#//it's so hard why do i feel like i'm trying to run over fire barefoot?

[mystical-strawberry-sheep]

{Lord, y'all, I need help. I said I was going to be aggressive, and as soon as I went out to hunt people down and send stuff to their inboxes I collapsed like a wet cardboard box and skittered back into my isolation hovel. I'm scared. I'm scared to try and force her onto folks when I've been trying for the last few weeks with not a whole lot to show for it.}

{Aaaahhh, deep breaths. Deep breaths. I can do this I just need to go real fast like ripping a bandaid off. ;-; Aghk.}

[indigobackfire]

Phoenix Lazar Nobleworth Silverwood

Below is a lengthy history of his parents, their involvement with dragons, and how he lost them.

Ps: I tried adding some Scottish dialect in the dialogue, but I'm not the best at it considering all I have as reference is my love for James McAvoy and Outlander. Forgive me in advance for any atrocities lol. Also, diverging from canon especially in relation to Veela powers and physical descriptions.

Phoenix's father, Emilian, was sorted into Gryffindor and with pride, he was a Gryffindor by the book, adventurous, brave, often reckless, fun, with a strong sense of protection over his friends, someone who valued courage and honor.

Emilian didn't know how he and Palmer Silverwood - Slytherin, pureblood, much more popular than him, and one of the best duelists in their year - became friends, he also didn't know how Palmer found an about to hatch dragon egg in the forbidden forest, or how he even got into the forbidden forest to begin with, but being who he was, Emilian wasn't much surprised.

The biggest surprise was that Palmer even knew who he was.

Emilian takes a peek into Palmer's robes where the egg is hidden. "So? You're the dragon laddie, Nobleworth."

"Yeah, it's a dragon egg. Common Welsh Green this one." He looks up. "And is that what people call me?"

"Are ye really surprised? You talk about them all the time, yer the best in Care of Magical Creatures, and ye have a dragon painted at the back of yer bloody robes."

"Only fair. McGonagall hates it."

Palmer laughs. "Will ye help me?"

"Aye. But what ye want me to do?"

"I dinna ken. I just don't want the wee dragon to die. The poor creature wasn't warm when I found it so it's probably motherless. I mean... they fire up their eggs, don't they?"

Emilian smiles. "You're not as unknowledgeable as you think, Silverwood. Let's go somewhere more private."

In the humid and dusty air of the artifact room, they hide. "Hand me the egg."

Palmer hands him the egg delicately as if the creature inside it wasn't one that could eat them both in a bite when grown. And for a moment Palmer wonders what he'll do, but Emilian just stands there holding the egg. And as he's about to question him, he sees Emilian's fingers get bright red.

"Mate? What's wrong with yer hands?"

Emilian snickers. "I have a secret, can you keep it?" Palmer nods eyes fixated on the egg whose cracks were very slowly growing. "I'm half Veela and whilst I can't throw balls of fire from my hands... I can heat it up to... oven temperature."

"Oven temperature?"

Emilian smirks. "Ah dinnae have exact numbers, but if ye want to give a touch."

Palmer looks at his hands again. "Nae. They're as bright as molten glass, lad."

Emilian raises his eyebrows. "Oh, I felt it move."

"Ooohh, it's gonna set this tiny room on fire."

"Let me hide it this time. I ken a place we can go. The person ye should've gone to in the first place."

Palmer widens his eyes. "Kettleburn, nae."

"Silverwood, ye cannae keep the dragon. It'll set you on fire before completing one year."

Palmer puffs as they walk out of the artifact room. "If the dragon enthusiast dinnae want to keep a real dragon, why would I?"

"A dragon lover is the same as a bee lover. You can appreciate the honey, the lovely stripes, but if ye hold it in yer hand, it'll sting you. Dragons were made to live outside, flying, spitting fire. A wee dragon is cute, but once is grown..."

"Yer a curious lad, Nobleworth." Emilian gives an awkward half smile. "I like you."

Their friendship was as unexpected to them as it was for the bystanders, but one that sustained for their last two years in Hogwarts - including Palmer's girlfriend, Clarin, an uptight but curious Ravenclaw, who despite her best instincts followed behind on the boys' adventures.

When Emilian announced he would be leaving England for the Dragon Sanctuary in Romania a couple of years later, as much as Palmer and Clarin expected that to happen, it still came with the bittersweetness of watching one of their best friends go.

Years go by, but still, their bond sustains time and distance. Every opportunity they had, the SIlverwoods would travel to Romania to visit their friend who in a lighting in a bottle chance found himself a wife of "his kind".

Full Veela, Antonia Lazar, practically raised herself as her father left her mother, a temperamental full Veela woman, to deal with Tonia herself, a task she delegated to her equally careless family members, closely involved with the Dragon Sanctuary in times the place was still informally managed.

When Emilian meets her, barely wearing rags over her body, barefoot on the grass, pearl blonde hair unruly, looking as if she was raised by wild house elves, he couldn't help his heart hammering in his chest. Female Veela beauty wasn't something he was unused to, considering his mother and aunts were ones as well, but when Antonia was before him he thought of himself before a goddess.

Emilian tries not to spill the water in the heavy buckets while Antonia doesn't seem to be struggling at all. He wouldn't have a need to even carry them if he hadn't forgotten his wand, but at least he got to be alone with her.

"Why is it that ye dinnae like us?"

"You English think you run the place just because you read about dragons in a book, think you know more than us who grew with hundreds of them." She shoots him firey eyes. "Know when I first rode a dragon? I was five years old!"

"I never say I doubted yer capacities. And I'm not English, I'm Scottish." She glares at him again. "I'm kidding."

"Don't get me angry, you won't like it me angry. Trust me."

"I would actually. I wonder what color yer feathers would be."

"I'm sorry?"

"I ken a Veela when I see one. Especially cause I'm half one."

Her expression soothes a little. She puts the bucket down and grips his hand. "Go, do your magic."

While his hand goes as hot as they can, his eyes slowly change hues to match her, never breaking eye contact. "It's nice touching a girl who doesn't mind a more... ardent touch."

She gives a small smile. "You're pathetic."

"I'd love to fly on a dragon's back with someone who understands about them. I promise I'm not here to mock or doubt you. I love those creatures more than anyone I know."

She lets go of his hand and with a smirk picks up the bucket. "Well, now you know me."

Their relationship quickly becomes stronger as they spend day after day together. The work at the Sanctuary is as rewarding as it is tiring, so at the end of long days, they would sit together and exchange stories, her of her buckwild childhood and him of his years in Hogwarts. In each other's company that they find an air of normality and peace.

After recognizing and accepting her strong feelings for Emilian - something hard considering how men had treated her before, seeking what she had to offer them more than considering her needs - and finding out he felt the same for the longest time, they decided to marry, her seeing in him a sense of stability for the first time in her life.

It doesn't take long until Antonia is pregnant with their first child, and in the pool of genes and possibilities, their first-born boy is a full Veela like his mother, something uncommon for boys. Not considering what would be 'formal' or well accepted, Antonia decides to name him Phoenix for encompassing what being a Veela means to her, a bird of elegance and fire and perseverance.

And as if it was pre-destined, just a couple months prior, Clarin and Palmer had given birth to a girl of name just as uncommon, little Indigo Silverwood, who is but three months old when they come to Romania to meet little Phoenix.

To this day, the Silverwoods wonder if their timing was the best or worst it could've been.

As in the same week they came to visit, an attack happens with the intent of capturing as many dragons as they could from the reserve, something that had happened times before but this time much better planned and heavily armed with the best wizards they could get.

They start picking up their wands in haste while seeking the fire protection potion they had brewed specially for this trip back at home. "What do they need dragons for? Can't they breed their own." Clarin asks.

"Is not like is legal or easy to do so." Antonia has her eyes soaked with tears. "They don't care about the creatures, they want money. Oh, they use their blood to make spot removers. Oven cleaners! How can you take a marvelous creature and turn it into such a pathetic thing? Then they use their hearts in you wizards stupid wands and their skin into gloves!"

"Somebody must have heard about the new Chinese Fireball," Emilian says, "People seek the gold in their horns and eggs, but if you pull them out, they die."

"Not to mention the baby Romanians. Put your goddamn boots on already, Emilian!"

"What 'bout the bairns?" Palmer asks anxiously.

"There's no time. They probably ain't getting all the way up here, but in all cases." Emilian grabs the potion from Clarin's hands turning over Jacob's and baby Indigo's mouth, knowing the fire wouldn't do harm to Phoenix. He places something in Jacob's little hand. "Jacob, if any mean person comes trying to hurt ye, throw this at their feet and run. Alright?" Jacob nods, eyes wide with fear and excitement of a five-year-old.

"What is it?" Palmer asks.

"A vial of Peruvian's Vipertooth venom, extremely deadly and volatile. Don't ask me why I have it."

Palmer looks at Jacob. "Stay quiet and protect the babies, right, love?"

Antonia kisses Phoenix on the forehead one last time then turns to the others. "Let's go, please!"

And if they knew, she would've held him a little longer, Emilian would've stopped time for a couple of seconds to look at their boy for a lingering moment more. But they didn't and time never reversed.

They weren't the only lives lost, but side by side they fought and won and lost and lost and lost. They managed to protect all but two of the dragons at the end, blood of dark wizards - and innocent ones - soaked the grounds. Dragons loose on the sky overhead, blood spilt from both sides, burnt buildings, scars that would never heal, the body of a friend devoided of life, a mother of dragons and children never to wake up again, children crying in a cabin kilometers away.

When Antonia's mother refused to watch over her own grandson, Clarin felt as if it was her own son the woman refused and it was that soon the decision to keep him came. She was still breastfeeding and no ordinary family would know how to raise him right, at least that's what both her and Palmer told themselves. Emilian's parents, both devastated by the news of their son's death were quick to agree with the Silverwoods' proposal.

And it's like this that Phoenix and Indigo are practically raised as twins, still young when he notices he doesn't look like the rest of them - a pale and blonde boy in a family of tanned brunettes - not only for his looks but by the fact that sinking his hand into a pot of boiling water doesn't hurt or the fact his anger makes his body react differently from the others or that people got mesmerized by his looks enough to do whatever he asked them to.

But the Silverwoods learn the painful way that raising a Veela child is not easy work. Not only easily irritable but also dangerous when transformed, not much to others while still young, but to himself due to painful and harmful transformation, taking hours until he could retain his human form. Meditating and thought exercises became pivotal from an early age. As not make their treatment towards him different from Indigo, they become tougher with both, demanding an altruistic, patient, and empathetic behavior from both.

This leads Phoenix to grown into a level-headed, sweet and compassionate boy who eventually got sorted into Hufflepuff without the sorting hat having to consider long.

As much as he wishes he had grown with his biological parents, he's grateful to have grown in the family he did and doesn't consider himself any less part of it, he loves his siblings dearly and considers and reslects his parents as if it was from their blood and cells he was made of.

---

This is my attempt at a concise history of Phoenix, mostly his parents who I dream of drawing someday. I'll make something in the future for his romantic life as it is its own ride. I ship him with Ismelda and boy oh boy I have some to say about that.

If you wanna more info on Phoenix, I made him an OC profile :)

[halfway-happyyy]

Love Like This

AN: Basically you’re stuck in quarantine and you’re reflecting on the things that make Alexander who he is. Oh, you’ve also got some pretty fantastic news for him.

Cotton candy clouds of fluff.

“Saturday nights used to look a hell of a lot different than this one, didn't they?”

Where once there were movie premiers to attend, award shows to be embarrassingly proud at, cocktails to be sipped, friends to laugh with… you are at home for the foreseeable future.

Alexander glances up from his phone to beam at you. “Maybe so. But this happens to be one of the better Saturday evenings I've had.”

“Yeah? And why is that?”

Alexander shrugs. “I'm with my best friend.”

It’s currently late into the evening and a soft rain patters gently against the glass kitchen windows. Alexander's just finished his second glass of chardonnay and he's leant over the gleaming marble counter top, phone clutched in his hand. He's tired tonight; keeps squinting down at the content on his phone and letting out long yawns every few minutes. As you take in all six foot four of his frame, from the unkempt quarantine hair and the five o’clock (almost six now) shadow forming on his face, to the worn sweatpants hanging low on his hips… you reflect silently on the things you know to be certain about the elder Swede before you.

The first thing that comes to mind is his complete adoration for his family. It never ceases to make you feel suddenly warm and fuzzy inside just thinking of it. He frequently tells you how excited he is to get the two of you back to Sweden when this is all over- “Just you and I and the rest of the family on our little island.” Last night he spent over two hours happily talking to Gustaf while he nursed a couple of his favourite beers. This morning you both had the pleasure of having facetime pancakes with his mother, the memory of it causes you to smile softly to yourself.

“Whatcha smiling about over there, kid?” Alexander pipes up.

“Your mum,” and your heart sings as you watch the grin bloom across his face.

The next thing is his intense love of coffee. Being someone who travels more than the average person, he has become quite the caffeine connoisseur. There is actually a cupboard in the corner of the kitchen dedicated to bags of exotic beans he's found along his travels and it isn't uncommon for the first thing you hear in the morning to be the muffled whir of his ever-coveted machine in the corner next to the spice rack.

“What on earth is that?”

“What's what, kid?”

You gestured to the pile of expensive looking metal beneath the kitchen window.

“That… thing.”

Alexander scoffed in mild offence. “That thing, is my new baby. That thing roasts coffee beans like hot damn. Starbucks could never,” He hissed under his breath.

You're pretty sure you could write a book of all of things you know to be true about him. That he loves nothing more sometimes than to stroll anonymously around the city. That he'll spend an entire day pouring through a book if it's good enough. That there is a small wooden box next to your bed that is chock-full of hand written love letters from him. Some are written on airplane napkins in his slightly shaky, but still signature scrawl and some are on luxuriously thick paper purchased from a stationery shop in Siena. You know and adore the way his accent thickens when he's had a little too much to drink. (He's definitely been guilty of forgetting that your Swedish is still quite rusty, yet attempting to launch into full-on conversations with you regardless of that fact.) Or the way his cerulean gaze lightens or darkens depending on his mood.

Alexander sighs tiredly and hoists his arms high above his head in a stretch. He yawns and pockets the phone in his pants. “I'm going to start getting ready for bed, kid. You coming?”

His bedtime routine varies from night to night. Some nights he starts out reading; could be a novel someone's suggested to him or a script he's been sent. Whatever it is, his brain has a habit of running away on him from time to time and settling into a good chapter is a sure-fire way to have him sleepy within the hour. Some nights he's intent on making you feel amazing; he'll spend hours between your legs, taking his sweet time. Other nights, particularly if he's just been home after a long shoot, he simply holds you close to him.

“I love you, I love you, I love you kid.”

It's a mantra he only whispers when he's missed you more than he can say.

“Yeah baby. I'll be up in a few minutes.”

You drain what's left of your tea and make sure everything's turned off in the kitchen. Alexander is perched on his side of the bed when you enter the room. You marvel at the way his back muscles ripple and flex in the low lamplight as he stretches before bed. You’ve told him numerous times in the past how beautiful he is, but most of the time he just laughs it off.

“Couldn't hold a candle to you, kid.”

You pad over to the bed to undress, trying in vain to ignore the sudden prickle of nerves in your belly. Alexander is already waiting for you, arms outstretched for you to fall into. You settle into him as you have thousands of times before, and each time never fails to feel like coming home. You know his scent; a heady mix of body wash, cologne and sweat. You have memorized the sound of his heartbeat and the way it makes you feel when it beats against your shoulder blade. “Saturday nights are about to look a lot different than they do now, Alex.”

One thing, and maybe it’s the thing that stands out the most to you, is how much Alexander loves children. He's always had a way with them; they flock to him in droves. Your heart thrums in your chest when you think of the first time he got to meet his baby niece, or the hundreds of facetimes he’s had with his younger brothers. It's possible that this has everything to do with him being the elder brother of seven other siblings, but he's simply just a natural with them. Where his patience often lacks with adults, he never fails to make time for kids and it's never been a secret he's tried to hide. In fact, it was one of the first things he revealed about himself when you first began seeing him.

“I'd love a big family in the future. That seems like the ultimate dream, doesn't it? Waking up every morning to the sound of tiny, barefoot pitter-patters?”

You couldn't deny the way his glassy blue orbs lit up like a Christmas tree at the mere mention of his own family someday.

“I know I'm going to be a father someday. I don't doubt that it's going to be difficult and terrifying beyond all measure but I do know that it’s going to be the most important role of my life… and I really just can't wait for it.”

Alexander somehow knows exactly what you mean without further elaboration. He sits up straight in bed and pats your arm twice so you can follow suit. Instinctively, his large, warm hands travel to the bump that is mere months away from making an appearance in your belly. He swallows hard and clears his throat, you notice the way his lips quiver ever so slightly before he asks, “Are we?”

Your breath catches in your throat as you watch tears brim in the corners of his eyes. “Yeah Alex, we are.”

He tilts his head back and, you doubt you'll ever forget the sound of his laugh or the way the tears roll down his cheeks in unbelievably happy streams. After a while he drops his head to your belly and proceeds to pepper dozens of kisses over the expanse of your exposed skin. He stays like that for what feels like hours; and when he finally gazes back up at you, he's beaming so wide he puts sunshine to shame. 

“Can't wait to tell the family, kid.”

[broadwaybaggins]

"I'm calling in that favor you owe me. Actually, I'm calling in all the favors you owe me," she said. First line fanfic

"I'm calling in that favor you owe me. Actually, I'm calling in all the favors you owe me," she said.

“I owe you favors already? That doesn’t sound like me.” Emma grinned at Mary as she rifled through her dufflebag, searching for the contraband candy and other assorted junk food that she had stashed there. Lights’ out for the campers had been thirty minutes ago, and the counselors were meeting up to “unwind” after the long day--which meant drinking, s’mores making, and other such shenanigans.

“I’m serious, Emma. Oh, hey, Cheeto me.” Mary caught the bag of Cheetos that Emma tossed her way and opened it in one practiced motion. “I need to know everything you can tell me about that Jed Foster.”

“Ah. Trouble in the health lodge?”

Mary rolled her eyes. “Only if you call him second-guessing every single decision I made trouble. He even asked me if I was sure I wanted to use that brand of calamine lotion on Hattie’s mosquito bites.”

“I’m sorry, I should have warned you about him. He’s a bit...prickly.”

“That’s the understatement of the year. You know what he told me? ‘I know more about these things than you.’ As if we’re not both pre-med and there’s really that many ways to treat a damn mosquito bite. What is his problem?”

Emma shrugged, opening up a bag of Sun Chips. “He usually works here with his girlfriend, but she got a fancy internship in LA instead this year. Didn’t even talk to him about it, so I guess he’s pretty pissed. He shouldn’t take it out on you, though, that’s not cool.”

Mary sighed, running a hand through her bobbed hair. “It’s not. At least he’s decent with the kids. That’s about the only thing that kept me from trying to beat him to death with an Ace bandage.”

“He’s nice once you get to know him, I promise. It just...takes a while.”

Mary considered her thoughtfully. “Samuel said the same thing. I guess that’s as good an endorsement as any.”

“Laaaaaaaaaaaay-deeeeeeeeeeees!” a new voice sang, and Emma watched as Anne Hastings strode into view. She had a tote bag emblazoned with various logos for Broadway shows slung over her shoulder, and from inside it Emma could hear bottles clinking. “I hereby declare this party started.” She took one strap of the bag off her shoulder and began to rifle through it. “What’s your poison? I’ve got wine coolers, Fireball, a little bit of peach schnapps--”

Mary made a face. “Got anything good in there?”

Anne fixed Mary with a withering look. “Excuse me, baroness, but some of us actually have to rely on our paltry counselor’s salary! I was a bit limited in my selections at the local excuse for a liquor store!”

“It’s okay, Anne. I’m sure the others will have something else if Mary prefers,” Emma said quickly, wanting to avoid an argument. She had seen the way Mary had bristled at Anne’s baroness comment, and how Anne’s eyes were glinting with annoyance. “Frank usually brings some Bud Light or something. It’s all good.”

“Fine,” Mary said after a second. Anne responded by reaching for a wine cooler out of her bag and taking a swig. “Come on, girls,” she said, linking arms with Emma and leaving Mary to bring up the rear. “The fire waits for no woman.”

They quickly made their way to the firepit where the other counselors were gathering. They walked quickly and quietly, not necessarily because they were afraid of being caught--the only real danger was if they woke up Mrs. Brannan, whose tiny cabin was right next to the dining hall--but because the act of sneaking around made everything seem so much more fun and exciting.

They were among the last to arrive. Samuel and Charlotte were there, sitting close together, Sam’s guitar propped against the log next to them. Emma saw Alice wearing tiny cutoffs and what was perhaps the tiniest bikini top known to man. Emma wasn’t sure how she wasn’t freezing her buns off. Anne immediately abandoned them when she spotted Byron, launching herself at him as if he were a soldier returning from war that she hadn’t seen in years. 

“How long has that been a thing?” Mary asked as she watched Byron shove his tongue down Anne’s throat. She turned away and reached for one of the Bud Lights that Emma had mentioned. She popped the top and took a sip, grimacing. “Beer is gross.”

“And yet we drink it.”

The arrival of Jed Foster caused both girls to turn towards him. He, too, was clutching a can of Bud that was currently sweating into his palm. A guitar was slung over his shoulder like a backpack. “Hey, Jed,” Emma said kindly.

“My dear Miss Green. How is life in the art barn?”

“Oh, you know how it is.” 

His eyes flickered over to Mary almost nervously. “Mary.”

“Jed.” She nodded at his guitar. “You play?”

“When the moment calls for it,” he said coolly.

All right, this was interesting. Despite her earlier animosity, Emma could see clear interest in Mary’s eyes as she gazed at Jed. Anne would say that Mary had a lady-boner for him, and Emma wasn’t entirely sure she was wrong.

“I’m gonna...get a drink,” she mumbled, leaving the two to work through their mutual sexual tension in their own time. She turned and almost immediately collided with a warm body that smelled of campfire and pine. She knew because her nose collided with his shirt.

“Woah!” Emma felt hands on her upper arms--she’d worn a tank top and was already starting to feel chilly, but the contact caused warmth to go straight through her--to steady her. “My bad. Sorry, Emma.”

“Henry!” There he was, wearing the same outfit as earlier when they’d been in the loft together, but now his sleeves were rolled up a little and he was barefoot. There was a band-aid on his thumb that hadn’t been there earlier. “What happened to you?”

Henry shrugged. “Little disagreement with a bee. Jed and Mary fixed me up. Can I get you a drink? We have quite a selection. Beer, or beer. Or...” he grinned and held up another six-pack, already half gone. “Beer!”

“Anne brought some stuff, but I think she’s...busy.”

“That’s one word for it. Has she worked here long?”

“Yeah, this is her...” Emma tried to think. It was a little hard to focus when he was looking at her like that, the firelight shining on his face. “Fourth summer? Fifth summer? I can’t remember. Fourth, I think. She started when she was like seventeen.”

“What’s the deal with the accent?” he asked, lowering his voice. “Like, is it an act, or...”

Emma laughed. “I can see why you’d think so, but it’s actually real. She’s English. Or half English, at least. I can’t remember which parent.”

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!”

Henry winced as Byron’s voice rang out through the camp. He had climbed up onto a stump just outside of the circle of logs around the fire and held one of Anne’s bottles high above his head. “Isn’t he worried about waking the kids?”

“Byron doesn’t worry about anything.”

“Your attention please!” Byron bellowed. “Counselors of our beloved Camp Green Wood! Another summer has begun! Another summer of camraderie, friendship, and shenanigans--”

“Get to the fuckin’ point, Hale!” Frank called out, his arm slung over Alice’s shoulder. His words caused a ripple of laughter around the circle.

“Come on, let’s sit down. He does this every year and we need to be sitting for it, it’s a whole thing,” Emma leaned up to whisper in Henry’s ear. They made their way to the circle and sat down on the only remaining empty log, between Mary and Jed and Sam and Charlotte. It was a bit crowded by this point, so Emma ended up with her entire side pressed up against Henry. She said a silent prayer of thanks that she’d stolen a bottle of Alice’s signature Georgia Peach body spray.

Byron put a dramatic finger to his lips. In case the message wasn’t abundantly clear, Anne’s loud “Shhhhhhhhh!”, followed by “Shut the fuck up, Stringfellow!” brought about the desired dramatic silence.

Byron hopped off the stump, still brandishing the bottle. “I hereby declare the summer officially....” he paused for effect. “Started!”

He smashed the bottle against the stump like he was christening a yacht. It exploded, and the assembled counselors let out appreciative claps and cheers that almost drowned out Anne’s screech of “I didn’t put the tarp down! You said you’d let me put the tarp down! YOU ARE CLEANING UP EVERY BIT OF THAT BROKEN GLASS, BYRON HALE!”

“He does that every year?” Henry asked, his expression unreadable.

“Every year. And every year he forget to do it in a way that doesn’t release broken glass everywhere. You can set your watch by it.”

“This place is crazy,” Henry remarked, but he didn’t sound scared off by this fact. Someone was passing around a bag of marshmallows, and Henry took two and handed one over to Emma.

“What kind of marshmallow toaster are you?” he asked. “Let it get nice and golden, or put it straight in the fire?”

Charlotte handed Emma one of the marshmallow skewers, and Emma answered by sticking it right into the center of the flames. Henry looked aghast.

“No!” he cried. “No, no, wrong! You’ve got to do it slowly, gently...”

“It’s no use, Rev,” Charlotte said, nudging Emma with her shoulder. “I’ve tried to talk her out of it so many times. Our Emma just lives for chaos.”

Emma retrieved her burning marshmallow and quickly blew out the remaining flames, leaving it charred just the way she liked it. “You’re both wrong. This is the only way to do it.”

Sam had been strumming his guitar gently, tuning it as Jed worked on his. Mary perched nearby, eating a s’more and pretending she wasn’t watching. Sam gave one final strum and looked up. “All right! Any requests?”

“You promised me some Sheryl Crow,” Charlotte reminded him.

“Later, Char. You don’t start a set with Sheryl Crow.” Jed’s face implied that such a thing was ludicrous. Emma wondered how much trouble she’d be in if she throw her flip-flop at him.

Perry, one of the junior counselors, had been creeping their way. He tapped Sam on the shoulder and whispered in his ear.

“Huh? Oh, sure, why not.” Sam conferred with Jed for a moment before counting them off. “Okay, one-two-three-four.”

“When I wake up, oh I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who wakes up next to you!”

The song was met with a mix of groans and cheers. Henry looked up from assembling his s’more with precision and laughed. “This is definitely gonna be an interesting summer.”

Emma grinned and hoped she wasn’t imagining the way he seemed to lean closer to her as he said it.

[signaturedish]

Hello! I have probably slapped you in the face with my notifications of likes and stuff. I love your PA story, it is. The. Best. I freaking love it, my friend. May I ask about that would have happened had Harry been like; thrown in at ROTF instead of the FIRST movie? I have no idea if I'm making sense.

Thanks so much for asking and filling up my notifications!! I’m so glad you like my blog and am very flattered you love my fic so much haha!

You’re making total sense, I get it. 

We diverged hard at the end of the first movie so the timeline PA is on will never get to RotF in a super concrete way. So dropping Harry in any particular moment of the sequel would make for a very different story. 

A more aimless story honestly, the events of RotF were so cluttered that it was hard to find a good spot to start changing things. 

There’s only a couple of places I could put him where he’d be with Megatron. The Decepticons are all busy with the Fallen and getting hunted down by NEST so if he pops up within the first 20 mins he needs to be near Sam’s college somewhere on the East Coast, I think? Or in Egypt at the very end if he’s not being adopted by Autobots. 

So let’s say around the week(?) Sam spends spazzing out in his classes with the Alice Decepticon on his tail, he suddenly finds himself right outside campus with a tiny kid staring up at him dreamily. He remembers going to bed after that awful night at Leo’s party but not getting dressed and leaving. 

“I’m here,” The kid says in a very clearly English accent, he’s barefoot and in raggedy pajamas. It’s the middle of the night. 

Sam wants to ask if the kid’s lost, but he’s blinded by sigils and voices, and lights and stars as whatever is happening, happens again. Too much information, static nonsense ripping behind his eyes seeps down his spine and into his hands like cold cement. 

The voices are louder, or are they screaming? Sam can’t tell, can only stand ramrod straight with his arms out and endure as he feels like someone’s squeezing the very last centimeter of toothpaste out of his chest, his arms, his hands. It hurts. 

When true awareness finally comes to Sam, he’s on his knees in the wet grass outside his campus breathing a mile a minue. The girl from earlier that night- Alice- is hovering over him with wide, wide eyes. What was she doing out too? Her mouth was moving, shrill demands piercing the cold night air, but it was going right over Sam’s head. 

He lets his gaze drop and can’t bite back a shriek of terror, falling on his ass and scooting away frantically from the sizzling black patch of baked blood and gelatinous sludge. 

It was right where the kid had been.

“Holy fucking slag.” Alice says, the first thing to reach his ringing ears. He’s only heard Ironhide say something similar, but he can agree with the shock and horror in her voice. 

“I j-just killed a kid.” Sam choked out, and then his perspective shifts higher as something thin and unyielding wraps around his waist and picks him up.

He cranes his neck to find hot-but-not-terribly-toned Alice hefting him up like a soiled puppy under one arm, she hunches over the steaming gore and picks up something just beyond it- something he hadn’t seen before.

“No,” Alice says in wonder, raising the bundle of silver spikes and angles up into the moonlight, “you just made a sparkling.”

 Then Sam’s night got infinitely more confusing. 

Alice wasn’t Alice anymore, instead a spindly Decepticon with round blue optics and articulated long helm protrusions was sprinting through streets, parks, neighborhoods, and alleys effortlessly carrying Sam and the silver thing all the while. 

No matter how he screamed for help or struggled, no one was around and they quickly made it to the outskirts of the city where Grindor the Decepticon helicopter picked them up and sped off without a word, gears straining to go even faster.

Sam was discarded in a heap next to Starscream and Alice carried the bundle all the way to newly revived Megatron.

Alice has already told him exactly what she saw while spying on Sam and Megatron is skeptical. A human turning into a Cybertronian? Impossible. Why would the Allspark even bother? This must be some trick.

He holds Harry close, examining his fragile frame and visible spark socketed behind nearly transparent armor. He’s trying to find the lie when Harry wakes up, crying and shivering, overwhelmed. Protocols kick in immediately.

Megatron is growling low in reassurance, bringing the sparkling closer to himself for heat. Whatever terror the sparkling feels upon getting a good look at him is instantly dismissed under his stroking servos and steady gaze. 

Harry is overwrought and desperately wants to run away. He’s stuck in a robot body that feels, sees, hears, smells too much. He doesn’t know where he is or how he got there, he doesn’t know why that voice chose to do what it did and join him. The only escape he can find is burrowing closer to the monster purring warmth and affection towering before him, hiding in his claws as they cup around him and shield him from whatever terrifying future awaited beyond their embrace. 

He wants this creature to keep him safe and never put him down.

They bond in an indescribable, fluid instant, and Megatron realizes he needs to reorganize his plans immediately.

The Fallen can’t destroy the sun, Harry is much too small for space travel and this planet has the nearest resemblance to Cybertronian temperatures. They can’t afford the ambush he’s been awaiting eagerly either, Prime and his scrapheaps were no doubt mere minutes away now, they hadn’t been discreet in their plans to kidnap the human. His base was more a battleground than anything, there would be no proper cover for the sparkling.

“Doctor!” Megatron shouted, processors whirring. “Look over the human- is he-”The human was gone, Starscream and every other Decepticon had been captivated by the sparkling and allowed him to escape. It was too late to look now. 

“Decepticons, retreat!” They didn’t have a base, icy panic trickled down his spine. They were set up off-planet with the Fallen and Starscream hadn’t bothered establishing headquarters on Earth, keeping the troops nomadic. Their only base was compromised and their escape had hinged on victory in battle, battle that was no longer acceptable. 

There was nowhere to go. With the Fallen in command, Megatron wasn’t even aware of how close the next set of reinforcements were.

In any other situation, he’d have to take his chances, rely on his cunning and strength to escape without damage and discover a place to hide, he’d resign himself to sacrificing useful troops to delay NEST pursuit. 

But with Prime...a more reckless option might have a much better payoff.

No more time to consider it, Prime and the Autobots burst through the walls and ceilings, primed for battle, bolts spraying and sending his Decepticons scrambling for cover. 

His sparkling keened in fear above his spark, no doubt deafened by the terrible clatter of invasion. Megatron put his back to the action, pressing against a wall to peer over his shoulder. 

A missile ripped a chunk of brick from the wall near his helm, spraying him in debris. Megatron didn’t flinch, finding Prime’s optics in the chaos. 

He didn’t say anything, the rising cry of his newly sparked sparkling hit harder than any return fire he was capable of.

The attack ends as abruptly as it began as Optimus calls off his Autobots and stares transfixed at the little figure trembling in Megatron’s grasp. He graciously allows all present Autobots to have a mini breakdown as he soothes Harry into semi-sleep mode.

With Prowl finding Sam sprinting across the grounds relatively unharmed and Harry in the possession of the woefully underprepared Decepticons, a truce is cobbed together on shared desperation. 

Alice’s account is retold, Ratchet is deployed as a technical POW to check over the brand new human-turned-sparkling, the Autobots ‘pursue’ the Decepticons without human assistance aaaaaalll the way out of the East Coast and to some secluded abandoned military base they know most human patrols don’t consider. 

For the rest of the movie, Megatron and all Decepticons present (I think there were maybe 5-6 during the Prime death scene?) not only have to treat their Autobot hostage well (enough), can’t openly attack or raid in the area close to their base without jeopardizing the safety they have hiding right under the humans’ noses, but then Megatron has to help Optimus and co when the Fallen decides that one measly sparkling is nothing compared to his millennia-long scheming and his vague idea of mass producing Decepticons with that weird hatchling thing. 

Any Decepticons still in agreement with that plan are also obstacles since the sun is now extremely important.

Overall, Megatron has a very bad time as newly resurrected lord and ruler since he has to abandon his almost successful murder of Optimus and skip out on destroying the whole miserable planet when it was right there. But he gets an adorable baby out of it so he really can’t complain. 

[littleangel4996]

My Fate Pt 2

Summary: After your trip to the grocery store, you find Selene digging the gardens again. But what you find leaves you clueless

After having the movers help move my new stuff in that Coco helped pick out for me from letgo, I finally was settled in as I plop myself on the couch and Selene hopped on my stomach while I turn on the TV. Nothing good was on except Sabrina the teenage witch so that one is good.

This show reminded me of Selene and I but except she doesn't talk .

Beep beep

My phone goes off. I take it out of my pocket and saying it's Queenie on Skype. I pressed the button and it was Queenie and the girls. Both of them sitting on her bed squealing and saying hi.

"oh hey girls"

"Hey (y/n) how are you and Selene settled in your new home" asked Zoe.

"The house is perfect from the outside and inside, 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, a big kitchen with a dining room and a living room. Plus the backyard came with a rose garden" I explained.

"Any cute shirtless boys in your area" of course Madison would ask that question but I gotta love her. When she said that she got glares and a shut up from Queenie.

"What, she needs to get that big-" before Madison could finish her sentence she was hit with a pillow by none other than Misty.

" Oh my God girls, you are too much" I laughed.

" We must visit you one day " Nan said in her happy voice.

"I know, I'm already missing you".

"We really miss ya doll, hope ya make the time to come out here" Misty says.

"Yeah it's totally quiet here. It's going to be weird without your loud music blaring, your jokes and pranks" Mallory said.

"Oh, Girls listen quit mopping around because of me I mean look were talking and we're laughing and all. This isn't goodbye, I'm still going to see my sisters one day" I said smiling.

" Oh god, we love and miss you (y/n)" Coco said almost about to tear up and Mallory held her close .

" Oh I almost forgot, how is supreme Cordelia and Myrtle" I asked.

" The ladies went out for a grocery run but they said they will contact you when they can" Queenie answered.

"Oh okay, well sorry I have to go now and feed Selene and I so chat later girls" as we both said our goodbyes, I picked up the phone to looked up grocery stores near me as I go up stairs to my bedroom and order myself a Uber. I've found a Ralphs near by typed the direction to where I need to go.

It said the driver will be here about 3 minutes. Cool, that gives me enough time to quickly get out of my jeans and my FOB t-shirt and change into my yellow sundress leaving on my black and white sneakers and putting on my Jean jacket .

---2 to 3 from the grocery store---

I thanked the Uber driver for the ride and helping me with the groceries before he drove off. Damn I've never seen a grocery store packed. In New Orleans, their market was small and not a lot of whole people. I pull out my house key out of my jean jacket as I insert it into the keyhole and unlocking it. I came inside, going to the kitchen to set down the three bags of groceries. I thought frozen pizza would be easy meal to cook. And as for Selene, I got her friskies dry and wet food.

I pulled out four boxes of pizza, to see which ones I should have. Either pineapple, meat lovers, cheese or supreme. Hmm..I think I'm going to go with the supreme. Every time I see supreme pizza I think of the supreme witch. I don't know why but I always make a joke about supreme pizza between supreme witch.

I shoved that in the oven and start to put the food and things for the house. I even bought Selene a pink brush with red hearts on them and a pet stuffy mouse to play with.

Speaking of Selene, where is she ?

"Selene. Selene darling " I called to her but no meow or no padding steps. That's so odd of Selene. Every time I come home she always comes to me. Maybe she's sleeping. I came out of the kitchen going to go upstairs to see if she is laying in her bed until I found the backdoor opened. Odd, I thought I closed it before the movers came. I turned my direction from the stairs to the back door. I felt a chill, making me flatten my yellow sundress.

But once I came out to the backyard I found Selene digging out what I could not believe my eyes . Selene. Digging out. Fucking. Deceased animals.

"SELENE!" I ran to her as I picked her up away from their rotten cats, rats and dogs. They were all scattered. So that's what was under the rose plants.

"Selene what is all this and why did you -" Wait a sec...Was this the reason why for the bad energy going on in the house, was because of the Dead animals. By the looks of these poor animals they were brutally killed.

"Who would do such a thing ?" I asked myself. Did the people who sold me this house knew and not told me or they did not know about this ? Maybe the person that lived here was psycho or serious issues...maybe both.Well I don't know what to do I mean, I just can't put them back where Selene found them because then I would feel like shit for doing that. I'm a softy when it comes to poor animals like these. Maybe there is another way but I haven't used this spell in a while. It is the ability to balance life's scale and return someone from the dead. I drop to my knees in front of the Dead letting Selene step aside.

I first clear my mind and let only the positive thoughts flow through my mind, placing my flat palms on the grass and start to perform this wonder as I whisper the two words.

"vitalum vitalis".

I feel the shiver as the cold wind blew at my direction almost making my dress go up. I start to see the animals start to form into their normal selves, undoing the wounds that they had. The animals I've brought back to life start to scurry away, hopping over the white fence. Selene went inside the house, probably waiting for a bath. The thought of coming inside a warm house and giving Selene a bath was soon cut off when I felt something grab ahold of both of my ankles making me fall to the ground. I quickly look to see...hands and a head coming out of the ground? What the fuck. My fear got the better of me as I start to scream, trying so hard to get away from what ever is trying to do God knows what. I look anywhere to see a hard object to find to hit the person but no luck.

Unless

I try to turn myself around and knock him out. I followed my instinct, squirming a little until I got room to turn myself around and fist him square in the jaw as he fell to the ground. But he was still awake. Wait, he? A boy? Well more like a man....hold up he was burried too, the fuck is going on here.

" Ow, please don't hurt me I I didn't mean to scare you please" he whimpered as I crouch down to meet eye level with the man thats covered in dirt but I can still make of his handsomely beautiful features, piercing blue eyes, golden blonde hair. He wears a jean jacket with a yellow shirt and khakis plus he's barefooted.

" Hey hey, it's okay you are okay. Can you tell me you're name sir" I asked. He calms himself down making, eye contact with me as I placed my hands on his shoulders.

"M-Michael, Michael Langdon".

Finally, part 2 is up. Plus what took me forever to get this part right was Everytime I tried to save it sometimes won't save and I have to start over again and my brain is like on fire but I finally got it saved and it's ready. Part 3 will be coming next week or weekend.

And here's a picture of Michael to say I'm sorry

@barbie-solecism

@sodanova

@yourkingcodyfern

@kylolangdon

@theghostoflangdon

@miskwaadesiwag

@whysosadmcfly

@creativedogs

@kaccatus

@lxngdonscoven

@captainskyline

@gracethegeek9902

@castiel-saved-me-from-myself

@edward-nygma-is-my-addiction

@let-me-try-mom

@amortentiaxo

@langdonsdemon

@poisedphantom

@avesatanormalpeoplescareme

[words-writ-in-starlight]

would read the intensive level-up scenes, because I too DM with a ton of backstory and not enough actual session prep, also my current party is lacking in marketable/reusable details AND I'M NOT CREATIVE ENOUGH TO COME UP WITH MORE IDEAS

HERE, THEY LONG, THEY DETAILED, THEY UNDER A CUT

MY PLAYERS BETTER NOT BE READING THIS

(Technically I wrote these all as choose-your-own-adventure style things, and they have breaks for people to choose an outcome, but, A, I only included the path they took in this post, and, B, I knew my players pretty well and was fairly capable of scripting what they were going to do.  They were all going up to Level 3, so the last thing noted is what they were choosing in-game--their class specialization.)

AZARA (SCOURGE AASIMAR, WARLOCK OF THE RAVEN QUEEN, PACT OF THE CHAIN)

You fall asleep, and it’s strange—you can feel time passingin the black of unconsciousness, leaving you to linger there for a long, darknight without any sign of dawn.  Just asit begins to be too much, you feel something in the endless black for the firsttime.  It’s cold, and hard, and touchingyour feet—no.  You’re standing, barefoot,on stone.

Realizing this is like opening a dam.  Sensation comes back to you in a blindingrush, all at once, and it hurts.

That’s what tips you off. You spent years being tortured. You know that dreams can’t make you hurt, but this—this hurts, light and sound and touch soharsh and immediate that they burn. You’ve had this happen before. Just once.  You cover your earsand close your eyes like a child afraid of the dark, and wait to adjust.

You open your eyes, and this time the light is bright butnot blinding, and you uncover your ears slowly and discover that you can hearclearly, and you straighten up.

You are barefoot, unarmed, wearing a plain prisoner’stunic.  You recognize the clothes fromprison, but now they’re starless black, so dark you can’t even seeshadows.  You do not recognize the heavyiron collar around your neck, but it doesn’t hurt, doesn’t chafe at your skin,it’s just…heavy.  Your skin is crackedlike porcelain held together with glue, and golden radiance pours forth likeyou’ve been traced with molten metal, casting a circle of light around yourfeet.  Your face feels hot, like someoneis holding a torch directly to the height of your cheekbones, and your eyesdrip something thick and burning down your face.  

You look around and see that you’re standing on abattlefield like none you’ve ever seen.  Theroar of noise is the bellow of warcries, broken here and there by the sharp andviolent crash of weapons on armor as the posturing armies meet in smallskirmishes.

The armies are small. You are one of sixteen in black, facing sixteen in white.  The battlefield is silver and sickly green,alternating squares five feet on all sides, and the armies don’t wear uniformspast their shared colors.

You are still on the back line, with two empty squares toyour left.  You can see a black paladincoming under heavy attack from a white sorcerer with fire wreathing her handsto the furthest right side of the fight, and a black rogue with two knivestrying to rip through the white line, there and gone too fast to catch as theychart a jagged course across the battle.  

To your right is a towering throne—empty and carved out of asingle piece of black stone, the seat level with your shoulder.  You can’t get a good look at the rest of theback line, on the other side of the throne, but you can see that there’ssomeone else still hanging back.  Justahead is a tall woman wearing a veil over her eyes, dressed in a priest’s blackrobes and holding her staff of office high with a battlecry.  Defending the throne.  There is an empty square beside her, in frontof the throne, and a clear line stretching away up and to your left, into theclash ahead.  

As you look over the battlefield, trying to get a sense ofwhat’s happening, a soldier on a white horse swings a mace with a roar oflaughter, and sends a black-clad boy no older than twelve to the ground with acrunch and a spray of blood.  He stayswhere he’s fallen, and the white horse steps over him to take his square.

You are a strategist. You’ve played chess before.  Youknow that this is skirmish is just the beginning of the midgame, and it’s timeto develop the queen.

What do you want todo?

You take a step forward to leave your square, and you can’tmove your feet.  Instead, a massivehand—long-fingered and slender—reaches down and scoops you up.  Gently, but the fingers are hard and cold anddon’t give any more than the marble chessboard when you scramble to get yourfeet under you.

You’re lifted up and away from the chessboard, toward theinvisible player, and all you can think is that once you touch a piece inchess, by the strict rules, you have no choice but to play it.

The golden light pouring from your skin illuminates a vast porcelainmask with painted-on black eyes without sclera or pupil, a plain almond of inkthat you can feel staring at you.  Theonly color on the mask is the bloody red slash of lips, which don’t move when theplayer speaks.

“Here you are,” the voice says.  It’s soft and smooth and feminine, butthere’s a note of strain there that makes all the hair on the back of your neckbristle.  “You have run for long enough,my warlock.  What do you have to say for yourself?”

“You are not a soldier anymore,” the voice says.  It’s harder, now, almost impatient.  “You wanted freedom—I gave it.  You walked out of your cage without a mark onyou.  Why do you still hide in theshadows? ��I have given you freedom, andpower, enough of both to be my agent in the world.  But you cower in the back line, waiting fororders.”  

The voice pauses, and you find that you cannot speak toanswer.  Something you haven’t felt in along time is settling over you: panic. You know fear, fear keeps you alive. You even know the feeling of knowing that you are about to die.  This is deeper, more honest. ��Primal. You are faced with something more powerful than any mortal could hope todefeat, something that could sweep worlds clean without breathing hard, and asthe cool porcelain mask stares down at you, surrounded by the quiet whisper offeathers rustling in the wind, you truly understand what it means to feelsmall.

There is a long sigh, and the wind rushes around you withthe force of a gale, laden with the sweet, warm scent of fresh earth.

“You have agreed to a hard thing, my warlock,” the voicegoes on, a touch softer.  “But we are allgoing to be faced with hard things, I am afraid.”

What do you want todo?

“You will seek imbalance,” the voice says.  It’s not a request, nor is it even really anorder.  It is a statement ofreality.  “You will fight to restore whatyou can, and you will destroy what you cannot. You will be a scourge on those who betray the balance of the world.  You will do these things, and you will dothem alone.  I cannot interfere.  I am perilously close to breaking my own lawsas we stand now.  You are an agent of thegods now, my warlock, not a soldier waiting for a messenger to bring you orderswith a royal seal.”  The player pausesfor a moment, and the mask tilts thoughtfully, like a moon consideringyou.  

“I will send a guide,” the voice says at last.  “To help you. But you must make your own moves now.”

The hand closes over you, so swift and powerful you can’teven think of resisting, and you’re on the chessboard again.  The empty throne is on your left.  In front of you is the priestess with herstaff.  The game is on again.

What do you want todo?

You step forward, down the diagonal, and step into thesquare occupied by a ranger wrapped in white scarves, carrying a recurvedbow.  The golden light spilling from thecracks in your skin burns the white ranger where you touch, and she cowers awayfrom you, hitting her knees.  You kickher aside, out of the square, and look down the diagonal to the white throne.

You say, “Check.”

The world explodes, and you wake up.

HEINOUS (TIEFLING, BARBARIAN, PATH OF THE ZEALOT)

You are standing in your home—in the kitchen, with a castiron wood stove in one corner and a narrow staircase twisting upward in theother.  Your back is to the door to themain room, the door closed firmly behind you, caging you in the kitchen.  It’s simple, but big and broad.  You paid for this place with money you earnedwith your own hands, as a mercenary, and you cut down trees for the windowsillsand floorboards with your own hatchet. Your wife Yevelda did the real carpentry, sanded things smooth and fit thejoints together, and the two of you together decided on how to furnish it.

Over the years you lived here, the floors grew scuffed andthe walls gained bumps and marks.  Youcan see the window in the kitchen, the one that broke during a storm that senta tree branch through the glass, the one with the sill that never quite lookedright again.

None of those marks of life are here now.  Your home looks as fine and warm andbeautiful as the day you finished building it, but untouched.  The wood glows in the sunlight that spillsthrough the windows, but you can’t see outside, past the light, and when youtry, it makes you feel dizzy and sick, the smell of smoke strong in yournostrils.  You’re standing in the kitchenand you know every inch, but none of your things are here—there is no sign ofthe maple table Yevelda made, and no knives or cooking implements on thecounter.  The stove is dark and cold, theiron flawless, as if it’s never been touched. There are no pots or pans, no food stored on the shelves.  The pantry door stands ajar, without evendust inside.  

You are home, and youare alone.  What do you want to do?

You ascend the stairs—they’re narrow, twisting sharply ontop of themselves, and you duck your head automatically to keep the rise ofyour horns from thudding into the wood as you take the first three steps.

At the top of the stairs is a small room.  It’s empty of furniture, but you can picturewhere the bed should be pushed into the corner, under the window spillingimpenetrable golden light onto the floor, and where the dresser should stretchalong one wall.

There is a figure standing in the light of the window, withher back to you.  It’s a half-orc, astall as you are and even broader in the shoulders, wild black curls twistedinto a complicated pattern of plaits along both sides of the skull and spillingloose down the crown and back of her head. She’s dressed in a blue tunic that flatters the green shade of her skin,and trousers, and she has her hands folded behind her back like she’s waiting.

You know her, of course.

Your foot lands on the creaky floorboard at the top of thestairs, the one she kept saying she was going to fix and never did, and Yeveldaturns around.

What do you want todo?

Yevelda doesn’t respond. She looks at you clinically, like you’re a mystery to solve, a finetrick of carving to unravel, and takes a step back from you, leaving you alonein the light falling through the window. Yevelda spreads her hands to either side of her, and you look down.

There are two greataxes lying on the wood.  They’re both yours, or at least unnaturallyperfect copies—you recognize the lines of the haft and the curve of the blade,the place where the head fits to the shaft, the marks of use on the butt.  But the axes aren’t wood and steel.

On Yevelda’s left, there is an axe made of whiteporcelain.  It shines in the light,glazed and polished.  You know just fromlooking at it that the porcelain is cold to the touch where the leather gripshave been transformed into ceramic, smooth and slick as water, the bladerefined to a razor-edge.  It looks as lightand lethal as a clear winter night.

On Yevelda’s right, there is an axe made of stone—greygranite.  There’s no glossy shine to it,but rather a matte finish to the rock where it’s been ground down smooth,interspersed with glints reflected from whatever minerals make up thegrey.  The glints dance like sparks oflightning in your vision.  Looking, youcan feel the heft of the stone, the way it pulls at your shoulders, the powerbehind each blow, like holding a mountain in your hands—or like breaking one.

You look back to Yevelda, and she is still standing therebetween the axes, expressionless, hands outstretched to display them.

“Choose,” she says.

What do you do? 

You bend down and pick up the stone axe, as strong andpowerful as you imagined, and as you straighten up, the light outside goes greyas wind roars against the walls and,in one sudden burst, the window explodes inwards.  The glass tears into your skin, leavingbloody cuts behind.   Lightning flashes,so close that you’re blind for a moment as thunder booms, and when your visionclears, you are alone, standing in mist so thick you cannot see Yeveldaanymore.  You cannot even see thewalls.  There is only the axe in your hands.

What do you do?

You try to drop the axe and you can’t make your fingersmove, can’t force your arms to throw the thing away from you.

Slowly, the blade comes up to rest at your throat.

Do you fight the axe?

A voice that rollslike thunder down a mountain whispers, Fightfor me.

And in one swift motion, the axe slashes yourthroat, and you wake up.

(Note: actually this player failed her Religion roll and therefore does not realize that choosing the stone axe means she’s bound to the Stormlord, not her original god, the Raven Queen.  That should be fun.)

NYMERIA (HALFLING, RANGER, MONSTER HUNTER)

You are standing in the square of a small village—the housesaround you are brick, not the river stone and lumber you’ve seen lately, andthe cobbled stones underfoot are red-brown with a dusting of fine goldengrit.  You close your eyes and take adeep breath, and you smile, just a touch, as the familiar dry scent of thedesert rushes into your lungs, soothes something in your soul.  It’s hard to define the smell of this place,the southern desert of Creshen where the mountains have dried out the ground,stretching all the way to the river delta that cages the desert on the easternedge, but it means home to you.

Opening your eyes, you turn, sure-footed, to look up at thestatue at the center of the square.  Thetrinkets in your hair click together, but the sound doesn’t worry you, not now,not when you’re safe in your home and you have no need to hide.  You tip your head up, toward the brilliantsun overhead, looking for the face of the statue, the draconic head turningintelligent eyes toward the council hall, each stone scale fletched withprecious silver—one claw on a pile of books and scrolls, and the other raised passant, dexterous talons held out inwarning.  You have seen the statue everyday of your life here, it was crafted long before your birth and will finallycrumble long after your death.

You smile, and salute the Platinum Dragon, and blink.

You open your eyes.

The statue is not there.

Something cold twists in your chest, and, Nymeria, standingthere over the smashed rubble of your god’s icon, you know what’s about tohappen.

The village is empty as you rush through the streets,silent.  You pass the signs of ruin—bloodand other things splashed against brick, doors battered down and stones clawedout of their moorings—but there are no bodies rotting under the harsh sun.  It’s not right, not whatever right is supposed to be, but you can’tthink about that right now.  You’rerunning, sprinting flat out, and you know, with strange certainty, that you’reolder now by far than you ever were in this village, but it doesn’t make youany faster to reach your own door.

It’s when you reach the door, splintered in its frame fromthe night your mother died, that you know you are dreaming.

You still step inside, because you have had this nightmarebefore, and you cannot help but see it through.

You know what you will see inside.  Your little sister, Hama, sprawled on thefloor of your kitchen, a scant few feet from the safety of the cupboard whereyou told her to hide.  A vampire,drinking from her arm, and her blood staining her shirt as red as the ribbon inher hair.

The ribbon in yourhair.

You know that you will blindly grab the nearest thing tohand, and that it will be a fragment of a chair, and that you will drive thefragment through the vampire’s back and into its heart before it can drop Hamaand turn to you.  You know that it willlie there, paralyzed, and do nothing to stop you when you cut off its head withyour mother’s cleaver, and that your sister will, somehow, still be clinging tolife when you kneel down beside her.

You know that she will die with blood in her mouth, frombroken ribs and punctured lungs, and suffocate before she can bleed todeath.  You know that the stench of deathover the village, of your mother and sister’s bodies in this heat, will saveyour life while you sit here in shock and clutch her to your chest untilsundown.

You step through the door anyway.

And you see your sister holding a tin cup in both hands,filled with water, creeping back to the cabinet.

“Ny!” she blurts. She’s only eight, and the last three days have ben brutal, but she stillsounds defensive when her older sister catches her doing something wrong.  “I—I swear I was hiding, I just got so thirsty, it’s so hot in there--”

What do you do?

You’re trying to reassure her, arms around her shoulders, when you hear the voice behind you.

“And here I thought the village was finally empty,” thevoice drawls, and it makes your gut twist and your spine tingle, because itsounds—wrong.  Flat, like the vocal cordsaren’t moving enough to imitate human speech.

You turn around, already sure of what you’ll see—the vampireyou killed, in vengeance for your sister’s life.

It’s there, dressed in tatters, skin waxy but flushed withthree days of easy prey.  It’s easilythree or four times taller than you, and in the dream you can’t quite make outits face.  You never looked at it, whileyou killed it, and now your memory can’t call up its likeness.

Then you glance over its shoulder, and your heartsinks.  

It’s not alone.

There are five creatures there, two vampires and three deadthralls—you think you recognize the thralls from your own village.  Isn’t that the butcher who always gave yourmother a discount, because she always thought you and Hama were so charming?

You realize, quick and sudden, that you have a choice.  You can get Hama to the cupboard and lock herin, or you can bull rush the pack and snatch up the bow you can see on thefloor where the stake should have been, if the chairs had been broken.  

Do you save yoursister, or fight the monsters?

You sprint forward before the vampire can stop laughing, andyour hands find the bow—your bow, theone you oil every day, the one you took over the Winter Pass to Desca.  You grab blind and an arrow meets yourfingers, and you nock it and fire.  Yourfirst shot takes the lead vampire in the throat, and it goes down. You spin, grabbing another arrow, and fire again.  And again. And again.

You’re on another level, one you’ve never touchedbefore.  The bow feels like an extensionof your body, your arrows hitting truer, your reflexes just a touch faster,your arm strong and unshaken by the work of it.

When you stop firing, the horde is dead all around you—andso is your sister.

You wake up.