said that the commander of the army was a cloaked young woman with dark skin possessing unsettling hues that glowed, while others detailed an older male vampire who lacked the expected regalia of his kind.

“Currently we are at a disadvantage, my caravan alone cannot provide the support desperately needed across Wallachia,” Sypha confessed uneasily, rubbing her chilly fingers together to ward off the unforgiving chill that the morning air brought.

Pinched by the unyielding sense of compassion instilled by her late mother, Greta straightened her undignified form with a newfound purpose. No matter how lost she may have felt, the headwoman could not idly stand by while innocent people were slaughtered without just cause. Brown slim fingers extended out and clasped Sypha’s shoulder with certainty at what would come next, her amber eyes lighting up reinvigorated at the unspoken pledge of defending her remaining charges.

“What can I do to help,” the young warrior inquired with haste, not realizing that this exact moment would turn the tides in saving Wallachia and spark the ensuing chronicles that celebrated the legendary heroine and her fellow comrades made along the way.

[thecagedsong]

Forgotten Light: Chapter 7: Preparations

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11

Chapter 7: Preparation

Agad came in over breakfast.

“Agad, welcome to my home,” Seth said, taking a long drink of milk. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, “Have a seat. What have you got on Kendra?”

Agad looked more tired than Seth had ever seen him, and let Seth’s joke go flat. He sat down and the six-armed woman that worked in the kitchen put a plate of oatmeal out for him. “Thank you, Simrin,” Agad said. “I have some news, not much of it good. I was able to track the goblins that stole the barrel, they were hiding in Goblin town.”

“Sounds like a fun place,” Seth said.

“You would probably enjoy it,” Agad said, bowing his head, “Just make sure not to lose your eye, or your tooth. It’s in Nevada, not a proper preserve, no caretaker. But they keep to themselves and have general distractor spells, so everyone leaves it alone. I found Slaggo there.”

“Long trip for a goblin on the run.”

“The Sphinx probably helped him, and a wizard named Vernaz. I thought she was an ally and gave Mendigo’s materials to her to be reconstructed. She was good at laying enchantments, much better than me. Her other talent is teleportation, and could have easily helped Slaggo leave Fablehaven with the barrel. I’m positive the barrel made it to the Sphinx.”

Seth finished his last bite of oatmeal, “Then we’re sure that the Sphinx and Ronodin are working together. That sucks, one of them is bad enough.”

Agad massaged his forehead, “I fear it was a mistake to make the Sphinx an Eternal. It will certainly keep the new demon prison closed from him, but I underestimated how cunning he is, even with his Shadow Charmer powers diminished.”

“What did you do to him?” Seth asked.

Agad shrugged, “Not enough apparently. He can’t hear the undead anymore, but we couldn’t dampen much else without killing him. He can put out fires, undo locks, shadow walk. That’s apparently enough to strike against us.”

“The Sphinx had this huge rant about refusing to be a captive,” Seth said, “We should have paid more attention to it. There was no way he was ever going to live by someone else’s say so. Remember, you gave all of us the call, we’re all to blame.”

“Yes, the long life seemed the greatest weakness to the mortal locks,” Agad replied, “It made sense at the time to have at least one person who would not feel that burden, but you are right. He firmly believed in his own rhetoric, and not acknowledging that was a mistake. Both the Sphinx and Vernaz have slipped away. Vanessa is going to be insufferable, and I am going to deserve every minute.”

Seth gave a joyless laugh, “Plenty of mistakes to go around. If the Sphinx happens to die, will that open the new prison? Asking for a friend.”

“No, the prison will remain closed,” Agad said, finally a little amused, “I do not think you would be able to let him die, and that’s fine. But if he happens to die, there are enough already constructed locks in place that the demons of Zzyzx will remain sealed. If the Sphinx comes under your power, save him because you are good, or do not save him because he has harmed those you love and will continue to do so for his own benefit. Do not worry about Zzyzx.”

“Noted,” Seth said. Agad finished breakfast and Seth led him to the War Room.

“I also examined the barrel here,” Agad explained as they walked, “The other half appears to be deep underwater.”

“Why would they do that?” Seth asked. “Did anyone touch the letter we left?”

“Your letter remains in place. An interesting response, and I see only advantages in it. The letter remains physically here, my only recommendation is to make it waterproof so when they pull the barrel up and remove the letter, it doesn’t get ruined by surrounding water. Which answers your other question. They didn’t destroy the barrel, which means they likely intend to use it again.”

“Can you find it?” Seth hoped. “Even a general location would help narrow down the search.”

Agad was already shaking his head, “It’s too deep, and somewhere protected. I can’t get a read on it aside from the fact that it is deep enough that the pressure would kill a human.”

“Great,” Seth said, running a hand through his hair. They approached the War Room, and Seth sat down with Agad across from him. Grandma and Grandpa were already there, and rushed to greet Agad. They updated him on Tess running around the preserve with the Cloak of innocence. Agad gave them the same information about Kendra.

“Any other leads?” Seth asked when everyone was caught up.

“Not quite,” Agad said, “I was unable to gain contact with the Fairy Queen, so we are waiting to see if her connection to Kendra remains strong. No further leads on Bracken either. The only good news I have is that Warren and Vanessa managed to help the caretaker regain a foothold of the Crescent Lagoon sanctuary.”

“I have Bracken’s horn,” Seth said, blinking. He was glad that his friends had some success, but they were okay, Bracken was not. He pulled it out of his emergency kit, “Kendra gave it to me before she lost her memory, along with the medallion and a bunch of information she was keeping to herself.”

“Bracken did say that he had re-established full connection with his horn,” Agad said, “May I see it?”

Seth nodded and offered it to the wizard. Everyone was silent as Agad’s brow pinched in concentration.

“The connection is weak, it feels as though he is under water. No, underground and under water,” Agad said, snowy eyebrows rising, “I would not have been able to tell had I not recently examined the barrel, but working around the water, earth and darkness, I can sense that he is not currently in pain. He seems…bored. He can’t sense me on this side of the connection. But…I would venture to say, he’s at approximately the same depth as the barrel. Within a couple hundred feet of each other.”

“Good,” Grandma said, “Ronodin is handling everything from a master base. There is a good chance Kendra is near them as well. Can you tell Bracken anything about Kendra being near him?”

Agad concentrated, then shook his head, letting out a shaky breath and lowering the horn. “At most, I might be able to push his subconscious thoughts in a certain direction. But I’m positive thoughts about Kendra already haunt him. His last prison ended with her after all.”

Uggh, of all the times to be a lovesick dummy. “Ronodin wants the horn,” Seth said, “That’s what Kendra told me, and I think he tried to get her to give it to him at the Dragon feast.”

“I shudder to think of why he wants it,” Agad said, then offered it back to Seth. “If he wants it badly enough, he’ll find whoever has it. He will likely be more willing to deal with you, knowing how much you want Kendra back. He will also suspect that you have it if Kendra does not. If he contacts you, use your judgement, rely on your grandparents and allies, contact me, and do not endanger the world.”

Seth took it and nodded, placing it back in his adventure kit, silently thanking Agad for placing the lead back in his hands. He would have thanked him out loud, but didn’t want Agad to rethink the choice.

There was a knock on the door, and Knox opened it, letting Tess fall through. “Seth! Seth! I saw the nice dragon! It was so huge!”

Nice dragon? Oh, she left with Eve and they went to see Dromadus. That’s okay then.

“Tess made it back,” Knox said, following her. Patton Burgess’s stingbulb shut the door behind them.

“We took turns flying the winged mounts and walking along the road, over all a very short trip,” Patton said, taking a seat next to Seth. “We heard about Kendra losing her memory. I’m so sorry.”

Patton offered his arms for a hug, and Seth took it, squeezing tightly.

Patton smiled and patted Seth on the back, returning the hug. “Don’t get too attached, I only have a day left.”

Seth released him, “I know,” Seth said, “But I’m glad you’re here while you are. Kendra was kidnapped by Ronodin and the Sphinx working together, and we’ll take any help you can give.”

“Hey, I deserve a hug too,” Doren protested, and both he and Newel tackled Seth in hug, ruffling his hair, before settling back like nothing had happened.

They went through yet another round of catch-up, as Tess squeezed herself in between Knox and Seth, fairly bouncing while waiting to tell her story.

“Tess, this is serious,” Knox scolded, “Kendra’s in a lot of trouble.”

“I know,” Tess said, holding still, “But the fairies at Fablehaven told me all about Bracken and Kendra. Bracken is like, this super cool fairy prince who likes Kendra and totally saves her all the time. And Kendra has a bunch of wicked cool powers from the Fairy Queen, they’re going to be okay until you and Seth rescue them, if they don’t rescue themselves.”

Not how Seth would describe them, Kendra spent a lot more time saving Bracken than the other way around, far as he knew. He was surprised that the Fablehaven fairies were that nice about Kendra though. He wasn’t the only one.

“The fairies said that?” Grandpa asked.

“Well, they said Bracken pitied her, not that he liked her,” Tess admitted, “but that’s what girls always say when the cool boy likes someone else. And they said that the Fairy Queen gives Kendra powers to do stuff for her, and the Fairy Queen is the most powerful person ever. So everything is going to be okay. Really, we need to worry about us.”

Attention snapped to Tess like a guitar string.

“The Dragons are planning to attack us. Tonight! Dromadus doesn’t know how, but he heard them acting like they already won,” Tess explained. “I was supposed to tell Seth. Oh! And don’t tell anyone who told us about the dragons, that’s a secret.”

“Tess,” Knox said slowly, “That’s the kind of thing you say right away.”

“But it’s rude to interrupt people,” she said, confused.

Seth stood up, and he saw Grandpa raise his eyebrows in surprise. Why was he surprised? This was Seth’s job, after all, for a little while longer anyway.

“Okay Agad, welcome to the next round,” Seth said, “Did you check the magical defenses? How are they holding?”

Agad shared an amused look with Grandpa, who just nodded. “I did. The protections seem more secure than ever, even more than when I was caretaker here.”

“The Dragons are certain of victory, but will be unable to mount a frontal assault,” Grandma mused.

“Is Celebrant being hasty?” Patton asked, “From what I understand, dragons with losing streaks don’t stay king for long.”

“Perhaps Dromadus is toying with us,” Marat offered, “His help is rather unexpected.”

“I don’t think Dromadus would do that,” Seth said, “When Kendra and I met him, he seemed kind of like the Fair Folk. Didn’t want the sanctuary to fall, but not gonna do anything about it. And if he isn’t right, and the dragons don’t attack, there’s nothing to gain. If he lied, we wont trust him in the future.”

Marat tilted his head, acknowledging Seth’s statement.

“Anything is possible,” Agad said, “It could be that Dromadus is working with Celebrant, and they are hoping to find a weakness as we scramble to cover ourselves.”

“We have to treat it like a real threat,” Seth decided. “Whatever we show, it can’t be worse than them coming after us when we are unprepared. Possible weaknesses?”

“We should go over our magical defenses one more time,” Marat suggested, “Review the treaty and see if there is anything we missed. It is possible we have a traitor in our midst that will grant them access.”

Unfortunate, but true. He hoped they had been careful enough, though he hadn’t been around much to make a good guess himself.

“What about the barrel?” Knox asked. “We know where that is now, right? Could that be the weakness?”

Agad frowned, “It feels out of character for Celebrant to brag of a victory achieved by allies on the other side of the barrel, but we should not discount it. It is currently the greatest hole in our defense.”

Something about what Knox said bothered Seth. They know where it is now. They weren’t dealing with the Sphinx, but they kind of were. What had the Sphinx done in the past while they thought they were safe? And what was it about Knox’s statement that bothered him?

There wasn’t the textbook method: create a problem, send a friend to help, friend is a traitor. This was a different tactic. The Sphinx liked to stay one step ahead, control the board from both sides, and make threats to force you into action when you’d really just like to sit on your winning streak. Seth thought about the stories he had shared with Knox. Sometimes he planted a traitor, and sometimes the Sphinx sent invisible assassins after you because he already knew where you were going to be. Sometimes he let demon dragons out of their prisons when you weren’t looking.

“Guys,” Seth said, a sick feeling in his stomach, “Hey,” he stopped Marat and Agad in the middle of their discussion about magical defenses. “Bad thought. Someone was controlling Mendigo way before when the barrel was first stolen, right? Probably Ronodin, since he’s been hanging around the preserve and making deals with the Dragons. We thought the person left with the barrel, but it was in the basement the whole time.”

He waited for someone to deny what he was hinting at.

“Ah,” Grandpa Sorenson said, “I see. Between the time the barrel was lost and found, both sides of the barrel were out of our control, and Mendigo was available on our side to assist a sleeper agent.”

Grandma, Tanu, and Agad all looked like they were about to throw up.

“What are you saying?” Knox asked.

“Seth is suggesting the possibility that someone is already here, but remaining hidden,” Marat clarified, “An insightful observation and deduction.”

“Celebrant could claim credit for successfully distracting us,” Agad admitted, “Not as good as a frontal assault, but enough for him to claim the win. Especially if he can claim the kill. If the enemy is hiding near the Blackwell, it would be nearly impossible to sense them around the aura of the undead.”

“The question is,” Grandma said, “whether the source of the threat is already here, or will it come through the barrel yet. I am loathe to give up our only connection to Kendra.”

“Any way we can make sure we aren’t being listened to, Agad?” Grandpa asked.

“Not that I can create without knowing our spy and what he is using,” Agad said, shaking his head. “We will have to plan even though we may be spied upon.”

“There can’t be a bunch of them,” Seth decided, “I can see through most hiding spells, and I haven’t seen anyone. I can’t get around distractor spells, that was Kendra’s half…” he looked down at Tess, fairy struck, who was sitting still and paying attention like a good girl. Plans were starting to come together “Let’s not talk about everything here. I want everyone to split into groups. Agad, Marat, where’s the best place to examine the magical defenses?”

They shared a look, “The tower where the Roost used to be,” Agad said at last. “The protections still form a small dent there, where a dragon may come closer than other area.”

“Okay, head to Seth Tower, I’ll meet up with you after.” Seth said. It was energizing, being heard and listened to. And to actually be doing something! The brothers nodded.

“Tanu,” Seth said, “I want your potions ready by dinner, whatever happens, you’re going to need to be stocked and ready to go.” Several people caught his emphasis, but didn’t say anything, just like he wanted. Well Tess asked, but Knox shushed her.

“I would appreciate an assistant,” Tanu said.

“I’ll help,” Patton said, standing up, “Unless you have a job for me elsewhere.”

Seth shook his head, “Helping Tanu is perfect.”

He turned to Grandma and Grandpa, “I need you guys to work with the staff. Let them know we’ve been warned of a threat, organize extra lookouts and patrols, organize a watch over the barrel, that kind of stuff. We don’t know what direction the threat coming from, so we cover as many directions as possible.”

Now it was time for Grandma to look amused, and Grandpa to look proud.

“Understood Seth,” she said. “We will retreat to the Winter Study to plan. Henrick will be back soon, and his help will be invaluable with this. We should wait to inform the staff until after he joins us.”

“Great idea, go for it. Er, where’s the Winter Study?” Seth asked, trying to remember from their tour.

“Directly below Kendra’s bedroom,” Agad said. “On the first floor.”

Seth nodded, he’d knock on doors until he found the right one.

Seth turned to his remaining players, “And finally: Doren, Newel, Tess, and Knox. I have a very special job for you. Wait outside the door while I make sure of something with Agad.”

“That’s our cue to leave,” Grandma said, patting a hand on her husband’s leg.

“The abundance of caution while in command suits you,” Grandpa said, standing up. He put his hand on Seth’s shoulder as he passed, “I’m proud of how you’re handling this situation.”

Considering a little over a week ago, he’d gotten a stern lecture about endangering his cousin and the consequences to trying to trick magic, this was quite the change. Grandpa smiled, and walked past him. There was a small lump in his throat. This feeling was why Kendra always did her best to make people proud of her. It was rarely sent his way.

Tanu and Patton also left, then the satyrs and his cousins went just outside the door.

Seth walked close to Agad and lowered his voice, “Tess is Fairy struck, can she see through distractor spells?”

Agad nodded.

Seth smiled and nodded as well. He whispered. “Can you bring the treaty document to the tower?”

Agad shook his head, “It is locked in a box in the Winter Study. The medallion opens the box. I recommend against moving it.”

Seth looked at Marat.

“I agree, with my brother. We have the contents memorized, we should only consult them upon need.”

Seth nodded, then stepped back.

“See you at Seth Tower soon.”

The two of them left, and Seth took a moment to fling himself on the couch and groan. The energy had left when everyone else did. Leading was such hard work! For the millionth time, he wished Kendra had let him turn the key. Sure he’d be kidnapped and being trained into an evil Shadow Charmer right now, but Kendra was so much smarter than him, she would have figured out about the intruder way before.

Probably because she had better judgement than him and didn’t usually trust terrible people right off the bat. And like she said, people usually had enough confidence in her to just trust her with important stuff.

The door creaked open, “Uh, Seth, did you have a job for us?” Newel asked.

Seth got up and went to the door. Remembering from his first day, he used the medallion to unlock a desk drawer in the corner, and pulled out a key ring, slipping it into his adventure pouch.

“Yeah, follow me, I don’t know how much of the keep Tess and Knox got to see,” Seth said, “And it’s a good time to get an updated map of it, in case we come under siege. It’s possible the Dragons are just going to stare us down until we run out of food. Any of you got any talent at drawing maps?”

There was a pause as Seth led on.

“I’ve dealt with a fair amount of treasure maps in my day,” Doren admitted, “And I’m not a shabby hand with a pen. I can draw.”

“Awesome,” Seth said, “Start with the storerooms in the basement storerooms, where the barrel was before, then the dungeons, then the ground floor. If you can get through those floors by lunch, that’d be great, but make sure to do them all. I want you three to go with him, and look for anything that seems suspicious. Look through the dungeons, but if any of you touch the Blackwell, or the chain next to the Blackwell, I’m throwing all of you inside it,” Seth said.

Seth had led them into the library and started pulling out loose sheets of paper, “Doesn’t matter how small. If it seems out of place, make a note of it.”

“Are you sure this is the best use of our time Seth?” Newel asked dubiously.

Seth grinned, “It’s a very good use of your time.”

Seth started writing on various blank papers, while they all watched him. He turned to his younger cousin when he was finished.

“Right. Tess? I want you looking for pictures and weird things on the walls.”

On this sheet of paper, Seth had written:

Every single time you see a person or creature, point at them, say something nice about them, and ask if you can talk to them. Knox will either say that you’re busy, or that the person isn’t there. Nod and keep walking every single time. Don’t let anyone know what’s written here, keep it a secret. Put a clean sheet on top of this one.  

“Here’s a list of the things you should look for. This is an old castle, there might be secret passages that we need to find out about before someone sneaks in,” Seth said, handing her the paper. She immediately started reading.

“Knox, you’re looking up higher, pay attention to cold or warm drafts and the items in the rooms, make note of which ones have weapons, look for places where the intruder could be staying,” Seth said, handing him a piece of paper that read:

Tess is going to ask to speak to everyone she sees. She has magic eyes like Kendra. If you see who she’s pointing to, tell her that you’re too busy to bother them. If you don’t see who she is pointing to, tell her that there’s no one there and you don’t have time for games. Make notes, but don’t engage.

He turned to Newel, “Your job is to make sure no one runs into walls while writing stuff down, and make sure to explore everything. Bring the cool stuff back to me, so that our item troll doesn’t try to keep it for the shelves.” Seth said, spouting nonsense. “Write down where you find it though, in case Agad says we need to return it or unleash another apocalypse.”

“Better to ask forgiveness than permission,” Newel nodded with a salute. Seth handed him a paper that read:

If someone was listening to our meeting, they are going to be following you. Watch for them. Tess and Knox are going to be acting weird, just ignore them. You’re on protector duty.

And Seth handed fully blank sheets to Doren, “And, of course, you’re on the map. Here’s paper, pens, clipboard, and scotch tape. Everyone know their job?”

The four of them looked excited as they nodded. “Good,” Seth said, “Meet back in the War Room after lunch.”

Doren and Newel slung another salute. Tess tried to copy them and slapped herself in the face. Knox just rolled his eyes.

They left, and Seth debated between going to check up on Grandma and Grandpa, or heading straight to Seth Tower.

His grandparents couldn’t set anything in stone without Hendrick, so he’d head to the Tower. He’d be able to see Henrick coming back, and take him to Grandma and Grandpa when the Alcetaur arrived.

Up at the tower room, Marat and Agad were waiting for him.

“So, magic defenses in place?” Seth asked.

Agad nodded, “Perfect, just like I said twenty minutes ago. Mind explaining more of your plan?”

“Sure,” Seth said, “Grandma and Grandpa are doing exactly what I said they were. Running the past week from Blackwell made them the best people for that, until Hendrick gets back to help. Tanu is also doing exactly what I told him too.

“I sent Tess, Knox, and the satyrs looking for people hiding themselves with distractor spells, but they look like they’re creating a fresh map of the lower floors. Tess is pointing out everyone she sees to Knox, Knox is telling her that they’re too busy to talk to anyone and taking note of the people that Tess sees that he doesn’t. Because they’re the group doing the most suspicious work, I’m hoping any spies here are following them, letting the rest of us get things done. Newel is on the look out for someone following them, and thinks that’s what he thinks they’re doing. Doren is actually creating a map.”

Seth was rather proud of that plan, and feeling pretty ingenious for coming up with it in only ten minutes.

“Once again, not bad,” Agad said.

Seth gave a dry smile, “I learned from the best teacher. The Sphinx betraying me and my friends over and over. After this, I’m going to do my own sweep, trying to see through the shadows while shadow walking.”

“Might I recommend also holding your unsheathed sword at the same time?” Marat said. “That is the sword of Tregain, yes?”

Seth glanced down, “Oh that’s right! This sword helps make people look away from me, especially bigger creatures. I’ll definitely do that.”

“A very pro-active plan,” Agad said, “I will admit to not even considering the idea of someone hiding in the Blackwell. The barrel messes with the traditional rule of only allowing visitors a single night of stay, as that magic is activated upon crossing the boundary.”

“I do not believe that is all to our caretaker’s plan,” Marat said, amused, “I believe he feels he will do more for our mission elsewhere, and intends to return the mantle of caretaker to me.”

Agad gaped, then turned, “Is this true, Seth?”

Seth nodded, “Celebrant is no longer co-caretaker. The issue we came here to solve, the weakening barrier, is fixed. There’s no problem with Marat being caretaker, according to Dromadus, so long as he stays in human form. I’d be a lot more useful helping track down Kendra and Bracken.”

“Before you go any farther,” Agad said, holding up a hand, “There are things I wish to disclose to the caretaker of a dragon sanctuary. The remaining lines of defense after the sanctuaries fall. We can continue to discuss your possible resignation afterwards.”

Seth hopped onto a wide window ledge, “Okay, hit me. What else we got before the next apocalypse?”

“These secrets should not be repeated,” Agad warned, “Except to your most trusted ally at the time of greatest need.”

Seth glanced at Marat, who nodded, “I am already aware of the provisions my brother speaks of. Do not worry.”

“The first is why Dragons from fallen sanctuaries have yet to invade the mortal world,” Agad explained, “There is a magic item, perhaps the most magic item in existence —”

“More then the Wizenstone?” Seth asked, eyebrows raised. He was starting to suspect that there wasn’t an actual standard for how ‘magic’ an item is.

Agad paused, and Marat chuckled. Agad continued, “No, I suppose, not greater than the Wizenstone. Possibly it’s equal. I would not like to test either object against the other. The skull of the first dragon that ever lived, Abraxtus, is more heavily ensorcelled, than any other object I have ever come in contact with. It is called The Sovereign Skull. It takes all the disbelief in magic that all mortals generate, and creates a repulsive barrier against dragons. This is our absolute last line of defense, and must be protected at all costs. Only a few wizards know the location, and that information will never be divulged for its own protection.”

Seth nodded, “Can I have the name of a wizard that does know? Just in case.”

Agad looked him straight in the eye. “No.”

Seth nodded, “That’s fair. Sounds like we’re hoping it doesn’t get that far.” As though they had ever had any luck in that department.

“Another line of defense: the Dragon Slayers,” Agad said.

Seth grinned, “The Somber Knight was so cool. A bit of a downer, but a real life-saver. He’s still a bit…messy, after rescuing Kendra from being dinner. You’re talking about the ones at the other six sanctuaries, right?”

Agad nodded, “In addition to the other six at sanctuaries, there are five others that have been living in the world, waiting to be called upon again. It will take a while to wake them up, but Celebrant declaring war was the key.”

Seth nodded, “You did the same thing with the dragon preserves that you did with the demon prisons. How are these guys at handling immortality? We sure they didn’t try to off themselves?”

Agad said, “They all already had experiences with extended lifespans, so hopefully we are rousing them from a pleasurable retirement. And then there is a line of defense you are slightly more familiar with: the three treasures in the secret dragon temples.”

“Right, gauntlets that control dragons. Every dragon in a hundred miles comes by to kill you if you look at them funny,” Seth recited, remembering Thronis’s warning.

Agad nodded, “There are two other items, and two other sacred temples guarding these items at dragon sanctuaries. The harp that can send any dragon to sleep, and the shield that can defend against any dragon’s attack. These items were necessary to winning the war against the dragons the first time, and now that we’re facing war again, we need them back.”

Seth tilted his head, “Did they already get new guardians for the temple here at Wyrmroost? Cause we killed them, and its not like those were your ordinary, everyday dragons, and no one besides Gavin and Thronis knew we went there for the obsidian waste key.”

“It would be foolish to assume they aren’t guarded,” Agad said, considering carefully, “Though it is also strange that Celebrant has never ranted against your party for that affront. The answer is that I do not know.”

There was a moment of silence as everyone thought about the predicament.

“Well,” Seth said, “How buried is the translocator? Me and Kendra have been in the temple treasure room, we, er, I, for the moment, could grab the gloves and come back in a snap.”

Marat spoke up, “Bringing the translocator back into play at this time would be a dangerous move. That item is really too powerful. Dragons in human form could use it to escape the sanctuaries without a fight.”

Agad nodded, “All the artifacts are currently inaccessible. We used the Chronometer to hide the translocator, the sands of sanctity, and the occulous six more years in the future, waiting for us to finish designing the vaults. The Font needed to remain in the present, to support our first immortal, but that is the only artifact accessible. At least, until the Sphinx made off with it during his escape. Good thinking, but unfortunately untenable.”

A horn sounded from the parapet over the gate.

“That means a dragon is coming, right?” Seth asked, turning around in the window. “Raxtus maybe?”

“It means official visitors,” Marat clarified, “It certainly has been seeing its use this week. It also announced the arrival of the carriage from Stormguard.”

“Got it,” Seth said, standing up, “Anything else you need to tell the current caretaker of wyrmroost about the grand scheme of defenses?”

“No, those are our three lines: talismans, dragon slayers, and The Sovereign Skull,” Agad counted.

“Okay, I’ll keep those in mind, and never tell anyone, unless I absolutely have to,” Seth said, drawing a cross over his heart for good measure. “My plan is simple. Celebrant is a great big ego, right? He hates Kendra for insulting him, and it’s embarrassing that he keeps losing to a couple of kids. He’s getting help, he’s getting desperate, no matter what his plan is, right?”

Agad nodded.

“So, I’m going to offer him one last insult as caretaker,” Seth said with a grin, “His little rebellion isn’t even worth my time. After we deal with our guests at the gate, I’m going to do my sweep of everywhere while walking through shadows. Then I’m going to give being caretaker over to Marat, and we’re going to leave, with the barrel. That’s Blackwell’s biggest weakness, and it doesn’t need to be here for us to use it. I’ll leave Marat with a parting note to read to Celebrant, letting him know that we have better things to do.”

Agad started chuckling, moving his hand to cover his mouth when it didn’t stop.

“Boom,” Seth said with relish, “Biggest weakness removed, whoever is in the castle has to figure out how to kill Marat, who’s going to be a lot harder to kill than me, I get to go after Kendra, and we throw one last insult over our shoulder.”

Agad continued to laugh, but the most Marat gave was an amused look.

“And how exactly do you intend to leave?” Marat asked, “The walkway between the typical entrance and the Keep will not be guarded for this trip.”

“We have some pretty cool rides,” Seth said, “Not sure you saw them when Patton came in, but Kendra met up with a fairy godmother and boom, the luvians we were riding all have wings. We’ll need to make it so they can leave the sanctuary with us, but if they can make it through the sky on a festival night, they can probably get us past the barrier. We’ll have to ask them of course, but I think we’ll be in pretty good shape. They strike me as adventurous.”

“I would like to make one suggestion,” Agad said, wiping a tear from his eye, “Leave in peace, no one attacks at all, and leave before night falls. I’m sure they intend to strike in the dark. You leave two hours before sunset, and Celebrant likely wont have time to demand to know what you’re doing. Use Tess’s cloak of innocence to see you safely past the barrier.”

“Oh, that is wicked,” Marat chuckled. “But we have dawdled enough. The horn summons the caretaker to official business.”

Seth took one last look out the window and down the road, and paused. He pulled out his eyeglass from his adventure pouch. “Is that…Henrick leading a bunch dryads?”

[de-profundis-ad-astra]

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Word Count || 2.5k Author’s Note || This is part two of what I posted yesterday. You don’t need to have read the first part for this to make sense, but I would recommend it. You can find it here. So, yesterday you met Kerri, today you get to meet Charlotte!

Charlotte Moore was most easily identified by the click clack of her heels on the gleaming tile floors and the way the temperature seemed to flux around her. Her thick, curling red hair��hanging down her back and spilling over her shoulders—practically bounced with a life of its own as she flounced up the stairs and through the halls of Legion’s Los Angeles corporate location. She would have used the elevator, but the prospect of a new job had her positively bursting with energy. The stairs provided an outlet, just enough to take the edge off. Even then, those she passed along her way made sure to vacate more than enough space for her. A privilege that came with her title, she knew.

For someone trained to be silent when entering new or unpredictable situations, Charlotte was capable of making a hell of an entrance. Though unpredictable, she aimed for it every time she met with her… handler.

She reached her destination, wrapped her long, freshly manicured fingers around the knob, and pushed the door open without knock or warning. Most people felt that walking from a well-lit atmosphere into a dark room was disconcerting. Charlotte thrived on such excitement.

Director Cecil Soren tried, and failed, to conceal his jolt of surprise as his office door flung open and crashed into the wall. He knew he’d failed the moment he heard a hint of low laughter join the fading echo of the door and the thud of his knee hitting the underside of his desk. The laughter subsided as Charlotte dropped her body into one of the seats directly across from him.

“You can’t be surprised to see me,” said Charlotte, grinning at the fatigue in her handler’s eyes as he hunched forward to grip his throbbing knee. It seemed her mere presence already wearied him. “I’m always on time.”

Director Soren looked at the clock above his door, his mouth forming a tight line. Eight o’clock sharp. As always. He straightened. “Your punctuality is merely a standard you’re expected to uphold, and is one of the few you actually care to meet.”

Charlotte sniffed, disappointed that he didn’t rise to meet her banter. They were always so good at it. She moved along, not without making a mental note of this, “So, if we aren’t going to play.” She crossed her arms. “What do you have for me?”

Director Soren reached into a drawer, removed a slim file, and placed it on his desk with a certain amount of delicacy. Placing one hand flat over the cover, he slid it towards Charlotte. “The panel has decided to grant you one more chance to prove your worth as a Named Agent of Legion.”

Charlotte nodded with recognition. Over a week had passed since what they considered the unmitigated disaster that had been her last meeting with her disciplinary panel. To Charlotte, it had been just another Tuesday.

What was meant to be a review of her most recent discipline case had devolved into what he could only describe was an amalgam of arguing and backtalk until Charlotte was ordered out of the building and given strict instructions to remain on call.

This was the first she’d heard from Soren since then. Hence the excitement.

Charlotte tilted her head, her eyes locking on the folder like a piece of meat. Her fiery curls fell over one shoulder with the motion. “Can’t say I’m hard pressed to disagree with the decision. What’s the job?”

“Getting you this opportunity was a hard fought victory,” said Soren, deflecting. “I do not suggest you take it lightly.”

“Whatever gave you that impression?” asked Charlotte, her eyes rounding and mouth falling open partway. The portrait of innocence.

Her whole career, actually, might have lead one to believe this. But Charlotte never passed up an opportunity to gibe at her handler.

Director Soren easily saw through the ruse. “Anyone reviewing your service record wouldn’t need to make it far to know your history of insolence.”

Air hissed from Charlotte’s nose as she exhaled, the soft features of her face hardening into hard planes and angles. “Fine,” She huffed, her long, thick eyelashes fluttering to conceal the way she rolled her eyes before her focus narrowed back to the file. Without asking, she reached for it.

Soren yanked the folder back before she could touch it. She leaned back with a puff. “You swore an oath to support and defend this corporation. To bear allegiance to it and no others. Do you still swear it?”

Charlotte’s heart soared at those words, wings fluttering against her ribs. Excitement rose in her throat, and she tamed the face-splitting grin that threatened to break across her face to a mild conspirator’s smile. “I do.”

“You swore to serve as a living example of this corporation’s philosophies and beliefs and to uphold these values at all times. You took this obligation freely and of your own accord. Do you still swear it?”

Charlotte allowed some of her control to slip, and her resulting smile reminded Director Soren more of a predator baring its teeth than an expression of happiness. “I do.”

“Do you swear to give yourself wholly to this assignment and complete the request of its commissioner?”

“I do.”

“Thank you,” Director Soren withdrew his hand, and Charlotte greedily snatched the file off his desk. She flipped it open, immediately faced with the small headshot of a stern-looking blonde clipped to the inside of the cover.

Charlotte snorted, “Hell of a mugshot. What do we want from her.”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Charlotte repeated, incredulous. “Then why—”

It dawned on her, then, and she trailed off. Her handler’s expression gave her everything she needed.

“Oh, Cecil,” Charlotte breathed, placing a hand over her heart. “You shouldn’t have.”

Soren ignored the flattery and the way she casually flung around his first name instead of addressing him by his title. “Agent Gatsby, you’ve been commissioned an assassination.”

Charlotte gave a low whistle as she skimmed over the few pages the file had to offer. “Haven’t had me one of those in… oh, what’s in been? A year? Year and a half?”

“One year, three months, and eleven days.”

Charlotte cocked an eyebrow. “You kept track?”

“It was the biggest mess I’ve ever seen a Named Agent make.”

Charlotte recalled that memory fondly. Another assignment that had put her under scrutiny from Legion’s board of directors. Perhaps even Alpha, herself. It was hard to tell, though. Alpha rarely deigned to show her face to anyone outside her cabinet.

She hummed, handling the file with tender delight, the way she supposed people may feel when holding a newborn baby. “And yet…”

“And yet, indeed.” Soren pinched at the bridge of his nose. “I advised that this kind of mission was inappropriate for your circumstances, but they did not heed my council.”

“Why would anyone ignore you? You have such a commanding presence.” She gave him a once over that seemed all too invasive. There was nothing promiscuous behind the action, but that was of little comfort to Director Soren. It was too reminiscent of a predator assessing a threat. “It’s your broad shoulders. They really work for you.”

Soren ignored the jab; Charlotte’s smile turned into a wink.

“So,” he emphasized, taking back control. “This is a very important mission, and you should treat it as such. This is your opportunity to prove to the board that you are more of an asset than a liability. Success without infraction will put you on the road back into their good graces.”

“And all it’s going to take is a ticket to Texas and one body?” There was far too much glee in Charlotte’s words.

Soren folded his hands and rested his fingers over his mouth. “It’s less about the task itself and more about your performance. Remember what you need to prove to the board.”

“Surely you don’t think I’m taking this seriously?” said Charlotte, feigning incredulity. She tugged the small, index-card sized sheet of cardstock free of its paperclip and inspected it closely.

“I’m ordering it, in fact,” he forged forward. “Your target is dangerous, and you would be wise to proceed with extreme caution.”

Charlotte kicked her feet up onto the edge of Soren’s desk, leaning heavily against the armrest of her chair. “That’s what all the girls say behind your back,” she said without looking away from the photo.

“And if you have any self-preservation instincts,” his voice grew strained. “You’ll listen to me. Please—”

“You say that so imploringly. It gives me goosebumps.”

“Please,” Soren did, indeed implore her. “Be discreet. Do not make another spectacle of yourself.”

“But I’m such a lovely spectacle,” Charlotte pouted.

Director Soren barely had the energy to glare. “There is a lot hanging in the balance, Agent Gatsby. This kind of behavior is not what will tip the scales in your favor.”

“Believe me, if you didn’t make it so fun, I wouldn’t bother,” said Charlotte. “But that’s neither here nor there. I just want to know what Blondie here did to make herself such a prize shot.”

Sure enough, Charlotte’s initial skim of her file had given her absolutely nothing to suggest that her newest target was an overt menace to society. That wasn’t to say she wasn’t above killing another for small reasons. However, she was plagued by an incessant curiosity that yearned to at least know why.

“To borrow a phrase: that’s neither here nor there.”

“Oh, Cecil, you make me laugh.”

She wasn’t laughing.

“I should not have to remind you to remember your place, Agent Gatsby,” said Director Soren. “Everything you need to know to do your job is in that folder.”

Charlotte looked down at the pathetic excuse of a folder. Such a meager amount of information certainly was not typical for her. “You’ve given me enough high-profile jobs to know my resume is stacked with Legion’s trust. When you look me up in the database, it says Intelligence Specialist. Which is code for ‘really really likes secrets’. So—” she flicked the photo around between her fingers and shoved the image of the austere woman into Director Soren’s face. “I’d like to know who this Kerri Stevens is.”

Director Soren’s mouth formed a tight, impenetrable line.

“Classified.”

Charlotte frowned, leaned back, then schooled her features into a neutral mask. She looked pensive, considerate, even, as she secured the photograph into place with its paperclip. She lowered her feet to the floor, but when she looked up, her dark green eyes were positively aflame. Delicately, she flipped the folder shut and placed it down on the desk.

“I wonder what would happen,” she said slowly, carefully, as she slid the file towards Soren. “If I were to… rescind the mission.”

Director Soren stared at Charlotte, yielding no reaction other than a subtle tilt of his chin downwards as he swallowed. She sat back and mirrored her handler’s stare, patiently awaiting an answer. She could be a very patient person.

“I see I’ve made you speechless,” she commented at last.

“You think you can rescind an assassination that came straight from Alpha’s desk?”

Charlotte shrugged, an air of indifference about her that brought Director Soren’s blood to near boiling temperatures. “Depends. How badly do they want me to stay?”

“It’s your status being evaluated, no one else’s,” Soren shot back. “How badly do you want to stay?”

Charlotte clucked her tongue and sighed, “Well, where’s the fun in saying no to such a mysterious target?”

Soren fumed, “Fun?” He glared at the redhead casually slumped in the chair across from him. “This is all just for fun, then. The tests, the trials. All of it… fun?”

“Is working for a max-security espionage operation with blurred ethical and moral boundaries not you idea of a good time?”

“No.”

“That’s probably why you’re not a field agent, then.”

Her handler’s fingers began twitching over the metal surface of his desk. “Perhaps I should tell the board you’re not interested in taking the assignment.” He pulled the folder towards his side of the desk. “We can see how keen they are on providing you with another opportunity once they’ve learned of your apathy.”

“Ah,” Charlotte held a finger up, looking all to pleased by his chosen response. “But you just said they wouldn’t take your council when they chose this for me. They clearly want me to stick around. Maybe it’s time you jumped on the bandwagon.”

Director Soren’s hands slammed down onto his desk so hard his palms stung. It did get Charlotte to shut up, which he reaped a moment of satisfaction from. He fixed his most wrathful glare on his agent who, infuriatingly, remained unperturbed. When he leaned over his desk, her gaze turned questioning.

“Might I remind you, Agent Gatsby, that bearing a Name does not make you untouchable.”

Exhaling deeply, Charlotte leaned forward and braced her elbows on her knees. She gave Soren a wolfish smirk.

“Cecil,” she breathed. “If you want to touch me, All you gotta do is a—”

Director Soren’s hand snapped forward, wrapping her around her throat before she could finish her statement and clenched. Not hard enough to see stares, but just enough to—hopefully—remind her who was superior.

Charlotte gasped, choking on her words, but did not appear alarmed as she casually wrapped a slender hand around his. If anything, she looked more annoyed than fearful. Her manicured nails dug into the bone protruding from his wrist. But, just as she showed no reaction, Director Soren gave nothing away as he pulled her forward until the corner of his desk dug into her stomach.

Charlotte hissed, her nails scratching over his skin, “Buy me dinner, first.”

Soren tucked the pain to a corner of his brain where he would not let it bother him. “Consider the ones who earned the Director’s desk—not a mere Name.” He managed to keep his voice low, despite his rage. “I’ve done more than my due diligence.”

As annoying as the gesture was, Charlotte couldn’t blame him for lashing out like this. Legion was a cut-throat corporation and, in all honesty, she was accustomed to being treated roughly. With her, violence or other physical displays of authority were often the only thing her superiors could do to get through to her. Or at least, it was a way for Charlotte to know that she’d pushed the right buttons.

“A desk,” she snorted, her fist jabbing out and catching Director Soren in the throat. An eye for an eye, a trachea for a trachea.

When his hand retracted, Charlotte calmly drew in a full breath, and scooped up Kerri Stevens’s file from her chair. In a stunning whirl of leather and red curls, she swept towards the back of the office and opened the door.

“You can keep your desk,” she said with pointed lethality.

And with that, the door slammed behind her, leaving Director Soren coughing and ruing the day he was assigned to be Agent Gatsby’s handler.

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[bigskydreaming]

@elfysparkles88​

#listen it's a universal problem#I love my mans Scott#everyone is always bagging on him WHY#Scott Summers#X-Men

Its because Scott Summers is inevitably compared and contrasted with those around him, and he has the great misfortune of running in the same circles as an all-star line up of like....just the absolutely most Ridiculous People to Ever Ridick.

We’re talking about a guy whose dad was abducted by aliens and from there went on to decide, welp, guess I gotta become a space pirate now, jaunty earring and all, no, shhh, shh, no, there are no alternatives, I gotta, no, I said no - SHUT IT, I SAID I GOTTA BE A SPACE PIRATE NOW ITS THE ONLY WAY. Oh btw, meet my fianceé. She’s an alien mercenary who is a little like a skunk but don’t call her that to her face or she’ll shoot you in yours. How’s that for swoonworthy, am I right, son?

We’re talking about a guy whose own son was a literal sixty year old Grumpy Old Man overburdened with world-weariness, wildly unnecessary shoulderpads and arthritic joints when Scott was barely hitting his third decade. With said son now randomly being a moody sixteen year old again, with a pet sentient sword he talks lovingly to, because apparently Nathan Summer’s take on teenage rebellion was to act out by being all LOL Fuck Time Travel Paradoxes and then rebelliously zooming around the space/time continuum while blasting a soundtrack of MCR probably, until he finally got a bead on his older self and shot himself in the face while being like “its not that I’m angry with you, I’m just disappointed” and look this is the part where your eyes are gonna wanna just glaze over so your brain can have a break, shhh, shh, don’t ask questions, just let it be, it happened, its a thing.

We’re talking about a guy whose brother rode a merry-go-round of “Am I a good guy this week or am I a bad guy because Reasons or sometimes Brainwashing or sometimes I Don’t Even Fucking Know, Look Don’t @ Me Bro, I Just Fucking Work Here, I’m Not In The Loop” for most of his twenties until dying in a fiery explosion only to inexplicably return years later as a coma patient who finally woke up one day and said “Whoa, just got back from tripping around the multiverse and boy do I have stories cuz apparently I’m the Nexus of All Realities, so hah, SUCK IT, big brother, and yes that is TOO a thing, shut up, LET ME HAVE THIS. Oh and also btw don’t spend a lot on your wedding gift for me and Lorna because I’m gonna leave her at the altar once I realize that I’m actually more in love with the random nurse lady who changed my bed pans while I was in a coma having a romantic rendezvouz with her in Paris in my brain courtesy of her psychic eight-year old kid trying to play matchmaker for her cuz like, she doesn’t date much apparently but its whatever, this is FINE, I have no objections. Ugh why are you looking at me like that Scott, no, I don’t need to “talk” with someone about everything I’ve��‘been through,’ ugh I’m HAPPY you asshole, god, why don’t you ever want me to just be HAPPY ugh you just have to control EVERYTHING with your over-bearing BS like “I am concerned your decision-making processes might be affected by all the people tampering with your decision-making processes over the years” like umm DID I ASK? No? I didn’t think so? YOU’RE NOT MY REAL DAD, SCOTT, UGH THAT DOES IT, IM RUNNING AWAY TO BE A SUPERVILLAIN AGAIN AND THIS TIME ITS TOTALLY YOUR FAULT, YOU’LL BE SORRY WHEN I CRY HAVOK AND LET LOOSE THE DOGS OF WAR THIS TIME FOR SURE, AND OMG FOR THE LAST TIME I KNOOOOOOW THAT’S NOT HOW ITS SPELLED, ITS ABOUT THE AESTHETIC SCOTT, ITS CALLED HAVING A SENSE OF STYLE, UGH, LET ME LIIIIIIIIIIIVE.”

We’re talking about a guy whose other little brother randomly showed up and started killing people one day being like “hahaha surprise, bet you all forgot about me, PS, I’m REALLY FUCKING MAD AT YOU ALL FOR FORGETTING ABOUT ME” because the world’s most powerful telepath made everyone forget about him and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day they all had once and this is fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine, this is normal. As is the way his newly discovered slash remembered slash resurrected slash recently returned from spending the last decade fucking around as a disembodied energy ghost on a rock up in Earth’s orbit little brother then decided the Earth just wasn’t big enough for the both of them, the both of them in this case meaning both him, singular, and his Angst, as a wholly separate and towering entity in its own right. So instead he fucked off to space and decided to conquer a vast alien empire and spend the next several years being their god-emperor or whatever until he got bored with that. And also he kinda sorta killed their dad for a bit but whatever, its fine, he got better, and then he also kinda sorta died for a bit himself but whatever, its fine, he got better, and there was that whole interstellar war between himself and the Inhumans but whatever that wasn’t even his FAULT, Scott, THEY STARTED IT, god, do you ever stop JUDGING ME AND MY LIFE CHOICES and PS I’m still mad at you for killing Xavier, you fucking asshole, not because you did it but because like, you KNOW I wanted to do it, I had a whole fucking villain monologue moment about it and everything, you were literally there, UGH WHY WON’T YOU LET ME HAVE NICE THINGS?!?! YOU ARE THE ENEMY OF FUN AND JOY AND HEY MAYBE YOU WERE THE REAL VILLAIN ALL ALONG, DID YOU EVER THINK OF THAT? HUH? MR. I’M THE BOSS, WAIT WHO’S THE BOSS? OH YEAH STILL ME, SCOTT, I’M THE BOSS, YOU GOTTA STOP BEING A SPACE EMPEROR GABE BECAUSE YOU CAN’T BE THE BOSS, ONLY I AM ALLOWED TO BE THE BOSS BECAUSE I’M THE BOSS AND I SAID SO AND YOU GOTTA DO WHAT I SAY OR I’LL TELL DAD.” 

And that’s not even getting into how we’re also talking about a guy who basically ended up divorcing his first wife and suing for sole custody on the grounds of “Well, your Honor, she tried to sacrifice our son on a literal demonic altar in order to summon Hell to Earth to destroy everything just to get back at me after I left her. Yes, your Honor, I understand that is in fact Asshole Behavior, but there were extenuating circumtances, you see, the woman I left her for was my first love before her who I thought was dead. And also, she was literally my wife before my wife was. No, I don’t mean I was married before Maddie, I mean Jean was kinda pretty much already Maddie before Maddie was Maddie. Its this whole clone thing. Look, I’m just saying it was a complicated situation and I know I have my part to play in it, but I still stand by my conviction that trying to sell out our entire planet and species to the legions of Hell while using the innocent blood of our ten month old as the Golden Ticket to the Chocolate Factory was still a little over the top and not really the right way to handle it either. Also, I contend that I can provide a better home environment at the moment than someone who is insisting on being addressed as The Goblin Queen because what even is that, honestly, Your Honor, and also, she also brainwashed my brother into trying to kill me on her behalf, which to be fair does happen about every other month anyway, but still, like. Dick move, you know?”

And we’re also talking about a guy whose second wife who was kinda sorta his first wife but only in that It Ain’t Bigamy If Its A Clone Thing way....like, I mean. Its kinda hard NOT to come across as the bland one in the relationship when your second wife occasionally moonlights as the AirBnb of choice for a cosmic parakeet goddess of rebirth and fiery destruction who is pretty infamous for the ragers she hosts every time she pops into town for a visit, all smiles and (literal) sunbeams (of scorching lethality) and “Lol hey hot stuff, remember me?” As if someone who ate an alien civilization’s sun the last time she hit a Mood is like....really in danger of ever being “New phone, who dis?”ed. But that is neither here nor there, much like the sentients of Alpha Centauri Bumfuckville after she went all Goodnight Sun, Goodnight Moon, Goodnight Solar System on their corner of the galactic neighborhood, because.....tbh I don’t think she ever actually said “why” there. Its one of those things where if you don’t already KNOW why a cosmic parakeet goddess of rebirth and fiery destruction has decided its nighty-night time for this particular zipcode.....like.....that’s not really something you just ASK, y’know? Its....tacky, probably. Also, low on the self-preservation instincts, probably.

Plus we’re talking about a guy whose second marriage to Yet Another Woman It Probably Should Have Registered As A Bad Idea To PIss Off Like This ended in like....so, okay, this was a bit more His Bad than even Round One was, courtesy of a “Groundbreaking. Revolutionary. Show-stopping” reinterpretation of what was up until this point te much more ambiguous and metaphorically named “Mental Affair” concept. Though it must be said, Scotty always has skewed a bit more towards the literal minded in his personal approach to things, so, y’know. That tracks. But regardless, the pattern remains consistent here, as once again, its not always easy to register on peoples’ radar as anything other than the Plus One when your newest paramour prides herself on being both the entire planning committee AND star attraction of Victoria’s Secret (assuming that said Secret is Secret Aims at World Domination) Presents: A Renaissance Faire. But in an evil and also kinky way. Except now with sixty percent less evil on account of how Emma’s reformed these days, but not a hundred percent less evil because she’s not like, REFORMED reformed, cuz that would be boring, eww, could you imagine, no, you couldn’t, because she won’t let you and she can do that, she’s that good at telepathy and that bad at boundaries. Still the same amount of kinky as before though, but like. That’s just about Strong Branding. After all, at the end of the day Emma Frost is above all else, a good businesswoman.

But yes, she is also a big fan of the Aesthetic, with that aesthetic being Her Whims On Steroids because like they say, go big or go home, and Emma Frost does not believe in going home when she can simply acquire your home instead. Hate the game, not the player. She didn’t make the rules, she just came to win. Point being, its hard to follow up an act like Jean-Who-Is-Sometimes-Phoenix-And-Sometimes-Dark-Phoenix-And-Oh-Hell-She-Cant-Even-Keep-Track-So-How-Could-Anyone-Else-Really, but say what you will about Emma’s wardrobe, she’s more concerned with clothing herself in unapologetic take no prisoners ambition, and as such, her being the follow-up to Scott’s epic romance with his childhood sweetheart turned literal cosmic embodiment of fire and passion, like.....this was never a big checkmark in the con side of a pro and con list for Emma. It was more like oh, yes, hello there, Challenge Absolutely Fucking Accepted.

Which, y’know, all the points to House Frost for showing spine and boy howdy, that’s a spine alright.....but at the same time, going head to head with someone who is classified as a galactic threat when people are deliberately low-balling her, like, for no other reason than you’re bored and your manicure appointment isn’t for another couple hours.....like that’s the kind of thing where it has to be pointed out that there were possibly alternative options worth considering somewhere in between ‘having no spine’ and ‘spiting cosmic entity who can kill you with her brain by stealing her man and saying come at me bro because like....my spine, let me show you it.”

But again, just to reiterate the premise here.....our thesis here today is that Scott Summers Gets a Bad Rap For Being Bland or Boring or Not Standing Out, But In Reality The Issue Is Just That All The People He Knows Are Truly Ridiculous People.

In other words, Scott Summers is no more the Everyman of the X-Men than any of his Truly Ridiculous Friends and Family.

Because an actual everyman would have bounced out of that madhouse way the fuck back in Chapter One: In Which Things Just Got Ridiculous.

Cut to Scott Summers, in contrast: *looks around, purses lips, weighs options* Nah. This is fine.

See also:

His daughter, who didn’t so much arrive after the traditional nine months of waiting and preparing for a bundle of bouncing baby joy but instead just like...plopped back into the past as a full grown woman hailing from a dystopian future she was hellbent on preventing by any means necessary, even if that means had Scott frantically shouting RACHEL NO as she screamed RACHEL YES and sprinted straight at someone like Selene (a villain who has survived 17,000 years of pissing people off and making enemies of actual, literal gods) while thinking “oh yeah, I got this.”

(To be fair, she probably DID have it, or would have, if Logan hadn’t chosen that moment of all moments to have his once-centennial contemplation of “Wait, what if....murder is...NOT good?” Never underestimate the daughter of a cosmic goddess.)

Or see also also:

Scott’s original classmates, including Doctor Hank “I’m not an over-archiever, I’m just stress-eating because its lunchtime and I’ve only revolutionized two whole fields of scientific study so far today,” McCoy, Warren “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful, hate me because I’m a billionaire, wait no, I’m just kidding don’t hate me at all hahaha I’m too sexy” Worthington III, and Bobby “I may look cute and unassuming and like my only priority in life is video games but sike, I too am a potentially cosmic level immortal being of nigh-unlimited power or at least I will be whenever I get around to tapping that potential like I’m currently tapping xy up down A + BBA like a boss, now shhh, don’t interrupt me while I’m kicking ass at Mario Kart I said I’ll GET TO THAT LATER, ugh, JEEZ, my priorities are FINE, Scott, like get off my back already, you’re not even my real dad” Drake.

In conclusion:

Scott Summers is valid, and there may be legions drinking his Hatorade, but make no mistake, its not that he’s Less Than, its that every single person in his social circle is just that damn Extra.

[aquilaofarkham]

title: the ghosts’ moonshine rating: general word count: 4,182 summary: during a snowy night, Trevor, Sypha, and Alucard celebrate their first Hanukkah together at Dracula’s castle.

--

The fire destroyed everything above. Yet everything below – all those books, weapons, artifacts, and morbid trophies – remained untouched. Centuries of a family’s legacy preserved for future generations. So why must it be this difficult to find a single menorah? Trevor isn’t asking for much, nothing made out of pure silver or gold. If there are any left, where else would they be hiding besides down in the Belmont Hold?

He’s come across everything from smoke bombs, a talisman constructed out of reindeer bones, even the odd petrified head of a gorgon. Things that would make a simple Wallachian serf lose control over their bowels. But Trevor wants the other side of his family; the side that gave him comfort and pride during his loneliest, darkest moments.

Carrying on with his search, he rummages through more glass caskets, cursing to himself. “Come on… there has to be at least one down in this shit hole…” He doesn’t mean it, not really. It’s only his mounting frustration shining through. With little to no time left, they could always make do with the right amount of candles on their own, as Alucard suggested earlier today. Trevor refused then and still does. This is his first Festival of Lights in years where he won’t spend it alone or in some cold tavern corner with only a pint of ale to warm him. He’s determined to make it special for himself and his loved ones.

No luck – onto the next section of the archives. More of the same, old rusted trinkets and even older pages that could fall apart if handled carelessly. Until Trevor at long last spots a particular object tucked away behind a bookshelf. “There you are.” He murmurs, reaching as far back as his arm will stretch. He grabs hold of the brass menorah by its shaft and pulls back triumphantly. As expected, it’s covered in cobwebs with remnants of candle wax caked onto each holder. So much time has passed, the wax is now solidified. It’s certainly seen better days.

Perfect, Trevor thinks to himself. This will do just fine.

--

Sypha wipes her forehead, unconsciously smearing more flour onto her skin. Raising her arms above her head, she lets out a groan when a few kinks in her back are finally stretched out. She’s been standing over a table with a slight slouch for hours now (a decision she knows she’ll regret later on). That’s not taking into account the amount of times she’s bent over to place food in the large oven with a heat that rivals Hell’s own fire.

When Trevor said he was going down into the Belmont Hold to look for a crucial element to this grand family tradition, it peaked Sypha’s curiosity. But she expected him to be back by now. Even if she’s confident in finishing the task herself, they did start cooking together. It’s only common courtesy. He must have gotten distracted by an even gaudier whip than the Morningstar.

Despite her pessimistic thoughts, Sypha knows that Trevor isn’t being avoidant, especially on today of all days. Never on this day. She used to poke fun at his lack of passion over certain things. Perhaps it was because of apathy or simply because he was too tired to exert more energy. However, when Trevor explained Hanukkah including how the Belmonts celebrated it, she and Alucard had to physically calm him down.

Sypha always thrived off stories of hope, resilience, and miracles. It was for personal comfort – what every child deserves – and a vindicating sense of spite. Those who basked in ignorance constantly told her there was no place in the world for those stories. She already held a vague understanding regarding the importance of the small amount of oil that provided warmth and light for nights, but it felt different hearing that tale from Trevor. His enthusiasm was unexpected yet infectious.

Still, he could be around to lend a helping hand in preparing a few of these meals he adores so much.

Then the heavy door of the castle’s kitchen opens with a loud drawn out creak. “Sorry for taking so long.” Sypha turns and sees Trevor holding what he described as a menorah. “Trying to find a single thing down there would drive anyone mad.”

“It looks beautiful.”

Trevor’s expression softens. “As do you. I especially like how you use flour instead of blush.”

“What?” Before she can touch her cheek, Sypha notices each fingertip covered in light dust. “Oh.” She wipes her hands on her dark skirt, leaving behind white streak marks. “I managed to get a lot done… no thanks to your absence.”

“I did say I was sorry.” Trevor chuckles, safely placing the menorah off to the side. “But it does smell amazing in here.”

“The levivot and brisket should be ready soon. I’ve been wrestling with this dough for the suf… sufga…”

“Sufganiyot.” Trevor joins Sypha by her messy table.

“Right. I’m especially excited for these.”

“You’re going to love them. Not my favourite dessert, but they’re really good. Did you find any jam?”

“No… was I supposed to?”

“Well, they’re meant to be filled with some sort of raspberry or blackberry jam. Let’s take a look.”

He starts opening up various cabinets while Sypha does the same on the opposite side of the room. Dracula might have been undead, but Lisa was human the same as her son (well, half human son). Not to mention, when it comes to cuisine, the new occupant of the castle indulges in the human side of his heritage far more often than he does with his inhuman side. If they were able to find real food like potatoes and cow meat alongside all the untouched blood vials, there has to be something that resembles jam.

“Any luck?” Trevor asks after his search inside a small pantry proves unsuccessful.

“Yes!” Sypha exclaims. Her head and arms emerge from out of a cupboard before she reveals a dark jar in her hands.

“What kind is it?”

“I don’t know…” She sniffs the inside after briefly struggling with the lid. “It still smells sweet.”

“Let me try.”

“Wait, Trevor it could be poison-!” But Trevor has already dipped his finger into the cold jam and popped it inside his mouth. Sypha waits with nervous anticipation. She hopes it’ll be fine or that he’ll spit it out if it’s so terrible.

What happens instead is worse. Trevor swallows and after an uncertain pause, his face twists into a distraught expression. His arms cross over his stomach as he bends over, trying to steady himself.

“Trevor? What’s wrong? Trevor!” The only answer he can give is a series of pained gags that turn more and more guttural. He collapses onto the cold stone floor with Sypha kneeling over him.

“No! Please, no!” She cups his face in both hands. “Just hold on, Trevor! I’ll…” Her voice slowly trails off when she hears his retching turn into laughing. Trevor looks up, putting on as much of an innocent front as he can.

“It tastes like blackberry.”

Of course it was one of his terrible jokes. It doesn’t make Sypha any less furious. Reaching up onto the table, she grabs a handful of floury dough and throws it into his face. “You are horrible! Don’t ever do that again!”

Trevor’s snickering dies down, catching her off guard. “You’re right. I didn’t mean to scare you so much, I’m sorry.”

Sypha’s cheeks are still flushed bright red, so warm she almost mistakes it for a fever. Yet she’s not mad at him, not for very long. It’s all thanks to her own fondness and Trevor’s growing maturity. A trait Sypha says he should be proud of, remarking on it often while they traveled. It’s slow, as his most recent attempt at humour has thus proven, but growing nonetheless. She lets out a sigh, still straddling Trevor’s hips. “Alright, I forgive you…” Before he can pull her into an embrace, Sypha attacks him a second time with even more flour, turning his auburn hair white.

“But your jokes are still awful, Treffy Belmont.”

Trevor acts surprised until his eyes become devious. Wrapping his arms around her waist, his hands wreak havoc on Sypha’s most ticklish areas, causing her to erupt into uncontrollable laughter.

“Call me Treffy again, I dare you.”

“No!” She responds, her eyes welling up with tears of merriment. “I’ll never surrender!”

He doesn’t stop; neither of them does and neither wants to. They only cease their playfulness and rolling on the floor covered in flour when they both realize the latkes might be burning.

--

Too boring.

Too romantic for his tastes.

Too… intellectual.

Alucard hovers in front of the shelf and flips through yet another book, trying to discern its contents from just a few pages. He chastises himself for not doing this earlier, but it’s not as though Trevor gave him much time to prepare in the first place. The announcement came before any of them had a chance to finish their breakfast. We’re celebrating one of my family’s oldest holidays. When? In a few days. The hunter holds many skills under his belt; time management is not one of them.

Despite his annoyance, Alucard wants to throw himself into this celebration just as Trevor and Sypha have. Which is why he’s spent the better part of today scouring the castle library for the right gift. Had he been the same man he was months ago, he wouldn’t have cared so much. One book picked off a shelf on a whim, barely a glance at the front cover, and that would have been good enough for him.

Now Alucard cares, and Trevor does deserve all this effort.

He puts back the book with a disappointed huff. It’s tempting to gift yet another weapon or instrument of vampiric death, but he’s determined to give Trevor something that doesn’t have a sharp pointed edge. He’ll have to keep looking, though finding a book from Dracula’s library that a Belmont will enjoy is a difficult task both in theory and practice. A detailed history of Celtic vampires? Unlikely. Manuscripts of ancient mathematics and geometry? Perhaps not. Alucard puts his faith in stories that span across space and time, hoping one might peak the hunter’s interest. Tales he himself used to read in the dimming glow of his bedside candle, too tired for his usual studies yet too enthralled to stop at one fantastical story.

His perseverance wins out. Hidden in the corner on a shelf occupied by much larger and heavier hardcovers, Alucard stumbles upon a book no bigger than his own hand. He opens it, noticing how thin the pages are – poetry, neither from this country or era. Admittedly not his first choice but as he reads on, his interest deepens. It’s romantic, yes, but also dark, sinister, with an unexpected sensual aura. Many entries would no doubt shock the Wallachian scholars of today. Alucard traces the title engraved on the cover with his fingernail – Poems Bewitched and Haunted.

He might like this.

Alucard lowers himself onto the floor, feeling rather accomplished. He exits the library and almost bumps into Trevor – at least he thinks it’s Trevor. If not him then a pale, ghost-like version of him. “I… trust things are alright in the kitchen.”

“We’re fine. Food’s almost ready.” Trevor stops himself when he sees Alucard’s hand. “What’s th-“

“Nothing.” In one swift movement, the book goes behind his back. “Nothing you would be interested in.”

“Really?” Trevor raises an eyebrow while Alucard decides to leave before the hunter gets nosy. However, there is one last thing he needs to do. A simple favour for his friend. Walking closer, Alucard uses his free hand to tousle Trevor’s hair, patting his chest and shoulders. Clouds of flour fly up into the air between the two men.

“Feel free to use any of the baths before we begin the festivities.”

Trevor searches for a witty retort in his mind. In the end, nothing comes out and Alucard is already gone.

--

Evening. Fresh snow blankets the grounds surrounding both houses as white flakes descend from the darkened skies. It’s strangely quiet, both inside and out. Plates filled to the brim with food line the dining table – potato and onion cakes called latkes, slabs of juicy brisket, a roast chicken, and bowls of small pastries called sufganiyot. Trevor lights the first candle of the menorah while Sypha and Alucard watch, their faces illuminated in the fire’s soft glow.

“Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu, melekh ha’olam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu l’hadlik ner shel Hanukkah.” There’s bittersweet nostalgia in Trevor’s voice as he recites the prayer. He no longer struggles with the words, having practiced them for years until he fell asleep in whatever alleyway he called home. Yet Trevor wishes he knew everything. All those lessons he took for granted as a child, skipping more often than he should have just so he could climb in his beloved tree or learn how to carry a sword double the size of his body. Thinking he would be given all the time in the world to learn a language held in such high regard by his family.

He sets down the piece of flint with an unsteady hand. Silence fills the dining hall. This is supposed to be a night of celebration. Now this sudden revelation has left Trevor with a sense of inadequacy. Disappointment. Less of a Belmont, in more ways than one.

Until Alucard interjects with a comment so genuine, so sincere, the hunter never thought he’d hear from anyone in his lifetime. Not directed towards him. “That was wonderful. Beautiful, even.”

Sypha agrees and turns to Trevor with bright eyes, eager for the festivities to continue. A smile edges along his lips. All the things he could and should have done to keep his heritage alive in the past will never leave him. Though for now, he keeps the flame of this tradition alight, and that is plenty.

The three of them eat, drink, laugh, and enjoy each other’s company – as all loved ones should on an evening like this. “Can we do this every night?” Sypha asks, sliding more brisket and vegetables onto her plate.

“I was about to ask the same thing,” Alucard adds.

“Actually, the way we did it, we only threw a dinner like this for the first night. For the rest, all we had to do was light another candle and say the same prayer.”

Sypha slouches back in her chair with an almost serious pout, but Alucard seems a bit more understanding. “Perhaps you can teach us so that you don’t feel as alone.”

As Trevor tops up his cup with more of the good wine he and Sypha bought from Black Sea traders, he strongly considers Alucard’s suggestion. You just had to go and word it like that, didn’t you… He wants to deflect, claim he’s not a good teacher. But as much as he talks himself down, a thought comes to Trevor, one that nearly slipped past him – he’s already been acting as their teacher. They both listened with keen attention while he taught them the customs, recipes, and history that revolve around this Feast of Dedication. This Festival of Lights. His thin smile grows.

The amount of food on the table begins to dwindle. While the snow continues to drape over quiet, peaceful Wallachia, Trevor reveals that it’s about time they open presents. Carrying their plates, they move from the dining hall into a comfortable study room. They gather around the already warm fireplace, surrounding themselves with cushions and blankets. Everyone is anxious to unveil which gifts they chose for one another, but the moment all three are seated, Sypha pulls out a parcel wrapped in brown paper.

“Sorry we couldn’t get any silk or lace,” Trevor quips.

Alucard resists the urge to roll his eyes off to the side. Hard to tell whether it’s another unfunny joke or if the two of them really did attempt such an elaborate and expensive feat all for him. He tries discerning what his present might be by prodding at it with his fingers. Cushy, thick, yet light as a feather. The dhampir tears through the wrapping and is presented a long scarf the colour of striking red amidst the crumpled parcel paper. He lays it on his crossed legs, running a hand over the wool; a cloud could very well be the only thing softer.

Though not entirely necessary, Sypha and Trevor appreciate his gentle gracefulness with the article of clothing. “We got that at a marketplace in Transylvania.”

“Do you like it?” Sypha asks. Alucard drapes the scarf over his shoulders and around his neck, savouring its cosiness.

“I adore it. Thank you both.”

Sypha is next. Trevor hands her a velvet box as Alucard looks on. She lifts the top and her eyes fly open. Inside is a necklace made from polished lapis lazuli gemstones, held together with gold encasings. “Trevor found the stones while I assisted with the construction.”

“You made this together?”

“Well, I only bought the lapis on the road while you weren’t looking since you told me they were your favourite. Alucard just made sure all the pieces fit together.”

“We wanted to make something unique and especially for your tastes.”

Sypha isn’t speechless, she knows what she wants to say. The question is what to say first. How to show her gratitude for their actions. “I’ve never had anything like this… thank you so much.”

“Want to put it on?”

“Yes, I do!” After adjusting the thick collar of her Speaker robes, Trevor moves closer, helping her clasp the necklace in place. It sits perfectly around her neck and upon her chest. Sypha wears it proudly, showing it off at every opportunity. “You like to make jewelry, Alucard?”

“I was shocked by that too. Care to tell us where that interest came from?”

“Everybody needs a hobby.” The hunter sits back; maybe one day he’ll manage to pry that story out of Alucard. “Don’t you want your present, Trevor?”

“Course I do.”

With a coy smile, Alucard gives him the small book. “It’s poetry about hauntings and ghosts.”

“And just so you are aware, it was originally my idea to give you a book.” Sypha adds.

“You both know I don’t mind all things supernatural but… that’s a bit dark for this time of year, don’t you think?”

“It was always a winter tradition in my household to tell ghost stories around the fireplace.”

“Why does that not surprise me.” Trevor runs his thumb over the title. He admires the gift, yet something is weighing itself down on his chest and the last thing he wants to do is offend. As they always say, “it’s the thought that counts”. Perhaps in this case, he likes the thought more than the final outcome.

“I appreciate this. Honestly, I do. But I won’t be able to read anything in this book on my own.” The words leave a shameful aftertaste in his mouth, despite them being the truth. He braces himself for his friends’ inevitable disappointment and downwards glances. They never come; Alucard and Sypha’s cheery expressions haven’t changed.

“We know. That’s why Alucard and I are going to teach you.”

“Really?”

“No one else is going to give you the lessons you so desperately need.” Even Alucard’s comment, hard to tell yet still said with the best intentions in mind, doesn’t bother Trevor. Not so much so that he feels the need to one up it. It might be all the wine, the food, or the warm, comforting energy of this intimate gathering, but something is making a lump form in his throat.

He swallows it down and gives his thanks.

--

The fire burns late into the night. Sypha lies curled up surrounded by empty wine goblets and plates covered in crumbs, having completely given herself over to sleep. Her back rises then falls at a slow pace, her breathing peaceful. Trevor drifts somewhere between consciousness and sleep while Alucard is quiet but wide awake. They share one blanket draped across their legs and watch as the flames dance with the cascade of snowflakes just outside the stained-glass window.

“Someone should clean that up,” Trevor mumbles.

“You should.”

“Why me?”

“It’s the food you made and the drink you brought along.”

“But it’s your house.”

“Technically it’s yours as well.”

“Since when?”

“Since you joined both our homes when you gave me the Belmont Hold.”

“Then that means you should clean up too.”

They could go on all night if either of them wanted to. However, Alucard decides to end this barely serious argument with a laugh and change of subject. “Your cheeks are very pink.”

“Hm? What was that?” Trevor slurs.

“I’m saying you look very drunk.”

Trevor leans his head back, letting out a snort. True, there was plenty to drink and he certainly took advantage of that. “You haven’t seen me really drunk.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Me neither. I’m done with that.”

Four short, simple words. Four words Alucard swore he misheard. “Are you really?”

Trevor nods. “Tonight was a special occasion. But while Sypha and I were traveling, weeks would go by without a single drop touching my lips. I still enjoy it and there are the occasional lapses, but… the need is nothing like it was before.”

Alucard reaches over and places his hand upon Trevor’s warm cheek. Now he regrets all those things he said concerning his control coupled with sobriety – or lack of both. “You should be proud of yourself. You should also sleep.”

“Yes, mother…” Trevor thinks for a moment, wondering what sort of reaction his next request will garner from Alucard. A strange look, a curiously raised eyebrow, or another witty remark. “Can you do… one thing for me?”

“Well, I expected you to at least wait until tomorrow to ask for your second gift.” A low laugh escapes the dhampir’s mouth. “What can I do for you?”

“Can you read a poem from my book? I’m curious about what’s written in it.”

“Is that all?” A simple request and an even easier wish to make true, but one that is uncharacteristic of Trevor. It could be the wine speaking for him. “Alright.”

Trevor hands over the book. While Alucard combs the pages for the right sonnet, the hunter’s upper body starts learning to the side until his head softly lands in the dhampir’s lap. Alucard raises his hands, then sighs. He had a feeling this would happen, especially now that Trevor’s eyes are closed.

“I’m not sleeping.” Trevor says, his voice slightly muffled. “Just shutting my eyes for a bit. I’m still listening.”

Another exasperated yet endearing sigh from Alucard. He finally settles on the right poem, suitably dark and eerie.

“It is midnight, my wedded;

Let us lie under the tempest bright undreaded,

In the warm thunder:

Tremble and weep not. What can you fear?

My heart’s best wish is thine…”

Alucard reads on, slowly and carefully with the open book in one hand, his other hand drifting above Trevor’s head. He strokes it, delicate fingers weaving in and out of his strands of hair. With every gentle movement, Trevor nestles his head further into the dhampir’s lap. Alucard wouldn’t be surprised if he began purring like a cat. He’d also never let him hear the end of it.

“Thou hast strangled me and slain me, lover,

Thou hast stabbed me, dear,

In the ghosts’ moonshine.

Is that the wind? No, no;

Only her goblin doth blow

Through the murderer’s ribs to and fro,

In its own moonshine.”

The book closes; Alucard waits for Trevor’s thoughts if he has any.

“It’s sad.”

“Not scary?”

Trevor lifts his head away from the blanket in order to speak more clearly. “Ghosts don’t scare me. Never have but they are sad. Even the angry, spiteful ones. Especially when they’re bound to a single place, like a castle or old ruins, and can’t move on. What do you think?”

That’s the first profound statement Alucard has heard from Trevor in months. And it’s true. Of course he’s seen his fair share of ghosts – they both have. Lowering the book, Alucard thinks about his own encounters with spirits roaming the corridors. Those who come and go as they please, blurring all possible lines which divide life from death. They’ve made the empty castle their home, just as he has. Or are they actually memories? Is there really a difference?

“I think you may have a point.” Alucard blinks slowly, wary of the direction this conversation might take itself in. Although he might need to wait, for Trevor has already passed out. The dhampir shakes his shoulder. Nothing, just a sleepy groan in protest.

Alucard’s own tired gaze shifts between Sypha then down at Trevor. He could carry them both back to their bed… in due time. Until then, he watches over his two humans, keeping them close, and waits for the fire to fade into cinders.

[decadentrpg-blog]

WELCOME ROSE, YOU’VE BEEN ACCEPTED FOR THE ROLE OF ANTONELLA PICQUERY

Admins Note: My favorite femme fatale has arrived to stun us all. I absolutely squealed at your interpretation of Antonella. Every facet of her narcissism, her excessive indulgence and proud ego has been carved out. The sample paragraph had me chuckling, poor bloke! All in all, I can’t wait to see Antonella twirl past midnight, capturing sin with every step she takes.  Congratulations on your acceptance again, please make sure to head your way to the checklist and submit your account within the next 24 hours!

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name / Alias: Rose.  Pronouns: She/Her. Age: 21. Timezone: EST (GMT +5) 

IN CHARACTER

Full Name: Antonella Margaux Picquery Sexuality: Bisexual. Gender/Pronouns: Cis Female. She/Her. Hogwarts House: Slytherin.

Head canons

warning Mentions of death, narcissistic shenanigans.

ONE She caresses her lover’s cheek. I could kill someone, if I needed to, she thinks, and then kisses her. And even if I didn’t need to, I think I could.

TWO There are two sorts of lovers. Curiosities and passions. The former begins on a whim, at the briefest mix of boredom and interest. And is done with and gone as quick as it occured. The second is sweeter and, well. She doesn’t pursue them. She’s too beautiful to pursue anyone or anything. Anything she desires eventually must make its way to her. So she keeps the door open. She sets out the trail of breadcrumbs and waits for them to find themself where she always knew they would. In her thrall. It’s inevitable.

THREE Antonella has a higher tolerance for pretty muggles over ugly wizards. Far better to listen to idle small talk pour from lovely lips, rather than intricate spells from a cracked maw. In fact, she once had a muggle. He glanced about her apartments and laughed, nervous. Irritating. But he looked like the angels had cut him from the night sky. She wanted to sink her teeth into him. So she did. Until one day, she met a golden eyed half veela and left him, forgotten, in Morocco.

& HORUS “Stay with me,” she says. “I love you,” and it feels like the truth. The best lies always do. He stays, she stays, they stay. One day she lies to him and it feels like the truth, tastes like the truth, sounds like the truth. And while she remembers the words in stunned silence (were they the truth? impossible) he leaves.

FIVE Antonella is morbidly blithe and playfully cruel. She believes life is only a series of distractions and games. It is an exercise in enjoyment and the one who lives best is the one who laughs most. So she laughs and lives for herself and her pleasure alone. Labor is what others do to support her wants and her yearnings; worker bees for a queen. She bears them neither gratitude or malice. Her payment is every moment they’re allowed to observe her. What they have is symbiotic. Without culture, the arts, people like her, how could they ever bear their grim, small lives?

SIX Her grandmother dies, face haggard and hidden, and Antonella has never admired anyone more. When her mother comes to slide the veil away, Antonella slaps her hands. This is a final, sacred wish. The aesthetic preserved at all cost. She takes and keeps the lesson. She buries it in her heart, and lets it sprout.

SEVEN No one’s ever made her grow up and so, there are traces of a child’s ambiguous innocence within her. An almost complete absence of empathy for others. An almost impressive preoccupation with herself and her own wants, needs, and comfort. If an acquaintance is weeping, she knows enough to say nothing of her slight hunger, to embrace and comfort them, but she will wonder, wistfully, of when can she go and indulge herself? She has spent her life being spoiled, and sees no reason why that should stop.

EIGHT This’s how her parents regard her: A living doll. A paradox. Dolls don’t live. They exist. They’re displayed and owned. What do dolls exist for, if not to be handled? If not to be the eternal object to another’s subject. Nothing great could come from anything so slight, and delicate. This is the worst hurt of her half life.

& WREN She looks at Wren and says, “Charming.” This has only happened twice before, and the best time had been in an empty glen, her veins full of liquor and delight. The thestral had gazed at her and she at it. A warm, fondness overtook her, the same fondness that heated her neck when she considered Wren, the same fondness she had for all rough diamonds. For the beauty that hid itself in plain sight. With every rebuff and dismissal, the indignant fondness doesn’t diminish. It grows. “Quaint,” she breathes under her breath, as Wren flees her, because she has been here before. She has done this before. And the sweetest part of a thing’s creation is its destruction. The artist knows best how to ruin art. Piecing it all together, building it all up, only to learn its most intimate machination, to know the best way to pluck the heart of it out, and watch it topple. She’s a child demolishing her sand castles, her blood hot and salted. Another game, another dear distraction; the foundation of life.

& EVANDER Antonella never accepts the bill when it comes. It has never and will never occur to her that she should. Sometimes she might consider the morality of an action. That it’s wrong, that it might hurt. But then here is the crux of the matter: She wants, so she does, and she takes. She wants her fiance’s friend, Evander, so she has him, and when she no longer wants him--a whim, a curiosity--he’s tossed aside. Forgotten.

& DARIUS Given the choice, she surrounds herself with beautiful things and beautiful people. Envy is rarely, if ever, a present concern of hers. She would say, I long to be surrounded by beautiful women and beautiful men. And never dream to add, Beautiful, but not as beautiful as myself. What a hypothetical, theoretical waste of breath. Where would she find anyone or anything as beautiful as herself? Or, since she’s already sunk into the depths of myth and fantasy, more beautiful. In a story, or a dream? She may’ve met one such woman, in a nightmare, but it was only Antonella’s reflection arisen from the dark sea. She may’ve met one such woman at a party, where she had been so wrecked with terror and drunkenness and desire that she knew she would die, but it was only her staring back from the window.

So her fiance isn’t as beautiful as her, but she loves to look at him, and be looked upon with him. Has she ever looked finer than with him at her side, than with her at his side, their arms entangled? And has anything ever felt more distant and unsettled, than his hand on her shoulder? Stiff, dry, odd. Lust melts her lovers into her but he remains cold and far off. She might pretend to feel for him romantic distress when she clasps their hands together, but the more time passes the more her passion for him becomes devoured by pride and vanity and sooner or later, rage.

In Character Paragraph

Antonella sways, breathes in air soaked with color and delirium. Smiles at a girl draped in silver sparkle, her mouth like a melted rose. There are whispers and clumsy gazes directed towards Antonella, who preens. There are trumpets and saxophones screaming away into the night. “The muggles are working themselves into a terrible frenzy tonight.” She loves it. Her walk is one-third dance.

“They’re called No Maj,” her companion, Douglas, corrects her, thoughtless, and she ignores him in the same manner. He hasn’t noticed the anticipation of reverie around them. He doesn’t have the nose for it as she does, and he’s too preoccupied with how he must look to her, anyways. Which is just as well.

A Rolls Royce waits to chariot them to an intimate gathering of artists, on the edge of Harlem and nowhere. It’s a convertible; the interior all butterscotch leather that complements her dark silhouette, her cream gown, her easy privilege. Antonella drives because her companion can’t and won’t. Because he becomes wrecked with a terrible sweat at first sight of the automobile. Because she wants to and it’s hers and she ignores his hand wringing. His vague mutterings on humiliation and control. Was this the muggleborn in him talking? How exotic. “I prefer portkey,” he says, finally.

“Oh, darling, you’re no fun,” she replies, snapping her elegant, leather gloves on. Those gloves are too much involved in her excitement to drive. She has been overcome, for the past two days, by the thought of them and how sporty and fine she’ll look with her hands on the wheel. Her hair flying in the wind behind her, a cape of midnight darker than even the night around them.

How glamorous! And irresistable she’ll seem, even more so than she always does, if that’s possible. She regards Douglas, her expression pleasant and juxtaposed against the frost in her eyes, “Don’t tell me you get car sick, Douglas.” If he does, she just might abandon him right there, rather than follow him by portkey, or have him ruin her butterscotch seats. Her heart’s too much set on the idea of herself in the car with her gloves on. She imagines the jittering men and smirking women, their admiring gazes warm against her skin.

Rather than answer her, he gapes at her. His grey eyes wide and striking enough to remind her why she allowed him into her company. “My name is Harold.”

“What is that, Henry?” she asks, his voice lost beneath the engines hum and her own delight. As the car takes off at a terrible speed, he forgets himself and what he means to say. He clutches the dashboard instead. Her smile is serene. His yelps escalate as the vehicle slips off the Manhattan Bridge. The East River swallows them whole, and Antonella peers at the sickly sea life swimming around their bubble.

“How can you call yourself a wizard, Henry? Everything shocks and upsets you.” Ilvermorny must be a poor institution indeed. “It’s almost as if you’ve never been in an enchanted vehicle before.”

“You upset me,” he gasps.

Before she can reply, the car begins to sing, a sweet thrilling blues melody, and Antonella crows along with it, their voices clear and lovely above Douglas’s frantic complaints. The night looks full of possibilities. She can tilt the car just so and shake Douglas out into the blue beyond. (Cruel? Perhaps, but how cruel was he, to bore her so?) She can find someone beautiful and sink with them into the Atlantic. Laugh and drink at the intimate gathering. Laugh and drink at the frenzy behind her, instead, and fill those muggles’ hearts with unexpected rapture. Swim with the sharks. Make love beneath the moon. Or any number of pleasures, as yet undiscovered. How good to be alive. How good to be Antonella.

Extras

Mockblog.​Edits.​Playlist.

[echeronsink]

Bite Me (mobile preview)

Warning for slightly NSFW dialogue. You can read the chapter on its browser reader here.

Eliza Møller felt like she’d been forced to run laps around the island, force-fed all of Berk’s worst culinary endeavors at once, and then used as a battering ram on the doors of the Great Hall. In other words, she was feeling her night encounter with Berk’s future Chief even more than she’d expected to.

The raw scrapes on her palms stung every time she moved a finger, making carrying firewood up to the hall considerably worse. But it was the best she’d been able to make of the situation. It was either bloody hands or a broken neck after the pride of Berk nearly let that overgrown lizard kill her. Considering that she’d had to catch herself on a branch after being dropped into the trees from no small distance above ground, that might’ve actually been what the other girl was hoping for. Showing a little mercy to a nadder trapped in the arena was one thing, but “taming” a dragon with nothing holding it back from burning her to a crisp at a moments notice? She’d never heard of something so stupid. And she was a viking of the Hooligan tribe. She knew stupid. “Oi, Eli, what’s up with your hands? You get in a fight or something?” Aigen’s loud, intrusive voice broke the silence she’d been more than happy to brood in so far this morning, grating harshly on her already exhausting headache. “No,” she answered bitterly, glancing up the frost covered path that branched off into the village. “Matthias would skin us alive if we caused trouble here.” “Not like that stopped you before, I still remember the time you sliced Wulfric’s hammock.” “That was a bet. And we never got caught, so it didn’t matter.” She slowed her pace, adjusting her grip on the rough logs. “Besides, we were at sea. He couldn’t just kick us off the Guard right there.” Aigen was usually good company, especially when they had nothing to do but sit around between dragon raids, but his knack for digging into anything he found curious was more than enough to make her want to bury him some days. Especially when he got an idea in his head. Her eyes flickered back up to the village habitually, only to come to a sudden stop with the rest of her body as she spotted none other than the dragonmaster herself. And she was staring right back, no less. The other girl’s expression was guarded, with a hint of something else underneath... “Oi, did you freeze your ears off or something?” Aigen bumped her, grunting as he nearly dropped his armload of wood. His face screwed up with exaggerated annoyance, scrunching up his nose so much he barely looked like he had his eyes open. “Huh?” she mumbled dumbly, looking back at the gangly, black-haired boy. He squinted back at her for a few seconds, and she could practically see the gears turning past the puffs of white breath between them. A shit-eating grin spread across his pimply face as soon as he looked up the path himself. “So that’s where you were last night.” She cringed, because now he had an idea. And it was so incredibly wrong. But she couldn’t even snap at him to get his head out of the gutter before he was talking again. “Ooooh my god,” he leaned in close with a grin so obnoxiously gleeful that she wanted to drop the firewood on his head right then and there. “And you were telling me to behave while we’re here? What do you think Matthias would do to you if he found out you hooked up with the Chief’s daughter? What do you think the Chief would do-? OW!” She glared up at him, digging her heel into his boot a little more for good measure. “Shut up. That did not happen.” He gasped, and if it weren’t for the wood in his hands he would’ve clapped as realization dawned on him. “Oh ho ho, my gods. Holy shit, in the woods, seriously!?” He was already cackling when she shoved him. “You know what? Fine. I did get in a fight,” she snapped, turning away from him stubbornly and beginning to trudge up the path. Unintentionally, she cast a withering glare in West’s direction. The other girl may have actually flinched at that, but she was busy trying to keep her attention on the stone steps instead of the present conversation. Undeterred from his train of thought, Aigen continued to jeer at her. “I admire your dedication to secrecy, really, but you oughta be more careful, Dusty! You’ll lose something important to the cold before the Chief ever gets ahold of you if that’s your idea of a good spot to have a little fun.” “I didn’t do anything,” she growled. He was rapidly beginning to gnaw his way through her last bit of patience. “Oh, don’t tell me that the village’s innocent little bookworm seduced you? Is there a secret side of our future Chief that really doesn’t mind having all the authority?” He smirked, elbowing her shoulder. “No.” »»————-> <————-«« Her head had still been spinning with adrenaline and lack of oxygen after she’d dropped herself down from the branch, vaguely aware of the sound of snow crunching underfoot nearby as she lay winded in the dark. Her brain was still fumbling with the information that she was about as far away from the village as she could get, too far for anyone to help her. Her cold, bleeding hands had already been scrabbling for the backup sword at her hip when a certain piece of the puzzle clicked back into place. Auber. She had the breath knocked out of her a second time as a heavy weight dropped onto her stomach, pinning her on her back. She tensed to roll them off of her, only to freeze in place as her eyes caught the faint traces of moonlight glinting off the seax above her. Her seax. She blinked, feeling her throat tighten as she squinted up at the taller girl, washed in the moonlight so that whatever pale skin wasn’t covered by dark clothing looked almost silvery. If she squinted, she thought she could make out the faintest trace of her blue eyes beyond the shadows falling over her face. “You.” She steeled her grip on the polished handle, chest heaving from running through knee-deep snow as she straddled Eliza’s stomach. “You followed me.” She made a sound like she’d been insulted before she could bite her tongue, momentarily forgetting the dragon that had to still be lurking around nearby. “Me? Why the hell would I follow you?” She seemed to falter at the question, but the hesitation was only fleeting. She adjusted her grip again, likely crushing down her doubts. “Because you knew.” “What? That you were Grade-A crazy?” she challenged, sliding her hands into the dirty snow and raising her head a few inches. Anything to make her feel her disadvantaged position a little less right now. And to get a little more visibility on the trees. “If I knew your moronic ass was out here playing house with a dragon, I would’ve stayed right in the village with people who have some sense!” She glared at that, looking at her in the same way she always used to right before they’d get into another argument as children. “I’m not crazy, or stupid! They’re not monsters, you said it yourself!” “It’s not a fucking pet, West! What, are you out here braiding bears’ fur when nobody’s looking too?! That thing will tear you apart the second it decides it’s hungry enough!” Rather than getting through to West’s usually dominating logical side, that only seemed to agitate her further. In hindsight, she was never really aiming for a positive reaction. “Gods, you’re just like everyone else, aren’t you?” Somehow, that felt like the most insulting thing she could’ve said. Was it now a bad thing that she had a shred of self-preservation weighing in on her decisions? She couldn’t keep herself from snarling up at the girl holding her down with her own knife. “What the hell is that supposed to mea-” She was cut off as she flinched away from the sudden, intense sensation of heat and light flushing against the right side of her face. She blinked away the dark splotches as her eyes tried to adjust from the inky blackness that had shrouded everything just a moment before. Her heart nearly stopped as she stared into the open maw of the dragon just five feet from them, sending a chill through her that seemed to suck the last bit of heat out of her body. Which only made the bonfire blazing in the hearth of its jaws feel that much hotter. She was vaguely aware of the soft, cautious mumbling coming from West as the girl’s attention shifted towards the scaled beast and she held out a hand. The shadows no longer hid her features, blue eyes blazing with the reflection of the fire like twin torches, while the rest of her was washed in the harsh orange glow as well. That stupid, stupid disheveled hair and the tiny little translucent freckles dotting her cheekbones and that infuriating jawline- A horrifying hiss escaped the dragon’s throat, and Eliza was sure that her internal organs were attempting to escape the situation by shriveling up into nothing. She was positive, for a moment, that the last thing she’s going to see is this stupid, pretty girl sitting on top of her before they were both swallowed by dragon fire. After a tense moment, the jaws shut with an audible clap, plunging the woods into darkness again. She couldn’t even see West when she leaned forward, warm breath fanning out across her face as she whispered. ”Don’t tell anyone.” »»————-> <————-«« “Oh, yeah, I bet she was real unhappy about it when she pushed you up against a tree-” “Will you stop talking!?” Her voice must’ve raised an entire octave as she stomped up the stone path, jarring a stick out of her grasp and sending it clattering down the steps as she tried to purge that particular image from her imagination. She could feel the heat creeping up her neck now, and it wasn’t in the same way she suddenly felt flushed before promptly fainting. (Thankfully, she’d done that well after she’d snuck back into the village and parted ways with West in the middle of the night.) Aigen beamed at her with the most horribly knowing, unknowing grin she’d ever seen.

[kittymaverick]

Tradition dictates that I must make commentary on each MCF games, even when I complain about how thing the content is...

Spoilers under cut. Also, this is written from memory, so order might be a little off.

1. MD: Ah, finally. A well deserved holiday just like I requested-- Queen: Oh Master Detective the Americas are being incredibly incompetent at this whole supernatural thing. Awfully sorry for disrupting your vacation, but your service are requested. MD: ...Just shoot me in the head, will you, Your Majesty? Queen: I’m flying you over on a private jet plane. MD: Okay, everything’s forgiven. 2. Me: Cassette tape? Really? MD: I didn’t know our beloved Queen’s a hipster. Queen: Not only that, I also write letters. Me: My god she really is a hipster. 3. Me: ...Really? Artifact of immense power capable of granting immortality, and you use it as a quill? MD: I have no idea what you are talking about. 4. MD: ...Why isn’t anyone here to pick me up? I thought this was an all expense paid trip? I’m going to need to walk TEN MILES to the murder scene? Me: You’ve walked more than that in underground complexes. A wheat field is nothing. 5. Woman: Oh hi Detective you’re totally here to investigate the murder right. Me and MD in unison: SUSPECT! INSTANT SUSPECT! Woman: Also, why are you not turning on the truck lights? You can progress the game until you do that. MD: ... I hate this town already. Me: For a town that’s devoid of people you sure fill it with a lotta hate. MD: Me and abandoned towns don’t go so well together, in case my history hasn’t reflected that enough. 6. MD: Hm, interesting grave-- [GRABBED] FUUUUUUUUUUUCK MEEEEEEEEEEEE. Alvin: Hi. Bye. [Gone~] MD: .................How am I still alive? Me: You know, it’s awfully refreshing for once when the enemy isn’t obsessed with you. 7. Me: Who’s this magic guy that keeps on showing up on all the flyers? MD: If you actually used your head, it’s the first murder victim. Me: ...Can you not? 8. Housekeeper lady: Oh this town is so full of gossip you know, about it’s rich people. Me: Yes do share. I love gossips. 83 MD: .......What has my life come to. 9. [Creepy doll thing] MD: ... Totally not creepy at all. Nope! [Eyes lights up red] Not creepy! [MD begins weeping.] 10. Woman to other woman: GET OUTTA TOWN. Me: Someone get me a camera, imma gonna paparazzi this. MD: ...When I submit my case report, I am so going to request that I just have a mundane investigation of a heist or something simple for once. Me: Awwww, but the supernatural cases are the fun ones. D: 11. [Sees door with contraption] Me: Oh yeah...This is totally not a reminder of something. 12. Housekeeper: Oh no I’m trapped because I stuck my hand in this thing please help. MD: I am so fed up by non-player characters. Me: And I am dying of laughter inside because it’s legit the first time I’ve seen a complicated door puzzle TRAP someone. 13. MD: Alright, opening this hunting room right now-- [Bullet goes through the Elephant’s head] JESUS CHRIST! Me: YOUR HEAD. IS IT OKAY? MD: I’m glad I’m not taller! Me: Wait no, you have that immortal feather why am I worried about you? 14. Guy with gun: You made me waste a bullet! MD: And you made me waste my wits. What the hell is going on? Guy: Do you hear that? MD: ...No? Guy: The silence, it’s deafening. MD: ...Yeah, exactly. So I heard nothing. 15. [EPIC CRASH THROUGH THE WINDOW] {SHOTS FIRE} Me: OMG HE SHOT THE REVENANT-- oh wait yeah, guy’s undead he’s fine. 16. Guy: SHOOT HIM WITH THE CROSS BOWS! MD: WHAT CROSSBOW--[accidentally sets it off] ... OKAY GOT IT. GUY: IT’S NOT WORKING GET THE NET! MD: WHAT NET-- oh I SEE IT. Me: That worked? Holy shit it worked. 17. Alvin: Bye bye again. [Zoink!] Guy: COME BACK HERE. Me: No wait come back people that chase after the enemy tends to die you know. MD: ...Guy had it coming. Me: Also, it’s refreshing that YOU aren’t the one that set the building on fire this time. 18. MD: Alright, finally able to follow them. Ghost of first victim: BEWARE OF WHAT LIES AHEAD. MD: SOME FUCKING WARNING WOULD BE NICE. Me: ...Well you saw ghosts in Ravenhearst so-- MD: NO. 19. MD: Let’s find the guy-- Me: AAAAAHHHHHH BODY STABBED TO TREE! DEAD BODY ALERT! MD: ............I can’t even at this point. Me: You know, you’ve been less able to save people recently. MD: Can you really blame me? The last few enemies were rather homicidal. I have better self preservation instincts than to dive right in and risk my neck for people. 20. Me: Alright! We’ve got a ladder to the window! MD: ...THAT ENTIRE GEAR PUZZLE WAS ALL FOR A FREAKING WEIGHT??? Me: Yeah, was a tad unsatisfying... 21. Me: Aw they have a place called Lover’s Point-- MD: NOPE. Me: ...I didn’t even-- MD: CAN’T HEAR YOU. 22. Me: ...BTW, why are you kicking piles of leaves? MD: Stress relief. It’s that or setting things on fire. The latter’s kinda illegal. Me: Duly noted. 23. Alvin’s sister(?): Yeah just go ahead and have a look around. MD: You have a shite garden you know that? Me: WHAT SHE MEANT IS YOUR PUMPKIN PATCH IS WONDERFUL. 24. MD: It’s so nice to have an opponent who’s actually sane and has an organized room for once. Me: It’s a double decker trailer. I’m not sure how “neat” that is. MD: Just let me enjoy this for a moment, okay? 25. Woman: Hi this is totally not a supervillain confession tape. Well okay it is. MD: That makes you 1000% more forthcoming than the others I’ve faced. 26. MD: I need something with a hook on it to get this thing. Me: Alright, let’s find a broom-- MD: I’m going to stretch this rubber chicken out and attach a hook to it! Me: ...Is your mind okay?... 27. Me: Hm...There’s nothing about this creepy toy factory that’s ringing any bells, is it? MD: Hm.....I sure hope there isn’t. Me: Yeah, think we might just be paranoid. Devs: [Cackling in the background as they plot evilly] 28. Woman: PLEASE DON’T KILL OUR KID ALVIN. Alvin: Whatever. [Kills the woman] Me: ...You seriously just watched that happen and did nothing, didn’t you? MD: Yep. The less people there are alive, the less trouble I need to handle later. Me: ...Is this because you’ve had to save so many characters again you’re now letting them die so that’ll never trouble you again? MD: Damn, my master plan has been figured out ABORT ABORT. 29. MD: Oh no so the woman’s houskeeper’s daughter is really her own daughter! Le gasp. Me: ...For rich people this is kinda tame. MD: I know, right? They could have made it spicier. Housekeeper’s notes: I found ropes and handcuffs. Wonder what the miss is up to. Me: ...I don’t think that counts. 30. Housekeeper: The girl’s locked herself in her room! Me: Alright, just let me find one thing-- [Alvin comes charging through the door] MD: GOD DAMMIT CAN YOU TIME YOUR ENTRANCE A LITTLE BETTER ALVIN? 31. MD: Wait, what are they weak to? Me: Salt. Good old table salt. MD: Oh I’ll give them salt-- HERE HAVE ALL OF MY SALTINESS THAT’S DEVELOPED OVER THE YEARS BECAUSE OF THE ABUSE I’VE SUFFERED DURING MY CASES. YOU GET A SALT, YOU GET A SALT, YOU ALL GET A SALT! SALT FOR DAYS! Me: ......Nice therapy. 32. Housekeeper: Quick, open the door! Me: WE’RE MISSING A KEY-- Housekeeper: Oh that here I have it for you. MD: ...SERIOUSLY?! Me: I’m not sure if you’re surprised that she actually gave you something directly or that you’re insulted you didn’t get to search for it. 33. The girl: MH MH MH MH! MD: Oh so that’s what the bindings are for. Me: Huh, she’s left a vial of her own blood. MD: WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU RICH PEOPLE??? 34. Me: So things have gone to shit downstairs. We’re taking the bedsheets down. MD: At least it’s not us escaping from a death trap. Alvin: [GLARING YELLOW EYES[ MD: I’M GOING I’M GOING! 35. Ghostly voice of the woman: ENTER THE ART EXHIBITION OF REGRET. Me: What do you mean exhibition-- oh my dear gods. This is like if Charles Dalimar built his complexes out of guilt of his crimes against humanity. MD: ....Why can’t I just see a NORMAL art gallery for once? Me: Well at least this time it’s not dedicated to you. MD: Please don’t jinx me. 36. MD: Really? All of that for a really nice fancy leather jacket? Me: It’s a nice leather jacket. Alvin’s got taste. Alvin: Hi, I heard you’re touching my jacket. Also is that what’s-her-name’s blood? MD: Um... yeah? Alvin: Okay. [GRABS STRANGLES] MD: FUUUUUUUUU-- Me: Oh don’t worry this isn’t so bad-- Alvin: [Breaks vial of blood] Me: Oh shit this is bad. 37. MD: YOU WANT IT HERE HAVE IT [Tosses the jacket into the fire] Alvin: Finally I’ve been avengeeeeeeeeeeddddddd [Ashes] Me: NOOOOOOO NOT THE JACKET IT WAS INNOCENT. MD: It was tacky. Real cool people wear detective long coats. 38. The girl: So the woman’s really my mom? But she was so mean to me. Housekeeper: Well she wanted what was best for you. Me and MD: Not it’s because she’s a self centered abusive bitch who keeps using her rich background as an excuse go hang out with your cool aunt. 39. Housekeeper: Omg that was so much drama. I can’t wait until I tell my friends at brunch. MD: Can you not??? Me: I’ll take brunch! 40. Me: You know, I can’t believe that went by so fast. We solved the case in a single evening for once. MD: Does this mean I can have the rest of my vacation back? Oh thank god. Me: Wait hold on a minute you let like TWO people die. MD: Two out of three people. I save the third. Me: Why couldn’t you save all three??? MD: Well you know what they say. Third times the charm-- Me: THAT’S NOT HOW THAT SAYING WORKS.