#[ gatherer's guile ]

[mtg-cards-hourly]

Mirri's Guile

Hanna was astounded. Mirri read every leaf and wisp of breeze like a book of ancient lore.

Artist: Brom TCG Player Link Scryfall Link EDHREC Link

[whitherwanderer]

5 // stamp

// 670 words. Nathalie thinks in flowers.

She seals every letter with a pressed flower and green wax. Both a message in themselves; a token of feelings. And always, always stamped with her signet ring. To say that decoration was her favorite part of letter writing was an understatement. Such care was taken to consider what was in bloom, what would carry her message with just a flower or two. Moons of gathering and pressing and flipping through each page of unread tomes to examine her catalogue for the perfect ambassador.

This moon: A stem of bluebells.

Mother, Father, and my dearest sisters,

I miss you all, as I’ve admitted time and time again. Is everyone well? Did you like the tea I blended? Maybe I will send along a package of goods from the city. Sweets and toys for the little ones, dyes and fine tools for the rest. If I can provide anything, you need but ask.

Nathalie delivers her letter by hand. Most of the way, at least. She might as well if she’ll be in the area rooting through the brush and picking around the rivers. Buscarron always receives it with the utmost care, sliding it atop a stack and promising her that it’ll be picked up in due time—the others always are.

Letters home, she explained to him once. His was the only establishment that wouldn’t chase them off, and it was blessedly close. When asked why she didn’t simply deliver them then, her smile grows tired, her eyes drift away.

She asked him, sheepishly, if he could recall ever once receiving a letter addressed to her. He couldn’t apologize profusely enough.

I think of you often, and fondly. I think of the milestones I’ve missed. The celebrations and the hardships that I cannot share with you. I keep space for them in my heart, and I can but hope that you spare a place for me in yours, however small.

Perhaps, for the next moon, it will be oxeye daisies. Maybe yew. Was that a bit dramatic?

It’s only when Rakaso parrots back, “A bit dramatic?” that she realizes perhaps she’s thinking about this too hard, and when she should be focused on work, no less. Maybe Rakaso would enjoy the frivolity of receiving such a letter? She’d no doubt find it trite—they work together. What’s left to be said that would be worth writing?

And yet Nathalie cannot help but imagine blue periwinkle under a gold seal.

If you worry for me at all, I pray you find solace in the fact that I am cared for. I live well. I still practice all you have taught and it helps people that pass through our clinic. Some cannot find it in themselves to be grateful to my kin, just as you warned me. But many—most, in fact—stop me to speak as friends.

I still want to visit, if you’ll allow it. I’d have you here in a heartbeat if I didn’t know I’d be asking the star of you all. But I reserve my right to hope, and yours to surprise me.

Buscarron flags her down from across the Druthers in a mad excitement, and for a moment, Nathalie assumes something might be wrong. He tells her to wait there at the bar while he shuffles back to his office, producing a letter with its own seal. Red wax, a solitary V pressed into its center.

Nathalie quakes with it in her hands all the way back to the privacy of her small apartment.

She opens to find more pressed plants, and not a word on the page that encloses them. Last year’s fading, purple columbine and the brittle yellow of autumn aspen leaves. It’s all she can do not to throw herself out the door, pacing in a daze until she arrives at Rakaso’s with little more than apologies and a manic need to be somewhere, anywhere louder than her own mind.

And yet, with every step beyond her door, she thought of snowdrop.

Patiently I remain, N.V.

[dycefic]

The Hearthstone God

[The sequel to the God of Prophecy, and the Serpent God of Protection]

---

Fire is out of fashion, in this new age.

Some of my kind have found new homes, new names, in factories or forges, in the hearts of wildfires or crystals or volcanoes.

Most of us are simply forgotten.

I was a fire god, once. A god of gathering, a god of communion, a god of song and story. But there are no hearthstones now. No fires around which families gather to eat and talk and tell stories.

I am lucky. I am tied to a great flat stone near a lake. A lake that has survived all the wild exuberance of men, when they learned to change the world around them. Once, this was a place where travellers stopped to rest. At first they travelled on their feet, or on half-wild horses. Then there were carts, and a road. Much later, cars drove down the road. The road was paved.

But some things do not change. People need clean water to drink, and the spring here is good. They need to rest, when they are weary. And even now, when they come to camp in nylon tents, to fish in the lake, or to hunt the ducks, or drive camper-vans to the flat place, their ancient instincts wake, and they turn to fire once more. They light new fires atop my stone, so flat and safe, from which no log will roll to set the woods afire.

Not so many come now. Camping is less popular these days. But some still come. Some still light their fires, and settle around my stone, and talk, or listen to music, or tell stories. So I survive, just barely, on the edges of belief.

I feel it, when things begin to change. Something is happening. Something is drawing old gods back. Not the great ones, risen beyond mortal understanding, but the oldest gods, the small gods, those who rose when humankind were still learning what they were.

Far to the west of me, a god even more ancient than I wakes, and begins to hunt again. I remember the stories that were once told of that old serpent, and tell them over to myself in the long fireless nights.

A god of prophecy, not of this land, settles south and west, and I remember tales of ancient ravens, their wisdom and their guile and their sharp, sharp eyes. There was a raven clan once, who passed this way in the days of skin garments and stone tools, but I have forgotten their name. I only remember the symbol they wore, the black bird with its spread wings, marked in charcoal or charring on wooden talismans or leather garments.

I wait, to see who will awaken next.

To my great surprise, it is me.

The people who come this time aren’t like the campers. They come at night, a ragged family group with few blood ties between them, with a single tent and few possessions carried on devices I haven’t seen before. Bicycles, they’re called, slung over with bags the way ponies used to be. They come at night, and hide when cars pass on the road.

They light a fire on my stone, with wood scavenged from the forest, and huddle around its warmth. They don’t speak much, not at first, but they say enough. They have no home, I learn. They are travellers of a kind I have not known before, who are allowed to stop nowhere, but have no goal but a place to rest. They are thin, and worn, and so tired. So very tired.

They need a hearth.

I am only a weak shadow of a god, now, who once recorded the songs and stories of a thousand generations in my ancient stone, but I am still a god of fire. Their fire burns slow, their little fuel lasting well. The food they heat over it sustains them better. The water of that spring, my spring, puts a little life back in them. This stone has lain in this place since great monsters walked this world, since before humans spoke words to one another, and I came into being with the first fire that burned on it. I am old, old, and though weak, I am not powerless.

They stay.

I cannot speak to them. I am old, and weak, and they do not believe. But slowly, with the power of the fires they build every night, with the tiny offerings of scraps of food spilled into the flames, with their growing confidence in the safety of this place, I am able to do more. I give them dreams and they find the cave not far away, where they can hide. They dream of fish, and begin to try to catch some. A woman remembers that some of the local plants are safe to eat, when I slowly wake a long-forgotten memory of a camping trip from her childhood.

And then a child, a strange, quiet child who rarely speaks, a child without mother or father, in the care of an older brother who is exhausted to the very edge of death but cannot give up while she needs him… that child begins to hear.

She sits on my stone, sometimes for hours, not moving or speaking. It worries the others, but at least she is quiet, at least she is no trouble, and they are beginning to associate their hearth with safety. So they let her sit.

She is *listening*. She is listening to the sound of the water, to the sounds of the forest, to the wind blowing. And because she is listening, where no-one else has listened for so long, I sing to her. I sing to her the songs of thousands of years. From the wordless music of the earliest people, who sang what was in their hearts without words, to the songs I have learned from the fishermen with their radios and bluetooth speakers.

I do not know if she hears me, for some time. But then, one night, while they sit around their fire and eat food the oldest have almost certainly stolen, she sings one of my songs. “In a cavern… on a canyon… excavating for a mine…” she sings in a small voice. The others are startled, confused, for she has not spoken aloud since some bad thing they do not name happened, but one of the older ones knows the song and sings with her.

I have always liked ‘Clementine’. It’s been popular with campers for a long time.

The next day, while she sits on my stone, she sings along to one of the wordless songs the Raven People whose name I no longer remember once sang. It is a lullaby, a soft croon to soothe an infant, passed from mother to mother, and she seems to take pleasure in it.

She can hear me. She can even answer me, as the voice driven away by pain and fear begins to return. And so I grow stronger still. Strong enough to make the raven sign on the stone, one day, in the ashes of the fire of the night before.

She takes a half burned stick, and draws the sign on the stone. Pleased, I show her another sign, a leaping fish. She draws that too.

Soon, I need not shift the ashes. I can show her the pictures in her mind, and she draws them. She draws the wheel of a cart, and into her heart I whisper the stories the travellers in covered wagons once told over my stone. She draws a fish, and I make her laugh silently with the jests of fishermen who boast of fish who escaped them. She draws a horse, and I tell her about the wild horses who once drank at this lake, about the men and women who captured and tamed them and rode them through the forest when it was far greater than it is now. She draws a long-toothed cat, and I show her the great cat that once slept on my stone, and denned in the cave where her new found family sleep.

One night, when all the others are asleep and my fire has burned down to coals, she creeps back to the stone and looks into the coals. “Who are you?” she asks. “Are you real?”

She is afraid that the voice in her mind is the voice of madness, a lie created by a mind that does not work like other minds, that has endured great hardship. I do not want this child to be afraid. To instill fear runs counter to my very nature, save in whoever might threaten those my hearth protects.

I am a god of the hearth. I am a god of food, and communication, and peace, and safety. I am all the things that fire used to mean, before humans learned again to fear the thing they had tamed. I do not often take a form, for fire is my form, but for her I must try.

There was a wise woman once, who knew me, whose clan visited this lake several times every year. I watched her grow up, and grow old. I watched her learn of the god of the fire stone, and I watched her teach others. She slept beside me as a child, and as a woman. She sang her children to sleep beside me, and her grandchildren, and dozed beside me as an old, old woman. To her, I was represented by a sign of a flame in an oval, a fire and a stone.

I build a likeness of her out of the light of the coals and the shadows of smoke, a child with straight dark hair and a simple tunic, and in lines of light I draw the sign of the fire and the stone on the outlined chest. “I am the fire,” I tell her, “and the stone. I am all the fires that have ever burned here, all the stories told, all the songs sung, all the meals eaten. I am the traveler’s hearth, and the rest for the weary, and this is my place.”

“Piedra de fuego,” she says, tracing the symbol with her finger in the air. “The fire stone.”

“Yes. I am the god of this place.”

She frowns at this. “My brother says that God is in the sky.”

“Many gods are in the sky.” I cannot continue to hold the form of the girl, but the coals shift to make my sign. “I am not. I am here. I have always been here, since the first people built a fire on my stone, and warmed themselves.”

She nods slowly. “You are… a small god,” she says thoughtfully. “A place god. Like in movies.”

“Yes.” I’ve heard of movies, which are a new way of telling old, old stories. “Old places, important places, often have gods. And gods who are forgotten return to their old places and wait, until someone believes again.”

“Will you protect us?” she asks. “When the police come, to tell us to move on?”

“I am not strong,” I tell her sadly. “I cannot make men go away from here, if they are dangerous, or even call game here for you as I once did. But what I can do, I will do.”

She sits watching the coals for a long time, thinking. “Can we make you stronger?”

I think too, and she waits patiently. “You have already made me stronger. You listened. You believed. If you can convince the others to believe, that will make me stronger still.”

She sighed. “They don’t believe in anything, anymore. Not good things.”

It is a sad thing, that she knows that. They’ve been trying to hide it from her. “Then,” I tell her, “that means there is a place in their hearts that is ready for me. I am not hope. I am not a happy ending. I am not a god in the sky. I am a stone, and a fire, and a song. I am *real*. They can believe in what is real.”

The next night, she asks for a story, and one of the adults tells her an old fairy-tale from a country far away.

The next night, again, she asks for a story, and another adult tells a funny story about his childhood.

On the third night, she asks her brother to tell her a story. He tries, but he is so tired - not physically, but emotionally - that he runs out of words. So she lays her hand on his arm and offers to tell him a story, instead.

And she tells them all a story about a stone near a lake, flat and strong, that people wearing uncured skins and carrying flint weapons built a fire on. She tells of centuries passing, of people coming to the lake on their feet, on horses, in carts and wagons, in cars and motor-homes. Of thousands of years of fires, of people gathered around them, of the great continuity of humanity, and the Piedra De Fuego that has lain in this place since time began, listening to the stories and the songs and the voices of people long gone. Somewhere in the stone, she says, laying her hand on it, all those stories are remembered. All those songs are still sung. And it will remember us too.

I don’t know if it will work. But I was right. People need to believe in something. They need something to hold onto, when times are hard, when the ties of community and family are broken and they feel alone. And a stone thousands of years old, and a fire endlessly renewed on that stone, always new… that is real. They touch me, and think of those who came before, of thousands of years of history meeting them in this place, and they feel less alone.

It’s not much, not yet. But it is something. My nature, my existence, as explained to them by my small, strange priestess, is a slender lifeline flung to those who are adrift, a tiny certainty in a world they do not trust. And the more they believe in that lifeline, that certainty, then the more they believe in me. I *am* growing stronger.

When the police come, I will not be able to make them leave… but I think I am strong enough now to hide my people from unkind eyes. And if I can do that, then their faith will grow.

Tonight, three more people come. A mother and two children, weary and beaten down with hardship. My people welcome them, give them fish and greens grown by the lake, speak kindly to them. And when they have eaten, my little priestess sits between the two children and tells them a story of a stone, and a fire, and thousands of years of stories and songs, and she sings a wordless lullaby six thousand years forgotten, but living again in a child who draws the sign of the Raven in the dirt while she sings, and the sign of the fire on the stone.

And I grow a little stronger.

[faeriichaii]

Hi! I was wondering if you could please write a legolas fix where he has a crush on f!reader!. But here's the thing, she's arwen sister and both arwen and aragorn try to match them both together and at the end they get to confess and all! I had this idea tysm<33

Sunkissed ~ Legolas x F!Elf!Reader

A/N: oh how I missed Legolas <3 I haven’t written anything for him in such a long time that I am so so happy to do a request for him again <3 tbh I think it is so easy for me to write him? Cause idk I picture him like the perfect romance guy?? And idk I always get so soft writing for him haha but omg I hope you enjoy the story!! <33

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Warnings: Fluff ࿐ྂ ⇢ ˗ˏˋ Words: 2.0k ࿐ྂ ⇢ ˗ˏˋ Request: Yes (Thank you <33) ࿐ྂ ⇢ ˗ˏˋ Le I velethril e-guil nîn ~ You are the Love of my Life ࿐ྂ ⇢ ˗ˏˋ Le Melin ~ I love you ࿐ྂ

Summary: You have been in love with the elven prince since quite a time, but never told him about it. Your sister Arwen however, is determined to change the course of your relationship with Legolas.

The light of the setting sun enveloped the room in a warm orange hue, a perfect start for the upcoming celebration of the night. Aragorn, as well as the rest of the company, arrived in Rivendell a few days ago. However, due to their immense exhaustion, the festivities had to be postponed until today. Sitting in front of your vanity, you listened to Arwen hum while her hands brushed through your hair. You have asked for her help earlier and being your sister, she of course, did not decline your request of braiding your hair. “Are you excited for todays festivities?” You suddenly asked her. Watching her reflection through the mirror, you saw a gentle smile gracing her face. “Of course I am sister. They have finally returned from their long journey and deserve to be celebrated.” “You are especially keen on celebrating Aragorn, aren’t you?” You teased her. A blush dusted her cheeks, as she gave you a light slap on the shoulder.

“Stop it. Don’t try to deny that you aren’t keen on celebrating a special someone yourself.” Arwen uttered while gathering a few strands of your hair. Looking down at your lap, you tried to hide your broad smile from her. Even the thought of Legolas alone made your heart skip a beat. And now he finally returned to Rivendell. “We are just very close friends, sister.” “Yes. Very very close friends indeed.” You scoffed at her. It was a known fact that Legolas and you have been friends since your early childhood days. You remember playing with him in the gardens of Mirkwood and dancing together at celebrations in Rivendell. You also remember how your heart shattered as you watched him chase after Tauriel. And of course you remember, putting Legolas heart back together once more.

One could say you went through a lifetime already, however you still only remained friends. “Yes, friends. Nothing more and nothing less.” Slight bitterness filled your voice at the prospect of never being more than that with the elven prince. Arwen, noticing the tone, gave your shoulders a reassuring squeeze. “You say it like it is a curse to be his friend.” “Well, you do know how I feel towards him, don’t you?” “And you know that you can change the course of your relationship anytime, don’t you?” Her arms wrapped around your shoulders in a gentle hug. “Stop worrying about a rejection that will never happen. Even our father can tell that Legolas harbours more than just friendly feelings for you, sister.” Smiling at her, you squeezed her arms, that were still encircling you. “Arwen, the sun is already setting and you still haven’t even begun to separate the strands.” She let out a huff at your change of topic and let go of you, continuing to brush through your hair. “Dear sister, would you prefer a half up half down braid with pearls?”

After finally finishing up and heading to the festivities with your sister, you quickly looked around the room. “Searching for someone specific (Y/N)?” Aragorn asked, while holding an arm out for Arwen to take. “No, not particularly.” “She is, but she just is too shy to admit it.” You glared at your sister. “Don’t worry, he will be here soon.” “Thank you, Aragorn but I am not worrying about anything or searching for someone or something. Now excuse me, I need to get a cup of wine.” And with that you left the couple alone.

“When are the both of them finally admitting their feelings for each other?” Arwen asked her lover, while he guided her towards the dance floor. “Legolas once openly admitted to me that he does love her, but he is so unsure about what to do. Especially after he got rejected by Tauriel.” A knowing hum left her lips, as she let Aragorns words sink in. “I think we should help them out. Find the right course for their future.” She said, as she twirled in her lovers arms.

Hours passed by and you found yourself staring up at the stars above. “Beautiful night, isn’t it?” You spun around at the familiar voice. Your heart skipping a beat as you watched Legolas approach you slowly. His golden hair was perfectly partly braided behind his pointy ears. You remember that he once let you braid it when you were children and how soft it felt. Averting your eyes, you looked back up at the night sky. “It indeed is.” Standing beside you, he let his hands rest on top of the railing. Your fingers almost brushed against each other, sending tingles through your body. “(Y/N) I actually have a little present for you.” Tilting your head, you turned toward him curiously. His warm hand grabbed yours, turned it around and placed something small inside it. Looking down, you saw an iridescent pearl. Taking it between two fingers you examined it carefully. A small was drilled through the small sphere and small delicate details were carved into the surface.

“Legolas, this is so beautiful. Did you make this?” You looked up at the elven prince, who bashfully looked away. “Yes, a dwarven friend showed me how to make one of the- of the beads.” He stumbled upon his words. “Thank you so much, I love it!” Wrapping your arms around his torso, you gave him a hug. His scent filled your nose. Like a fresh spring breeze with a hint of lavender. His arms gently wrapped around you, engulfing you in his warmth. You could have stayed like this forever. In his arms, in his warmth. Pulling away, you smiled up at him, a soft red hue dusting your cheeks. “Would you like to braid the bead into my hair?” You asked him, still holding onto his hands while the bead is nestled between both of your palms. “It would be an honour.” His smile made your heart flutter and fill your body with a comfortable warmth. Turning around, you let the elven prince gather a strand of your hair, braid it and finish it off with the beautiful bead he just gifted you. “It looks beautiful in your hair. Like a star encased in a soft blanket.” You smiled at his words, as you turned back around. Oh, how you wish this night would never end.

The next day you were walking through the gardens alone. You were thinking about the celebrations yesterday. Especially how Legolas treated you and even gifted you a handmade bead. You also vividly remember how the pair of you glided over the dance floor to various melodies. And how his touch ignited your body. You could still even feel the imprints of his fingers on your waist. Do normal friends even act like we do? “You seem quite in thought today (Y/N)” Aragorns voice rung in your ears, ripping you away from your daydream. “Hello Aragorn, how come you are spending time without my sister? I thought the both of you would be inseparable after your return.” The man let out a soft chuckle at your joke. “She found company in someone else today.” You raised an eyebrow at that. With whom was she spending time?

“And to be completely honest with you, I was seeking you out for today.” “How come?” “Let’s take a walk around the gardens, shall we?” He smiled at you, deflecting your question. Nodding at his request, the both of you started to walk along the stone path. “Do you know how Legolas came up with the idea of making this bead?” “He just told me that a friend helped him. So, I guess Gimli shared some of his wisdom with him.” “That is partly the truth.” You looked at Aragorn curiously. “What do you mean by that?” A sigh left the man at your question. “I can’t exactly tell you, because it is not my place to. However, I really wish he would just finally admit to his feelings and confess. The same also goes to you.” You suddenly stopped walking and stared at him; mouth slightly ajar. Never would you have ever guessed that Aragorn would call you out for your feelings towards the elven prince.

“I- I have my reasons Aragorn.” “And so does he. But would you rather constantly long for him than actually courting him?” Embarrassment flooded your system, as you looked at the ground. “I just- I am scared of losing him.” A hand on your shoulder made you look up. Aragorn smiled gently at you. “You won’t lose him (Y/N). I think he might actually be on his way by now to change something about your… situation.” Aragorns eyes focused on something behind you, which made you turn around confused. Arwen was descending the few stone steps with Legolas beside her. “Well, what a pleasant surprise, isn’t it?” She said, weaving her arm through Aragorns. You looked at Legolas, who gave you a smile as a greeting. Returning his gesture, the four of you continued your walk through the garden.

“I am happy to see you are still wearing the bead in your hair.” The elven prince broke the silence between you. “Of course I am. You put so much effort into this lovely gift, I will cherish it for the rest of my life.” “I am glad to hear that.” He slowed his pace down, to create some distance between the both of you and the pair in front of you. “(Y/N) there is something I want to talk about with you.” A shiver went down your spine at his words. Did he find out about my feelings? Will he reject me now? Dread flooded your system, as you stared at him waiting for him to continue talking. “Do you know how I came up with the idea of gifting you this bead?” Legolas asked you. You shook your head no. “It is quite simple. Gimli talked about his customs and how similar they were to ours in some aspects. He also mentioned that they normally craft courting beads for their significant other.” Warmth spread over your face and dusted your cheeks in a rosy colour.

“After that I asked him if he could show me how to craft one. Because I wanted to give one to you.” Suddenly he stopped walking and turned toward you. Grabbing your hand gently into his, he let his thumb stroke soft circles over your skin. Your heart beat quickened, as you looked up into his warm eyes. “I want to court you (Y/N). I want to spend my lifetime with yours. I want to be beside you during cold nights as well as warm days. I want to be with you and I want to be yours (Y/N).” Gasping at his words, you squeezed his hands reassuringly. “I never would have expected to hear such beautiful words from you Legolas. My heart has always longed to be with yours and I would love to enter this courtship with you. I want to spend my lifetime with you. I want to be yours and I would love you to be mine.”

Smiling brightly at you, Legolas let go of your hands and placed his gently on your face. His thumb stroked along your reddened cheek, before he leaned in slightly. Your heartbeat quickened as his face got closer to yours. But before your lips could touch, he stopped. “Le I velethril e-guil nîn.” And with those words he closed the gap between you. His rich taste filled your system, as you tilted your head more to the side and let his lips engulf more of you. He was addicting, like a drug. A sweet drug. He tasted like a sunny spring morning. Like the comfort and warmth of sunrays on your skin. Separating, the both of you looked at each other lovingly. “Le melin.” You said, smiling brightly at him before indulging once more in his lips and his embrace, making sure to treasure every single second of it.

[elisabethdeep-blog]

Gotta make a post about my best DunMeshi neurospicy boi

Lotta content out there about Laios' autistic traits but where o where is the Senshi rep?

Senshi's dedication to Dungeon trophic systems makes Laios' special interest look like a well-thumbed pamphlet. (Granted Senshi has had significantly longer to cook; Laios is a baby).

Senshi's limited emoting is baked-in to his character model- that thousand yard stare, most of his face occluded by his habitual helmet (masked, even...... How many folks pine for covid masks obviating the need to manage their faces constantly?)

He overheard someone mention his special interest and Walked Right Up to a Group of Strangers to brazenly asplain them a thing. Marcille makes a bridge-mending bid regarding the mosses in the scorpion hotpot (after her previous truculent outbursts) and he totally deadpans her, because he didn't even notice.

He is VERY COMMITED to his ethical position on dungeon ecology. More than once he's disrupted Marcille Right at the point of release of a spell, after she's been chanting for like a paragraph, because she's going to contravene some principle of his.

Also

Speaking of Marcille, he demonstrates some pretty rigid, black-and-white thinking around magic, that doesn't seem internally consistent. He's repeatedly reanimating magical constructs (golems), an explicitly controlled magical act, but is Very Very reluctant to submit to being charmed with WaterWalk; his spoken reasoning about this just doesn't hold water.

Oh and he's totally neglected his personal hygiene for basically ever. He's averse to cleaning up for the sake of being bespelled, but other than magic, seems fine with getting the salon treatment. This isn't a Toph Beifong 'protective layer of earth', he's just forgotten to care about not being covered with monster gore.

PDA? The fellow has one (1) social skill, namely, he exercises any discretion on opening his mouth to argue. But that holds him back exactly NONE when he decides he's done listening. The first time we see this is gathering Mandrakes, when he doesn't SAY he's done with Marcille's opinions, but he Does just go ahead and exercise his damn autonomy. a MUCH stronger example is when Chilchuck is guiding them through the trap rooms. Senshi gets roundly (and rightly!) chewed out by Chilchuck, and his response isn't the sensible 'sorry Chilchuck, maybe I could walk more directly behind you so I can more closely match your steps', but to BRAZENLY DANCE ALL OVER THE TRAP FLOOR! the only reason that doesn't kill the whole party is The Plot. It's not even that he doesn't appreciate Chilchuck's skill- he just don't like getting chastised! Same with Anne the Kelpie! Senshi's gonna do what Senshi's gonna do! He WILL not be rushed, he WILL not be chastised, he WILL not be directed! How do we think he came to be living in a dungeon all by himself in the first place!!

AND THE BREAD!

THIS IS NOT THE DEMAND OF A NEUROTYPICAL DWARF

Look there's more. After Chilchuck's impassioned and heartfelt plea, Senshi suggests they should return to the surface because they're 'low on seasoning'.

He's a dwarf who turned his adamantium shield into a cookpot.

He can meticulously maintain his mithril cooking knife but not his axe.

He responds well to other characters meeting him halfway but initiates few (no?) such bids himself. There's rarely any guile in Senshi, and when he is being shifty, he's Bad At It- and again, usually its in service of demand avoidance, like when he capitalises on Marcille's toilet break to reanimate his golems.

Senshi is the monomaniac that society has spent Decades trying to iron out of my wrinkly brain.

I hope to see him also find a place in the neurosparkly constellations.

[mortalityplays]

Hi! I really liked and agreed with your post on purple prose, and I was curious what books if any you'd describe as having purple prose. Not even necessarily as shorthand for calling it bad! just examples of it, especially from non-classic literature. Unless the term is entirely subjective lol. Feel free to reply to this ask publicly or privately; I don't mind either way

Have some Conan the Barbarian (sorry about! the racism):

TORCHES flared murkily on the revels in the Maul, where the thieves of the east held carnival by night. In the Maul they could carouse and roar as they liked, for honest people shunned the quarters, and watchmen, well paid with stained coins, did not interfere with their sport. Along the crooked, unpaved streets with their heaps of refuse and sloppy puddles, drunken roisterers staggered, roaring. Steel glinted in the shadows where wolf preyed on wolf, and from the darkness rose the shrill laughter of women, and the sounds of scufflings and strugglings. Torchlight licked luridly from broken windows and wide-thrown doors, and out of those doors, stale smells of wine and rank sweaty bodies, clamor of drinking-jacks and fists hammered on rough tables, snatches of obscene songs, rushed like a blow in the face. In one of these dens merriment thundered to the low smoke- stained roof, where rascals gathered in every stage of rags and tatters—furtive cut-purses, leering kidnappers, quick- fingered thieves, swaggering bravoes with their wenches, strident-voiced women clad in tawdry finery. Native rogues were the dominant element—dark-skinned, dark-eyed Zamorians, with daggers at their girdles and guile in their hearts. But there were wolves of half a dozen outland nations there as well. There was a giant Hyperborean renegade, taciturn, dangerous, with a broadsword strapped to his great gaunt frame—for men wore steel openly in the Maul. There was a Shemitish counterfeiter, with his hook nose and curled blue-black beard. There was a bold- eyed Brythunian wench, sitting on the knee of a tawny-haired Gunderman—a wandering mercenary soldier, a deserter from some defeated army. And the fat gross rogue whose bawdy jests were causing all the shouts of mirth was a professional kidnapper come up from distant Koth to teach woman-stealing to Zamorians who were born with more knowledge of the art than he could ever attain.

Conan is an interesting example imo because it displays a lot of the highs and lows of pulp. Robert E. Howard could also write very punchy, straightforward action, and often did - but part of the selling point for the emerging genre fiction of the era was that it was lurid and lascivious. While the extract above is. Well. Bad. It is worth recognising that within its context it was also kind of experimental.

Howard wrote these drooling, sort of bewildering, sensory passages for the same reason Marvel movies punch you in the face with saturated colours and rapid cuts and a billion VFX. You see it in the work of H.P. Lovecraft too, and I will grudgingly acknowledge that that's something worth recognising about his literary impact. I also think Lovecraft was a pretty bad technical writer, personally, but that's a whole other soapbox.

My point is that a lot of truly purple prose today (in the sense that it is extraneous, distracting, undermines its own function) traces its legacy to this era of pulp where there was a distinct secondary purpose to overwhelming the reader with ornamentation. It was self-consciously indulgent, and strikingly distinct from the more genteel floridity of equally bad literary novelists. For instance, compare the above with the even purpler prose of the famously awful Irene Iddesleigh:

On being introduced to all those outside his present circle of acquaintance on this evening, and viewing the dazzling glow of splendour which shone, through spectacles of wonder, in all its glory, Sir John felt his past life but a dismal dream, brightened here and there with a crystal speck of sunshine that had partly hidden its gladdening rays of bright futurity until compelled to glitter with the daring effect they soon should produce. But there awaited his view another beam of life’s bright rays, who, on entering, last of all, commanded the minute attention of every one present—this was the beautiful Irene Iddesleigh. How the look of jealousy, combined with sarcasm, substituted those of love and bashfulness! How the titter of tainted mockery rang throughout the entire apartment, and could hardly fail to catch the ear of her whose queenly appearance occasioned it! These looks and taunts serving to convince Sir John of Nature’s fragile cloak which covers too often the image of indignation and false show, and seals within the breasts of honour and equality resolutions of an iron mould. On being introduced to Irene, Sir John concluded instantly, without instituting further inquiry, that this must be the original of the portrait so warmly admired by him. There she stood, an image of perfection and divine beauty, attired in a robe of richest snowy tint, relieved here and there by a few tiny sprigs of the most dainty maidenhair fern, without any ornaments whatever, save a diamond necklet of famous sparkling lustre and priceless value.

Christ. Hopefully you can see the depth of the scale here - the Conan extract is muddy and difficult to read, but this is near incomprehensible. Part of the reason this passage is so much worse is that there is even less intent behind the author's use of language. Here, she is working overtime to evoke a kind of dramatic-intellectual style borrowed from writers like the Brontë sisters (imo at least - not an expert, that's just the sense I get as a reader). The further these flourishes get from lending purpose to the meaning of the prose, the harder they are to parse.

BUT my other point is: far fewer writers these days set out to emulate Irene Iddesleigh's arch, roundabout, society conscious voice than they do the hallmarks of classic pulp. We're inured to sex and violence, sin and debauchery in fiction today, so extracts like the Conan example feel even more bloated than they did in their time. And that creates a real pitfall for amateur genre writers: the instinct to pay homage to the stylistic choices of the classics can lead them right into Irene Iddesleigh territory.

Too often, the purpose of these overwrought, leering descriptions isn't calculated to thrill the audience, but to establish a piece in the company of older works the writer admires. And that's what leads to truly purple prose in contemporary genre writing, which makes readers scoff and laugh, which makes authors self-conscious and timid, which leads us here to a point where wordy description is inaccurately identified as the problem. It's not. The problem is excess - and when something has purpose, by definition, it's not excessive.

[homers-filing-cabinet]

“Watch where the birds fly, they will lead us to land, there we’ll hunt for food my second in command”

Says that tactful and guileful man, gentle, royal, rugged, Odysseus, MASTER MARINER, and King of Ithaca.

Ody…my guy…

The birds will lead you to food.

Seagulls gather in flocks above water when there are fish near the surface.

FISH YOU CAN EAT.

BUDDY.

RAMSHACKLE A FISHING ROD. FOOD IS RIGHT THERE. USE SPEARS IF SO DESIRED.

I adore Odysseus, but I’m losing it actively, I do believe.

[goshdangronpa]

Where to begin in sharing my thoughts on Class of '09: The Flip Side ...

Well, how about the positives? Everything I've seen is so negative, and trust me, I have thoughts. But I enjoyed quite a lot of it, and I wanna do my part to balance out the discourse. So, here's a list.

Jecka makes for an interesting protagonist compared to Nicole. She's far more emotional - I swear, she breaks down crying in every route, which is genuinely disconcerting. She's also way less savvy. I'm not fond of how overwhelmingly negative these endings are (more on that in another post), but it at least makes sense. Nicole gets the upper hand in several endings from the previous two games because she's usually cunning enough to avoid potential problems, manipulate her way out of them, and/or get people in serious trouble. Jecka may be a bit of a bitch (and I love her for it!), but as she says in one ending, she kinda needs Nicole. Putting her in the protag role isn't just subbing her in for Nicole. Flip Side explores how things would go for someone with slightly more conscience and way less guile.

Jecka's so goddamn gay, oh my god. Wanting to look for a "goth work girlfriend" at Hot Topic. "I can afford holes, Imma buy me some hoes!" Kissing Ari! She says she only did the latter for attention, but girl ... girl. Someday she'll ask someone "Doesn't every girl think about sleeping with their gal pals?" and be shocked when that someone says no. (Tbh when I heard that one route would explore a previous game's route from Jecka's perspective, and when I saw the CG of the jeckari kiss on Tumblr, I created an entire plotline in my head that didn't come to fruition. Pity - it'd at least make for a good fanfic.)

"It's been seven seconds." The scenes based on this bit are some of the funniest in the whole series ("Why don't you magically gather some friends?"). Like something straight out of South Park. If the Co09 anime Kickstarter had reached the stretch goal of a full 25-minute episode, would this have been the script? I've heard people say that Flip Side doesn't feel like Class of '09, or that the dialogue isn't as good in this one, but this part, among others, works for me. "Can anyone do the math?" "... I thought this was health."

I'm a lifelong FYE patron who will drive 40-odd minutes to visit the only remaining store in my entire region. So for me especially, the entire FYE storyline was a ride. It reminded me of American Dad, where every episode turns something mundane into an elaborate conspiracy or wild adventure into its secret underbelly. It's awesome from beginning to ... well, not the end, but it's mostly awesome. And we get to hang out with Kelly! That's neat!

This is apparently my hottest take: the "foot whore" routes are not that bad. For starters, they're not presented in a way that fetishizes Jecka herself. You never see her feet, or see what she does with them. Yall can still find the suggestion of it gross if you want, but comparisons to Quentin Tarantino seem unwarranted! More importantly, the foot services enable the writers to explore topics of sex work while keeping the game light on actual sexual activity. It's rare to see such subject matter broached in a thing like this, yet we get to see how circumstances can pull desperate people into selling their bodies, and how swiftly and easily they can have their boundaries violated and their safety compromised by the customers they depend on. The increasing disruption of normal conversations by the text notifications of Jeffery's donations is a genuinely despairing plot device. Both endings are troubling for different reasons (again, that's for another post), but the game's got something to say in a way that, to me, is fairly mature yet distinctly Class of '09. (Credit to my partner for this observation, I'm so grateful I could play this with them.)

... Uh ... the music sting from the opening monologue bumps ... It sounds more Class of '17 than Class of '09, but it's still cool ...

Okay so I can't think of more, at least not right now. (EDIT: How did I forget the Hatman? That was cute!) Flip Side may be the most flawed game in the series, but it's still pretty good. At the very least, I don't think it's the shitshow other people are making it out to be ... though there is a smell. I'll go deeper on the negatives in other posts.

[soufcakmistress]

Temptress

Pairing: Erik Stevens x Thick Black OC

The intricate oil painting hanging on the wall threatened to fall by the incessant pounding of the bed frame. “I wonder what they’re serving at the pub tonight…” Sybil Freeman pondered as this sad soul rutted away between her legs. The Viscount Peters was one of her frequent visitors, and always tipped well. A lackluster lover, but always super sweet. The viscount shuddered and finally expelled into the sheepskin condom, with sighs of much awaited relief. Her corset has her abundant breasts grazing her chin, which have now spilled out from the romp that just ensued.

This is the part that the men come for. “Ooooh, the Viscount is feeling very frisky this evening. I’ll be sure to put those juniper berries in your wine every time we meet, sugar.” The short and dumpy nobleman always moseyed down her street for a bit of loving. Black and white men alike patronized the house—a house of nothing but Black bawds and whores.

~

London is a long way from colonial Charleston. Sybil Ravenel was one of eleven children to an enslaved couple working the indigo crop on Edisto Island. Keen on her surroundings and fierce about her family, one particular overseer would always harass her. She was very shapely and purposely wore baggier clothes to conceal her body. She’d managed to make it this far without getting whipped or separated from her family. The overseer was tired of Sybil spurning him. Easter Day came and the slaves were able to take the day off for once. While everyone was congregated by the fire, Sybil was caught off guard and gagged and pulled around the tobacco barn. Little did that overseer know that Sybil had been preparing for that day.

She sharpened this stick every day and hid it in the waistline of her skirt. Today, she made good on her intentions and shoved the stick into his neck. “I the last Negro woman you try to push up on. Bastard.” Blood drenched her apron and bonnet, and she wrenched them off and hid them under her skirt. Scrambling to the slave quarters, she gathered up the few clothes she had, tied them up and ran towards the harbor with all of her might in the dead of night.

Sybil understood sex and how easy men were guiled once it entered a dynamic. Men had few motivations and if it didn’t involve money, food or sex, Sybil found they didn’t have much use past that. She wasn’t entirely sure of her age, but she was a woman full grown. She had no education but she had the will to live and extremely limited means to do so. Offering what she had between her legs was how she was able to convince the captain of a nearby merchant ship not to ring the alarm for a fugitive slave on the run. She sucked his pecker so good as a matter of fact, he gave her her own cabin, left to be undisturbed until the ship docked.

The manifest was set for London Harbor, with a large store of indigo posed for shipping to the British Isles. England outlawed slavery years ago and all Sybil can remember being in awe of how Black folks roamed so freely. London was expansive, a different feeling versus Charleston. Attempting to navigate the streets, she bumped into a striking woman, with incredible cheek bones and dwarfed almost every man. “Careful, darling. Yuh ‘ave to actually look where yuh walk in this city. Before yuh get trampled.”

Needless to say, her life was changed from then on out. Bellemere Almodovar. Born in Jamaica, she was purchased by Spanish spice traders in exchange for bushels of saffron. She was so beautiful that she was whisked away from the auction block to accompany a lord in the Spanish court in the Spanish royal seat in Madrid.

Bellemere took Sybil under her wing. Showed her the ropes, how to keep herself safe, how to articulate herself, and recognize what the means to the end was. Fuck the frogs until you find the prince. A marquis or a lord having you for his mistress meant security and stability. A binding contract between the two of you kept the relationship mutually beneficial at all times. You provide the cunny and ego stroking, he provides the lifestyle. It’s plain and simple as that.

Until then, Sybil would stack her money. Her and Bellemere have expanded their stable, with an extremely diverse group of Black women with various treasures to offer. Lola and Liza Ibeji, the Sierra Leonan twin Amazons liked to play with the kinky politicians on Downing street on every bank holiday who liked to be tied up and degraded. Sarah Macenroe was a biracial beauty from Ireland, looking for a new home since her last bawd kicked her out. She was a contortionist, and petite like a nymph who loved to stick her finger up a John’s bum. And Sybil’s best friend Janie Smith from Trinidad, always quick to cuss her in patois. She was plump and shaped like you and that brought you both closer. Janie learned that she did not have a gag reflex, allowing any man to aim his prick down her endless throat with no resistance.

And Sybil. Sybil’s prized possession was between her legs. It was wetter and tighter than anyone around, and was guaranteed to make any man lose his pride before he wanted to. Her blue fingertips were a marvel to gaze upon and added to the fantasy. These English nobles ached for the chance of sleeping with a liberated Negro woman from the colonies. Her life was easy now. Fuck her regulars, and live good. She was free. Free to eat in any cafe of her choosing. Led her girls into any social gathering with their heads high and guaranteed to garner whispers and gasps. Music to her ears.

As of late, Sybil had been bored to tears of the social scene. Janie had just snagged her keeper, and she’d been whisked to the northern countryside for the next month. On this particular occasion, Sybil’s carob skin emitted radiance unknown to this world with the midnight blue gown hugging her body close. Her scalp itched under the powdered wig, and she daintily threw back her 6th drink of the night. Her girls worked the room as always, prowling for the next kill, and yet Sybil couldn’t give a fuck about any of these men.

She grabbed her sachet, picked up the ends of her dress and sashayed to the terrace. Some fresh air was needed. A cigarette she already rolled was pulled out and heavy footsteps lurked behind her. “Is this seat taken?”

A puff of tobacco smoke billowed in front of her cherubic face. A pleasant surprise that a Black man with a familiar accent met her. “Do as you like.”

The strange man quietly observes Sybil’s appearance. Their eyes finally meet and she’s enraptured and forgets to mask her intent. He’s very handsome, with a sterling smile and dashing garments. And an American accent. Interesting. “What’s a southern Belle doing mingling with English society?”

“I could ask the same of you. You’re like a fly in a glass of milk with this crowd. American?”

The gentleman wore his own hair out, a beautiful tangle of curls, and an emerald green suit that was immaculately crafted. His scent was alluring, and made Sybil want to know how deep his pockets went. “Yes. I was formerly enslaved, just like you. My father was African however and fell in love with my mother on a trip to the colonies. He bought us and we went back to his country to live. I grew up and wanted to explore this world. So for the moment, here I am..”

He took her cigarette out of her hand and began to puff on it himself. “And how would you know that I was enslaved? I could have been born free for all you know.”

The gentleman blew out the tobacco smoke, and gently placed her hand in his. The indigo dye. Permanently marking her as a piece of chattel. A former piece of chattel, for that matter. He kissed every fingertip on her left hand, and Sybil gulped. Her eyes became glassy, and she pulled away. She adjusted her dress, and stabilized her towering wig. “I didn’t catch your name, miss.”

Sybil took the cigarette back from him, taking a harsh pull. Why did this man make her feel like this? “Sybil. Sybil Freeman.” She had to get out of there. As seemingly progressive as London purported itself to be, Black men were almost never gentlemen and of the ton. He exuded high levels of breeding and class. His skin was gorgeous and he had piercing eyes that never left her….and roamed all over her body. He was clearly different.

“Good evening, sir.” Sybil gave the stiffest curtsy and zoomed away, flustered and confused. Something told her that that wouldn’t be the last she saw of him..

A/N: I totally forgot that I had most of this written up already LMAO. Please let me know if you want me to continue this story. Pleaseeee reblog and comment, love yall!!!

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[vlepkaaday]

An old sketch I had saved on my phone for quite some time and decided to finish it.

Originally I was going for a Drukhari wytch but ended up in something that’s a bit in Moebius vibe. Or Dune even.

I like it xD

Ylva Darkthorn was born on the dark and twisted world of Commorragh, the city of shadows, home to the Drukhari. From a young age, she showed an aptitude for the dark arts and the manipulation of pain and pleasure, traits highly valued by the cruel and sadistic denizens of Commorragh.

As she grew, Ylva found herself drawn to the Wych Cults, where she honed her skills in the arena of combat and performance. Her agility, speed, and deadly grace made her a rising star in the gladiatorial spectacles that were so central to Drukhari society.

However, Ylva's ambitions extended beyond the confines of the arenas. She sought to rise through the ranks of the Wych Cults, not just as a skilled combatant, but as a cunning and charismatic leader. Through manipulation and ruthless ambition, she began to gather a small but fiercely loyal following of fellow Wyches.

Ylva's rise to power did not go unnoticed, and she soon found herself embroiled in the deadly intrigues and power struggles that defined life in Commorragh. As she navigated these treacherous waters, she learned to use her charm and guile as effectively as her blades, becoming a formidable force to be reckoned with in the dark city.

Her name, Ylva Darkthorn, became synonymous with both beauty and brutality, a figure of fear and admiration among the Drukhari. With her sights set on even greater power and influence, Ylva continues to weave her web of deception and violence, carving out her own dark legacy in the grim and twisted tapestry of the Warhammer 40k universe.

[bloggingnsfw]

Deep in the forest

Sequel to Werewolf breeding

Warning: smut, pregnancy, female reader, Gnoll, 2 Monsters X fem reader, creampie, implied creampie, rough

Part 2

As she traversed through dense forests and treacherous landscapes, strange beasts came upon her occasionally. At each instance, however, your courage and resolve only seemed to intensify. She swiftly dispatched the threats and continued onwards towards her destination, unaware of the numerous eyes that watched her departing figure vanish into the distance. Meanwhile, the alpha wolf waited patiently within the cave, eagerly awaiting her return. Whenever danger loomed near, Y/N employed various techniques learned from the wolves – stealthily navigating around obstacles, stalking her quarry, and utilizing guile to deceive potential predators. In doing so, she managed to maintain her sense of self-preservation, although her spirit was tested many times over. In the distant she could see a cavern, she hoped so find some shelter from the brutal wind.

The air within the dimly lit cavern reverberated with an underlying sense of excitement and danger. Every step taken echoed loudly against the stone walls surrounding You, as if every movement was amplified, drawing attention towards her arrival. Her eyes roamed about restlessly, trying to discern anything familiar among the peculiar array of creatures gathered around the large, smoke-filled space. Clothed in a tight leather bodice accented with intricate silver designs, she exuded confidence despite the oddity of her situation. As her footsteps drew closer, more curious glances were cast upon her – it seemed they had not encountered such beauty before. "What brings you here, lovely one?" The voice came from behind her, huskier than expected, causing Y/N to shiver involuntarily. Turning slowly, she met the gaze of a towering figure cloaked in black - its body barely concealed beneath the garment. Despite the obscurity, his size alone spoke volumes; he was undoubtedly the master of these lands. "I seek companionship," she replied boldly, allowing herself to be swept up by the moment. With each passing second, the allure of his presence grew stronger, enveloping her senses entirely. As their bodies pressed together, Y/N felt the heat radiating from his chest seep through her clothes, leaving goosebumps across her skin. Unable to resist any longer, she reached out to touch him, tracing her fingers along the contours of his broad shoulders and down his muscular arms. In response, he pulled her even closer, pressing his hardened length against her soft curves. Without warning, his hand snaked around her waist, pulling her close enough so that their lips nearly touched. His breath quickened, sending waves of desire coursing through both of them. It was then that Y/N made her move, sliding her hands up his chest until they reached the hem of his cloak. Grabbing hold firmly, she began untying the knot securely fastening it around his neck. With each gentle tug, the fabric parted slightly, exposing tantalizing slivers of flesh. Glancing upwards, Y/N caught sight of a pair of steely grey eyes peering back at her intently, filled with burning desires and expectancy. Unperturbed, she continued teasing him further, pushing the boundaries of what could have been considered polite behavior. Running her tongue seductively over her lipstick-stained lips, she whispered suggestively, "Do I make you want me?" This time, there was no doubt in his expression, only lustful intent etched deeply onto his face. Reaching down to cup her breast lightly through her top, he groaned audibly, the sound filling the confined space, making the warmth between her legs grow exponentially. Taking a deep breath, Y/N closed her eyes briefly, savoring the delicious feeling of anticipation. Lowering her head demurely, she brushed her nose against his collarbone before biting playfully at the flesh. The sharp pain served as a trigger, releasing a flood of endorphins that intensified the arousal. Desire now coursed through her veins, propelling her movements faster and harder.

[snowpoff]

have I talked about this before? yes? well I'm doing it again

here's my personal take on lorule's triforce that I've had since the game came out over a decade ago. time flies! see the explanation below:

TENACITY -- the quality or fact of being very determined; determination.

this is the piece I assigned yuga. like the wriggling worm he loves to accuse others of being, yuga is very good at his job of being a nuisance. unlike ganondorf, he lacks raw power and strength, instead relying on his guile and wits to see his visions through. he was the one who found the crack on the slate in the sacred realm. he was the one who went through to, I assume, gather information on hyrule and its triforce. he boldly traveled through unknown territory, at the behest of his princess, to collect... objects of import to their mission in order to gain the power to achieve his goals. how... courageous of him. and quite familiar.

ACUITY -- keenness or acuteness, esp in vision or thought.

this is the piece I assigned ravio. from both his time as a merchant and as his time as... whatever his occupation in the castle was, ravio's regularly observed being a very smart cookie. he is the type to think first, act later, and by act I mean larp as a salesman while he continues to cook up contingency plans in the background. furthermore, he was the one who attempted to convince hilda her plot was utterly insane and, when that failed, knew what he had to do next-- and boy, was it something truly out of the box. instead of cowering in lorule waiting for the world to end, he snuck away to hyrule to find someone more capable than himself to stop both hilda and yuga. he's later seen subtly guiding link along his path, giving him advice on where to go and who to speak with next. and at the end of it all, he reveals himself as well as his master plan, which surprises literally everyone in the room. he's both a wiseass and wise as all hell.

CAPACITY -- an individual's mental or physical ability.

this is the piece I assigned hilda. from jump street we are aware of two things: hilda's raw magical power, and her unyielding love for her people. the two of these combined created what is akin to mustard gas in a windowless room. that is to say, a recipe for destruction untold. despite that, these qualities are not inherently bad. they were misused, and she herself was manipulated. alas, hilda is not the wisest of the bunch, and lacked the ability to see the holes in her plans. she was blinded by her desire to help her people and, later, her desire for power. hilda is capable of so, so much-- most of which is pretty neutral. but things like love and magic are just as easy to mangle and twist as they are to embrace and use for the greater good. at the end of the day, hilda is a powerful sorcerer who has the ability to change the world around her for weal or for woe.

[whitherwanderer]

- N I N E T Y -

💎💥 - 🗡️🏹 🌸⛏️ - 💀🥀

[volostogekiss]

five moments when he realized how much he’s in love with you:

Warnings: Mention of suicide/death, very depressed Volo (with bad thoughts), suggested/mild violence.

GN!reader, strong reader ngl, hurt/comfort, the whole thing with Volo.. y’know. This got away from me (it’s long), and I really can’t say much about this besides I wanted to see what Volo was thinking when it came to the one he loves. :’)

1 | when you showed him the new plates you’d gathered

To put it mildly, you were fond of Volo.

To put it truthfully… you were terribly captivated by him.

It couldn’t be helped, you tried persuading yourself, since he was a rather lovely man. He’d been kind to you during all of your encounters, or perhaps it was that the majority of other villagers and Hisuian people had made it easy for you to commend any decently sympathetic behavior, really.

Either way, it was hard to repress your growing feelings for the beautiful, bright, silly little merchant.

You didn’t believe that he was just a trader, not with his ability to appear without warning like a swift spring downpour, drenching you before you had a chance to locate shelter. That was quite like him too, in how he could flood you with knowledge of all the history Hisui had to share, and yet, you still felt as if he knew something you didn’t.

Unfortunately, that only fascinated you even more.

He wasn’t like anyone else in Hisui who you knew.

True, you didn’t know many people here, but there was just something about him which complicated forgetting about him like all the rest.

Maybe it was because Volo treated you gently—like a friend, that dreamy mess of your mind suggested—and after months of being downtrodden and judged without reprieve, that was what you needed to feel alive again.

To feel cared for, to feel loved.

The beginning of your budding attraction had sprouted from his understanding advice, his surely unfounded concern for a stranger like you, and admittedly—although somewhat exaggerated in your opinion—his startling praise.

You liked to think the two of you were friends. To be fair, you knew a bit about him, that he enjoyed exploring ruins and historical sites and poring over ancient artifacts and manuscripts. When you decided on finding him for once, rather than the other way around, you told yourself as much.

You told yourself as much, so that you wouldn’t have to concede that there was another reason, concealed by your practical need for a translator, behind wanting to find him.

The past few weeks, you’d been searching for him between survey tasks to no avail, and you’d had a feeling that perhaps the man was just unwilling to be found.

If only you had known how true that had been, and that Volo enjoyed being the one to seek, rather than be sought.

On your way back to the village after a grueling expedition, it had crossed your mind that he might be craftier than you’d first suspected, and that the certain guile about him wasn’t just for wheedling a customer into buying his guild’s latest stock.

And of course, while you were pondering him, that was when he had found you.

Of course, it was when you weren’t out looking for him any longer, did he show up.

Though despite that, and despite how tired you were… you still felt yourself perking up when you saw him.

Volo was the same as always, carrying that massive pack and meandering about without a care in the world. And as he crested one of the slopes leading up to Aspiration Hill, he chirped your name, waved with a flourish like he typically did, and caused your heart to thud a bit more loudly in your chest.

You were glad to see him.

Yet you were oblivious to how painfully glad he was to see you.

He looked forward to finding you whenever he could, and he wasn’t sure when exactly it had happened. Maybe it was because you were the one who fell from the sky, maybe it was because you humored him, or maybe it was because you had a habit of keenly listening to his theories for hours. Cogita didn’t appreciate how he often prattled on—actually, he wasn’t sure anyone else did—but you…

You’d said you liked his voice, and Volo had paused, unable to say anything until you laughed.

From then on, Volo couldn’t fathom it, but every time he saw you, he had found it more and more difficult to lock away those feelings.

They welled up in his chest when he called your name again.

However, instead of returning his greeting, the first thing you did was to charge right over the hill and yell at him.

“HEY!”

At your unwarranted outburst, Volo was caught between utter shock and hiding his blatant amusement at how ruffled you were, a sight he didn’t often witness. As though confirming that you’d really been addressing him though, he merely aimed an index finger at himself.

“Yeah, you! Why are you so hard to find!?”

The merchant swore that you’d mumbled something else underneath your breath, but he was too absorbed in the fact that you’d been searching for him. Ah. A knowing grin was already curling onto his lips.

Despite how busy you were, you were looking for him. What did that say about what you thought of him?

Never one to miss an opportunity to tease you, Volo cocked his head to the side with a mischievous chuckle. “If I had known you were looking for me, my dearest friend, I would’ve surely shown up sooner!”

You did your best to remain unfazed by his pleasant words; with righteous indignation, you crossed your arms, attempting to keep up the act. Stupid, pretty merchant, too damn handsome for his own good.

…This was bad, and you needed to wake up.

“Might I know why you were so diligently looking for me?”

Volo now wiggled that pointer finger at you, and even as you fought against the urge, you wondered what it would be like to hold his hand in yours.

Warm, probably.

You pushed aside the thought, however, and averted your eyes to your satchel. You needed to compose yourself.

“Well, I remembered you’d wanted to see the plate I’d gotten from Lord Kleavor.” Fumbling in your bag for all the others you’d obtained since last running into Volo, you leveled your breathing and collected yourself. “You told me how excited you were about them, and that you were searching for a few yourself in the coastlands.”

You risked a sideways glance at him.

He hadn’t said anything, but his grin had widened, the dimple deepening beside the right of lips.

It was as if he’d been prompting you to go on, that he was interested, that he was raptly hanging onto each of your words.

So, even with your wobbling, smitten heart, you took a breath to ground yourself, then went on, “I figured since you really liked taking a look at them before, and I’m curious about them, why not show you the new ones I found so far…?”

While you withdrew a first pair of pink and brown plates from your bag, you trailed off, thankfully, for Volo was astounded, if only for a second.

You… remembered that about him. You’d come to him because you’d remembered he’d liked them.

When was the last time someone else had done that?

Almost instinctively, he was wading through a familiar melancholy at the realization, but it receded quickly when he saw how eager you appeared, how you really wanted to be around him.

“Oh, how generous of you!” laughed Volo, his tone lively as he tried to distract you from his temporary shock. “It seems you already know me, don’t you?”

He wasn’t prepared for your response, however.

You simply smiled at him.

But this smile was different than any of yours he’d seen before.

This one…

This one reached your eyes.

It brought a distinct joy to your face that was never present when you were around anyone else, almost private in how you’d guarded such an expression so vigilantly, and he suddenly, irrationally wished he could keep it for himself. He wished you would always turn to him with that smile, instead of wearing that unreadable, neutral look you’d been coerced into adopting everywhere you went in Hisui.

Oh. Against his prudent sense for what he would one day need to accomplish, Volo’s heart trembled at the thought, and that smile seemed to seal his fate.

It was then that he knew that things wouldn’t be as easy as he’d thought they’d be.

“Well, apparently not well enough to find you when I’ve been trying for weeks,” you confessed with a cheeky hum, “but that just means I’ll have to get to know you really well now, doesn’t it Volo?”

He blinked once, twice.

“You were looking for me for weeks?”

“Of course, I was!” That smile was still on your face. “You’re the only one who I could talk to about these things!”

When he’d taken in your words and seen your beaming face, all just for him, a blooming sensation of warmth and contentment flooded his heart—his poor, stony heart, having spent an eternity in isolation.

Volo wouldn’t let you know that, however, as he tipped the lid of his hat toward you and announced cheerily, “Then, the pleasure is all mine.”

You laughed, handed him the two plates, and winked at him.

“I think it’s all mine, actually.”

And Volo was sure, at that moment, even though he really should have tried to stop himself,

he loved you more than he should have. 

2 | when you appeared out of snow and ice

Volo knew that you were strong.

While that should’ve posed a problem for him and his future plans, the ridiculous empathy—yes, just empathy, he told himself—he had for you was overriding every clear thought he had about marching off across the snowy expanse and ignoring you.

It wasn’t as though you were fighting a colossus of ice, capable of ending your very life with just a snort of his glacial breath or a toss of his enormous head, rigid and unable to be tempered by anything other than brutal nature itself.

It wasn’t as though his heart jolted and splintered just a bit more every time he heard the thundering echo of the noble’s roar, felt its sinister tremor quaking beneath the earth.

He was as worried as anyone else was, he told himself again. That was why he was waiting like the others, albeit from a more distant and secure vantage.

Although, Volo supposed he wouldn’t be very safe if you were defeated and Lord Avalugg’s rampage turned deadly, so he thought it best you subdue it.

Yes, that was all.

He stamped his feet once, rubbed at his arms with his frozen fingers, and sighed again, a great puff of chalky mist rising into the frosty air.

…

But still, his heart betrayed his true feelings.

Regardless of how he tried to tint it, it was that ingratiating worry which gradually began to chill him more than the arctic weather, and he probably wouldn’t be able to hide how cold it had made him for long.

You were strong.

So why couldn’t he stop worrying?

No, Volo couldn’t cease his pitiful worrying. He couldn’t at all when with a somber cry, the icelands then fell silent, the snow once more lying in innocent clouds, and everything dulled to its lifeless shade of pale gray.

Despite his inability to see into the mire of white settling above him, his heart was brimming with hope before he could dampen it. He didn’t know how long it’d been since you’d gone to fight. Though with every minute he’d spent pacing tiny circles at the base of the mountain and imagining what could’ve gone horrendously wrong, he knew he couldn’t convince himself there was nothing personal about the way he was concerned for you.

No, he couldn’t. And he couldn’t hide his worry, melting away into unbridled relief, when finally, finally you emerged from the haze of snow and ice that had been leisurely walking its way down the slope, committed to concealing you from him for far too long.

Volo wasn’t sure when he had started running. He had heard the starchy snow crunching beneath his boots, but then he heard nothing else when you cried his name.

“Volo!”

“…!”

And then he was smiling. He was shouting your name. He was still running toward you.

The way you lit up and hobbled toward him as quickly as you could, despite how you were bruised and winded and exhausted, made the worry all worth it.

Volo knew everything was worth it, for you. 

3 | when no one else wanted you—

He saw you.

He saw you, crouching atop the grassy stones high above the fieldlands waterfall.

Every muscle in his body commanded him to rush forward, but he didn’t want to frighten you. It was a first, considering how often he liked to see you jump and whirl around to face him. You didn’t this time though, your hunched figure instead sluggishly rocking back and forth as your Decidueye huddled against you.

…because you were hurt.

Volo had seen you smattered with cuts, he had seen you worn from your battles, and he had seen you doubt yourself when you thought no one else was looking.

However, he had never seen you like this before.

You were devastated.

They had really hurt you more than they ever had before.

Volo almost wanted to curse aloud. Why would they do this to you? You had done nothing to them to warrant this—if he thought about it, he was the one to be indirectly guilty—and yet…!

…Was he really any better than them, though? He wasn’t supposed to love you, but here he was, his allegiances like dead branches clinging miserably to the tree, swaying whichever direction the wind decided it fancied, and waiting for the day they inevitably fell to uselessness.

Shaking his head, Volo dismissed the thought. No, he was better than those villagers, those people from the clans. He didn’t betray you like they had.

Yet, hissed that infernal voice in his head.

Volo didn’t want to think about it.

And he didn’t have to then, for Decidueye had straightened immediately, poised for an attack.

It was to be expected, wasn’t it? He hadn’t thought you the careless type to forgo cautiousness, especially after everything you’d just gone through, so it didn’t surprise him to see you abruptly still when your Pokémon growled.

Justifiably, your partner was wary of any more humans who might approach you.

Lifting his hands to show that he wanted no trouble, Volo held Decidueye’s gaze for a long, scrutinizing second.

It took another few before the Pokémon eventually dropped his wings to his sides.

Still, Decidueye seemed to be warning him as his sharp eyes flicked from Volo to the water racing under the ledge they were perched upon: I will not hesitate to remove you if you bring more harm to us.

Volo knew better than to antagonize your Pokémon. Silently, he nodded in acknowledgement, which appeared to satisfy Decidueye, and he then lowered his arms.

He looked at you again.

You still hadn’t moved, but you definitely knew he was there.

…He should say something, shouldn’t he?

His voice was hushed when he finally found something to say to you—not what he truly wished to say, but what he could manage from everything you knew of him.

Something that wouldn’t sound odd, coming from him. Something that would reassure you that he was still the same, even if everyone else you knew had changed. Even as Volo had thought it, he wasn’t sure he believed it, but he wasn’t about to question himself now.

You needed him to be the person you’d always known him as—the merchant, the historian, the friend you could rely on.

And so he would be.

“Strange events seem to follow you wherever you go, don’t they?”

You said nothing, but Volo didn’t press you. He knew you had heard him over the churning water.

Slowly, instead, he found his place beside you. He moved tentatively under Decidueye’s apprehensive supervision, reminding him of what would happen if he faltered.

Nonetheless, it was promising that you hadn’t pushed him away.

You permitted him to come closer, in fact, and as he shifted slightly so that his shoulder was practically touching yours, he swore you almost leaned into him.

He could feel how warm you were, even as a light breeze streaked past, but he remained where he was.

He would wait for as long as you needed.

While Volo had trekked up the cliffside, the ominous, crimson sun had been burning lowly, descending toward the charred horizon. Now, as he squinted at the warped and discolored sky, he could see it was nearly touching the mountains.

He didn’t mind that you hadn’t said anything, though it was worrying you had probably sequestered yourself here for quite a while. Volo knew when you had been banished—the miscreants hadn’t even allowed you to wake with the stretch of unnatural dawn—and given the supposed time of day now, it was certainly alarming.

“I think I should still be mad.”

Your voice was so muffled and tired and unlike anything Volo had ever known from you, that even as the noise of the surging waterfall rang in the air, he only heard you.

He was fixated only on you.

“Shouldn’t I be mad?” Your hands were curling over your arms; thankfully, Volo noticed no injuries on them. “I did everything—I fucking did everything for them, and then they threw me away when it was convenient for them.”

You sighed, flattened a leg against the ground, and slapped a hand down in frustration.

“If I stayed angry, it would help me forget about everything else, wouldn’t it? I could be so lost in how angry I was that I wouldn’t even know what I should be mad at anymore… But now I just feel empty. I don’t even know where I should go. Where I can go.”

Something stirred in Volo’s heart. He understood what that hollowness, that void felt like, but he didn’t want to imagine your suffering, screaming at nothing, tearing at yourself.

How pathetic that they couldn’t appreciate you.

They didn’t deserve you.

“If you’ll trust me,” Volo offered, and he was then aware of how you had finally raised your head, “I know of somewhere safe for you.”

You were staring at him now, though Volo had turned away from you.

He had asked you to trust him, but a shard of guilt was steadily wedging itself into the cracks of his heart.

Maybe he didn’t deserve you either.

“Volo…”

But when his name fell from your lips so reverently, he forgot that guilt. It was too easy to forget when it came to you, until it wasn’t. He needed to be here for you, and what that meant for his future, he would deal with then.

“I trust you.”

He turned back to you, saw your face for the first time since he’d arrived, and then he was pulling you close.

He wouldn’t ever forget that look upon your face.

“I will always appreciate you, even if they won’t.”

“…Thank you. It means a lot that you decided to look for me, even if that would put you in danger of their judgment, too.”

Their judgment means nothing when I will always love you.

He only tugged you closer.

You were fully leaning into him now, languishing for comfort in your vulnerable state, and Volo would give you exactly that.

It seemed you thought the same, for when Volo covered your hand with his, he finally felt you relax against him, enough so that you could speak again.

“You said that strange events seem to follow me wherever I go.”

“Yes.”

“But I think even stranger people seem to follow me, you know,” you said meaningfully, your fingers curling between his, “people who want me for who I am, unlike all the others.”

His heart fluttered. He squeezed your hand in his own answer.

Oh, you had no idea how much Volo wanted you, and no one else wanted you like he did. 

4 | the fated day on mount coronet

He wanted to apologize for being the reason you had such a look on your face. He was the one who had hurt you. He wanted to tell you that he had never meant it, but in some malevolent fold of his mind he had. He couldn’t stand it. He wanted to forget about everything. He wanted to start over, and if you had just let him—given him exactly what he wanted (but what had he truly wanted?)—then you could’ve begun again together, in a new world.

So he could have told you honestly that he loved you.

But he couldn’t.

Volo didn’t know what he could say, as you trapped him beneath you, your hands shackles around his wrists. Painted with fiery wrath as the setting sun outlined you in vivid gold, you were truly a sight to behold when you snarled his name and demanded why he had done this.

There had to be something else wrong in his mind for him to still think you were stunning amid your ire.

“Tell me.”

Your knees dug into his sides, the flexing of your hips on his distracting him for a disgraceful moment. He had let his guard down after Giratina had fled, and then here he was, pinned and at the mercy of your questioning. It was ironic he had intended to subject Arceus to the same, to wring answers from it as you were with him. He laughed. He laughed again when your grip tightened and your nails pinched his skin. Though as the creator always remained silent, he would say nothing you wanted to hear. Volo was sure his violent sneer said plenty, but when he forced himself to say something—anything, anything to pretend this had all been a farce—he knew he shouldn’t have said it.

“I hate you.”

He shouldn’t have said it. Not when your expression had then broken like a sheet of river ice, shattered by the unfortunate soul of his words that meant to drown your heart in the frigid water below. Yes, I should have. Volo wanted to convince himself that he was right to have said it. After all, you were the Chosen One, weren’t you?

You had stolen everything from him—his place before Arceus, his dreams, his world. And in it all, as foolish as he had known it was, for you were never once truly his, you had stolen even yourself from him.

It was unsurprising how much he had wanted you, and yet, he should have known how absurd those feelings were.

You should have stayed far from him; he should have made sure of it. But throughout the time you had spent with one another, months after months, you had somehow become a part of that everything he had worked for, yearned for, and so impossibly devoted himself to.

And then, you had almost become his everything too—his reason, his muse, threatening to change his mind about the plan he had set in motion long before your arrival in Hisui.

Why couldn’t you have just agreed with him?

He had shoved you off himself in your weakness, watched you fall back before springing to your feet and shouting words he told himself he couldn’t hear.

You could’ve made this easy, but you… Volo had snapped again. You just had to get in my way, with your infuriating heroism, your disgusting perseverance, your impeccable talent in battle, your delightful smile, your heart so full of love for—!

Perhaps that was why he had said he hated you. To blame you, even though Volo knew the fault was only in himself. Because he had allowed you to get in his way. Because he loved you too much to just let you go without hurting you, because he had known that you would never acquiesce to his ambitions, because he had been too stubborn to stop himself when the plates were so close, and you were so close.

But he had forced you away with his fury, tossed the final plate to you, and wished he would never see you again.

Volo had told you that too, when he abandoned you on the temple summit. Because I hate you. Because I’ve failed. Because I’m ashamed. Because I don’t deserve you. Because I—

…if he really hated you, why, then, as his feet took him farther and farther from you with every step, did his heart wish to wrench from his chest just to be with you?

No, it never could’ve been easy.

He knew why.

Because I love you.

And he always would, no matter how many times he lied to himself.

5 | when you’d found one another again, after everything

Volo should’ve known that despite his vicious words, spiked with poison and disdain and bitterness, you wouldn’t give up on him.

After all, your tenacity was one of the things he loved about you. He just hadn’t expected you to waste the entirety of it on him, so that you could cut away the thorns protecting his heart.

They were ugly spires of tarred anger and hatred, meant to seal the cracks in his heart, but never meant to heal the wounds inflicted upon him from all the awful things he could not easily let go.

All this time, he had hardly been living, fueled only by his warped sense of selfishness and selflessness between which he could no longer differentiate.

But every day, you snipped at another barb. Some days, you wrestled it off harshly. Other days, he tolerated your gentleness in prying it free. Even when you allowed those thorns to snag at you with no concern for your own safety, when you still stayed despite how he pushed you away, Volo didn’t want to admit that you were giving life back to him, one breath at a time.

If he did, he knew he would break.

And there would be no turning back for him.

“You just wish to see me break,” he’d spat at you, “so that it can be your retribution.”

Volo knew it wasn’t true. I was the one who wanted to see you break. You knew as well. He didn’t want to say that he was only lashing out, but you knew anyway.

On those days when you had to fight to twist the thorns from his heart, he would insist on wielding his insults, once more build his inadequate defenses in a futile effort to weather your assault of compassion, and scoff at how you wouldn’t just let him be.

“I forgive you, you know.”

That was always your response. If he offended you, you never said anything about it. You would only smile at him afterwards.

But the smile never reached your eyes.

And it was his fault.

He sometimes wished you would be angry with him instead, as you had been on Mount Coronet.

It had been months since his betrayal, or at least, that was how long Volo had thought it had been. Certain there were people hunting him for what he’d done, he had been wandering ever since, with no place to go but wherever his body next gave up on him. He knew he was disappointing his Pokémon. He had resorted to leaving them in their capsules, for he couldn’t bear to see their sorrow and claim responsibility for it. Every day had seemed too long for him. He had no purpose anymore, and he wouldn’t deny that he often considered if it would’ve been better for him to dwindle away without a trace.

He wouldn’t be missed, anyway.

…So why was he here?

Volo wasn’t sure if it had been weeks he’d spent in your secluded alcove, a series of rising caves carved over centuries by the highest tides of new moons. He didn’t ask when you had learned of this place, beyond the flats and by the West Sea, but you knew he was curious. It was obvious to you; most people knew he was curious about many things.

He was surprised you indulged him still: You told him that Wyrdeer had wanted to take you here when you’d called upon him after your exile.

You didn’t say why you hadn’t been able to reach the caves, though.

Volo knew why. Having seen you that day above the waterfall, he needed no more explanation. He didn’t deserve an explanation either, not when he had hurt you the same way.

No, he had hurt you more than they had.

So why hadn’t he left you yet?

He could’ve left whenever he had threatened to do so. When he had initially declared it with such vehemence, you had just agreed, shrugged, and moved on with your chores.

Somehow, your passive reply had only encouraged him to remain where he was. It was another challenge from you, wasn’t it?

…

Volo knew it wasn’t a challenge from you, but one from his own heart—to test himself, to tempt himself into deserting you again.

Even when he said he would, he never could leave.

He often watched you go, however. If he was awake when you departed, his eyes would follow you until he could see you no longer. It had been mortifying for him to realize that they would seek your figure the second you returned, too.

“You can leave if you’d like,” you had proposed plainly, assuming his fleeting glances were indicative of a wish for freedom. “I didn’t tell everybody about you. None of them are looking for you.”

He hadn’t been able to ask why.

Skeptical of your claim, Volo hadn’t understood why you had spared him from their judgment, until he saw the harrowing question on your face.

“Why would I want you banished like I had been?”

You ripped a handful of thorns out of his heart that day.

Despite that, sometimes he thought that eventually you would have enough of him, you would be the one to leave, and you wouldn’t come back. He never said it aloud, but he was grateful you were here. When you had disappeared for the first time, he had panicked, even with your note of courtesy—courtesy his behavior hadn’t merited—describing where you were traveling. He couldn’t help it. Volo feared losing you again. Even if he never told you, he looked forward to your return; he felt his heart leap against his ribs when he spotted your straw hat in the broad grassland below, when he heard your sandals scuff the cave floor with that familiar shuffle.

He had grown too used to your presence.

Or was it that he was giving in, reminded by how things had once been between you two?

He liked to think you cared, for why else would you still visit the caves, even after you had been toiling away without him? You didn’t need him, but he didn’t want to believe it was only haughty optimism inspiring such a vain question.

Then why had you bothered to take him in after discovering him, sprawled out in the mirelands, unconscious in a pool of mud, and on the precipice of crumbling to nothing? You hadn’t even informed the villagers or the clans about his foiled plot, grandiose in its failure, and about the danger that he could pose.

Because of you, he was free to wander. He never went far though, only down to the beach or to the grove ideal for his Pokémon’s sunlit naps, but he had one less worry because of you.  

Perhaps you felt you had a favor to repay, when he had done the same for you. You just didn’t want any debts to him.

Of course, then, it had to be when he was at his lowest that you found him for the first time, when he had always been the one to find you.

Of course, out of all people, you had to be the one who found him, too.

Arceus was a cruel god.

…Then why did its Chosen save him?

No. Volo knew it was wrong to think of you that way. Why did you save him?

It was shame that kept him from asking anything of you, rather than the abyssal rage that had for too long seeped into every fracture in his heart.

Volo didn’t know when he’d let that brand of his anger die out. Maybe it was the moment you had found him again. Maybe it was when you’d brushed the tangles from his hair, and he had let you, because it made him feel like this was how things should have been. Maybe it was with each barb you removed, a thread of his anger went, too.

In place of the fury that had devastated his heart, shame mourned every one of his mistakes instead, and he couldn’t bear to expel it, not when he really should regret how he’d treated you.

He was tired of it, too. He was tired of trying to convince himself that he hated you. He was tired of being alone, but he couldn’t find it in himself to admit that to you. His Pokémon enjoyed your company along with your companions’, and for that, he was glad, but even when they tried to urge him into accepting the happiness he could find with you, he couldn’t.

Why did he deserve your forgiveness?

Volo watched you sweep the dust from the cave, a laugh bubbling from you when your Hippowdon snorted in her sleep and sent the debris straight back inside.

His throat clenched.

He didn’t deserve it.

Whether you’d misconstrued his shame for the spite he’d harbored for you upon the Temple of Sinnoh or not, you revealed nothing to him. If not for the way you were more subdued, your words more measured than he’d remembered, he would’ve thought you were acting as if nothing was wrong.

Volo wasn’t sure he preferred it that way.

He knew, however, that things were indeed wrong, and it was up to him to mend, rather than destroy.

Though even as he knew so, another three days had passed before he gathered the courage necessary to broach the subject.

Like most other nights, as Togekiss slept in her nest beside him, Volo observed you dabbling in arranging flowers or inking notes into your journal before heading off to rest in a lower cavern. Tonight, under the moonlight, you were preening an assortment of pink wildflowers, white Oran blossoms, and yellow King’s Leaves in a stout clay pot when he finally spoke up.

“Why are you doing this?”

From the opposite side of the small cave, he thought he saw you flinch. Strange, that it was no insult he had hurled at you so far that elicited such a reaction from you.

“You must have other tasks to see to than to waste your time on me.”

You were plucking at the golden leaves now, adjusting them this way and that, but still, you were silent.

“So why… why are you still doing this?”

Volo wasn’t sure why he was talking so much.

Maybe it was that he really was healing, and his curiosity had returned, or that he didn’t want you to think he still hated you.

Your hands stopped moving. The stalks of the flowers sagged.

He saw you take a breath, then turn to him.

And for the first time since you had brought him here, your eyes met, and he couldn’t look away.

“I may have been a core member of the Galaxy Team, but I have my own life to live. And even if I lived how the villagers wanted me to, it would never be enough for them, would it?”

The implication of your question, one that neither of you had any predilection for answering, caused Volo to tense.

He didn’t miss the way that you stiffened as well.

“And,” you continued, your eyes never once leaving his, “if I decide that I want you in my life, I think that’s up to me, and up to you, but no one else.”

Why would you?

Volo couldn’t move.

He could only watch as you stood, the pearly moonlight dappling your figure with an array of stars, gleaming with every step you took toward him.

Before he could protest at how close you were, you had seated yourself before him, and Volo was humiliated by the pain in your eyes.

That was his fault.

He was shaking. He had thought he could do this. He still could, couldn’t he? He had to.

And then, before he had a chance to run, the words escaped him.

“How can you forgive me?”

A thousand ways Volo had envisioned asking you what had weighed on his conscience ever since you’d found him, and a thousand ways he’d imagined your response. He would ask you, shouting or crying or pleading, but even in his better dreams, you would only nod. You would nod, tell him you understood, and then you would leave before you could say you’d always truly meant that you’d forgiven him. He didn’t like to think of the nightmares, when you boasted that he’d fallen for your lie, and then you would echo his own words back to him: “I wish to see you suffer and agonize as I do.”

But here you were, smiling at him.

“I remember you once said something to me.”

How many sleepless nights did you have?

He didn’t know what he had told you that had kept you so at peace in front of him, but he couldn’t believe the words of a traitor had provided you the wisdom to forgive him.

Folding your hands across your lap, you stared off toward where the moonlight filtered in. He may have thought you were calm, but inside, you were struggling to continue.

I had many. Too many, without you.

“It was only a few months after I had met you,” you started quietly, “and I had helped return the Wall Fragment to Warden Calaba.”

Still, he wasn’t sure where you were going with this.

“You spoke of her faults that people often mentioned, that she was too stubborn, too old-fashioned.”

The cave was silent, save for the distant melodies of the retreating waves. Volo waited for them to return, heard their soaring notes as they rolled in, and his anticipation for what you would say next swelled along with them.

“But you didn’t think she really hated the Diamond Clan or the Galaxy Team—rather, you thought she simply loved the Pearl Clan very, very much.”

You turned back to him, and Volo saw only grief in your eyes.

He looked away.

“I think that you’re the same, in a way. You simply love what’s important to you very, very much.”

His breath caught in his throat.

“You love history, the ruins, myths, and the questions no one else could answer but you. You love your Pokémon. I know you love many things in Hisui. And when you love something, I think it’s natural you want to protect it.”

Volo felt your fingers on his. He was still looking away.

Nothing you were saying was like that of his dreams or his nightmares. He had a feeling you had been preparing for this very moment longer than he had.

“When I thought of that, I couldn’t hate you.”

His heart was quivering, just as his hand was in yours. Your palm was warm. He realized how cold he was then. You were warm. Your words were everything he needed to hear.

You were everything he needed.

“I couldn’t stay angry with you.”

Volo couldn’t hold on anymore. Was he hanging on, about to tumble into the chasm of his own folly, or was he waiting to finally be pulled to safety by his hope, by your salvation?

The lull of your comfort was too inviting to disregard. You were breathing into him that last breath he needed—

“I could forgive you, Volo, because I knew how much you could love, and how much you still love.”

—and then he let you pull him in.

He cried as you took him in your arms, embraced him like he meant the world to you, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

The guilt, the sorrow, the days he thought of ending it all—

he didn’t know if he could forget them, but with you, he wanted to try.

“I’m sorry.”

His apology was unending, perhaps worthless with how he repeated it as if you hadn’t heard him.

But you had. He knew you had, but he couldn’t stop the doubt.

“I know,” you said faintly.

“I didn’t hate you. I didn’t. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“I know. I forgive you.”

“I’m sorry.”

Volo wasn’t sure he could stop.

Were hours passing as you held him, let his tears wet your clothes, and listened without judgment?

You were too good for him.

He didn’t know when he’d finally fallen silent, but he felt you tilt his head back, and then your lips were smoothing the wrinkle between his brows.

They touched his cheeks, his nose. His lashes fluttered over his eyes. His heart was reaching for yours, and he couldn’t fight it. He didn’t want to fight it anymore.

I love you.

You kissed his forehead, brought your warm fingers to his cheeks. Your hands smelled of flowers.

He shuddered.

“I love you, Volo,” you whispered against his lips.

And then, he knew nothing else but you.

He said your name like a word of immaculate praise, and you replied with his, a faithful murmur on the sea breeze.

I love you.

He felt your breath hitch—were you as nervous as he was?

Volo knew he was. He couldn’t go back anymore. You were his fate from the day he’d met you, and as if he had been searching his whole life for this moment, he kissed you.

A torrent of emotions crashed over him when his lips met yours completely; affection and pleasure and bliss coursed through him in wonderful harmony. It had been so long since Volo had last succumbed to such feelings that he was nearly overwhelmed. And they were because of you. You, you, you. Your lips were soft, perfect. How many times had he dreamed of kissing them? He didn’t know. His mind was fuzzy with desire, and he didn’t think he could let you go. Not when an aching heat fanned at his heart, and a pleasing tension knotted inside him, craving your touch.

I love you.

He didn’t know when his hands had found your waist, but when you gasped as he drew you closer, he was almost viscerally aware of how gravely he wanted you, needed you.

You were the same, however. Grasping fingers tugged at his hair, at his clothes. As if you couldn’t contain yourself any longer, you were pushing against him, your hips sinking into his, and when his tongue traced your lips, you moaned so splendidly.

It sent a wash of giddy ecstasy careening over him, and Volo knew he had already been hopelessly swept away by you.

Roaming across his jaw, his arms, his chest, your touch was a welcome caress, defying his qualms for as long as he held you. Subconsciously, Volo mirrored you, desperate to feel all of you against him. He tucked a leg around your waist, angled himself away for an inconvenient moment of respite, but then he dove in again, nipping at your lips between kisses, sweeping a hand over your chest—

and then he felt it.

He stopped. He drew back from you to stare at your flushed face, your brilliant eyes, as if to tell himself that yes, it was you.

Beneath his fingertips, your frantic pulse thrummed just like the intense pounding of his own heart.

Your heart. You were alive. You were here with him now.

You had shown it all to him, allowed your heart to sit in his hands, and he was blessed to feel its beat rippling with a sweet warmth through him.

And as your heart sang only for him, his heart would only ever sing for you, the one who would never let him go.

You were smiling at him, and this time, that smile reached your eyes.

He would never let you go again.

Volo would never let you go again, so that he could show you how much he still loved, without a doubt in his heart at all.

He leaned in. His lips found yours as he smiled, and finally, he could honestly tell you,

“I love you.”

[end.]

❥

[extra]

Sometime much later…

“You know, Volo, I don’t know if it was lucky or not that I found you when I did.”

“And why is that?”

“Because while it was good to at least find you, if I found you any earlier, I might have punched you.”

“…What?”

“I was really mad at you, you know.”

“…I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not angry with you now, and if I was, I’d still be more inclined to do this.”

You laughed, pulled him close, and kissed him.

Grinning, Volo deepened the kiss. He was sure he could live with this instead.

[sorceresssundries]

Snippet Sunday!

Thanks for the tag @auroraesmeraldarose!

(this is from the same fic as the one-line challenge - it will be posted soon! Stuff may change, we'll see!)

Inspired by one of George's cameos. (monologue written by @gender-in-a-blender.)

He begins to move through the chaos of the shop, rifling through drawers, shifting clinking bottles in cabinets, and pulling down various concoctions to gather in his arms. Murmuring in Infernal as he reads labels and blows off dust, he eventually brings his collection back over to Tav. Placing them on the counter, he starts to sort through them.  “Thank you, but I really don't need…” “Shut up and take them. This one is peerless focus. Give it to Gale; it will help him maintain his concentration. Gods know that fool will need it. This one is Bloodlust, fitting for your vampire friend. There are a few oils for blades and arrows which will increase their effectiveness. Giant Strength for Karlach and Lae’zel. And this one is for you.”  He sets down a small vial that glistens with a honey-like substance, viscous and molten, the same colour as his eyes. “Guileful Movement,” he declares, his fierce gaze meeting Tav’s. “You are strong, but you lack speed, and you get so caught up in watching out for everyone else that you leave yourself vulnerable.”  Placing the vial in Tav’s palm, he wraps his hands around theirs, the warmth and softness comforting.  “Drink it before you fight. Move fast. Focus on your own strikes, and for the love of gods, run if you need to. You never seem to do enough running.”  Tav smiles at him. “I never need to.”  “Yes, yes, you’re very tough and brave and beautiful, but trust me, there is no shame in running.” He kisses Tav’s hand, still cradled between both of his. “Run back to me.”

I'm gonna tag @lemonsrosesandlavender and @marlowethebard - what you got, friends?

[elspethdekarios]

Thorns and All - Chapter 3

Hello friends! I just posted Chapter 3 of my longfic, in which Gale asks for his first magical item.

Read below or on AO3.

Sprawling clouds mingled and merged together, blocking out the sun almost the moment they crossed the crumbling stone bridge. Thunder rumbled around them, quiet but all-encompassing of the vast landscape. It had been quite some time since Elspeth had been in the wilderness like this, spending most of her time in the city. Usually the buildings of Baldur’s Gate dulled the sound of thunder, or at least kept some protective distance between the sky and the earth. Out here, it was wide open—freeing, but nowhere to hide. Nowhere to truly feel safe.

The cobblestone of the bridge faded into coarse dirt. Puddles of fresh blood seemed to be leading towards the hills to the east, uncannily large pawprints stamping the dirt red before disappearing like a quill running out of ink.

“Do you see that?” El asked the group, but Astarion was several meters away checking an abandoned caravan of wooden crates, Shadowheart beside him rummaging through burlap sacks. Elspeth turned around, expecting to see Gale right behind her. Instead, he was leaning against the stone railing of the bridge, a hand clutched to his chest.

“Gale,” she said, stepping quickly over one of the spots of blood to approach him. “What’s the matter?”

Behind his collected demeanor was unmistakable pain. Though he smiled faintly when he looked up at her, a strained muscle in his jaw gave away his clenched teeth. The creases beside his eyes were deeper than usual, and his brow furrowed in the center.

“I… Well, actually, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.” He straightened up slightly and El leaned against the stone beside him. “We’ve been traveling together for a few days now and I’ve seen you demonstrate remarkable guile and courage.”

El could feel herself blushing as Gale recounted some of her actions in the past two days—saving Arabella from Kagha’s murderous snake, standing in front of the tiefling’s crossbow to stop her from killing a goblin who couldn’t fight back.

“All this to say: I’ve grown to trust you,” he continued, pausing to wait for her reaction.

She nodded. “Go on.”

“I’m about to tell you something I’ve not told another living soul, apart from my cat.”

El’s heart swelled a bit, a smile almost peeking through her lips. In the past two days Gale had talked about his cat more than anything else. But the severity of his tone was clear, and now wasn’t the time to fawn over a man who loved his cat.

“I have this… condition,” he said. “Very different from the one that you and I share, but just as deadly. I can’t share the details with you now, but it comes down to this: I need to consume magical artifacts regularly to keep my condition stable.”

“Consume?” she asked.

“Yes. I know it’s odd, and—”

Gale was cut off by a roar of thunder. The wind began to rustle through the trees, blowing El’s hair into her face. On her skin, a faint pinprick of rain dropped from the heavy skies, followed by another, then another. El’s mind wrestled with asking Gale to move to the looted caravan where the others were taking cover beneath a large tree canopy and staying here, listening to him speak as if the sky wasn't opening up above them.

“We should take cover,” he said, making that decision for her. The rain started to pick up speed, its tiny droplets now large and pelting down on every surface.

“If you don’t want to tell the others, we can find another tree.”

“No. As much as I wish I could keep this private, they should know.”

Elspeth and Gale ducked under the tree only a moment too late to not get soaked. She shivered from the chill, wishing she had proper sleeves and not just leather shoulderpads over the thin straps of her top. She gathered her wet hair into a bun and noticed Gale doing the same.

His light blue tunic didn’t look terribly soaked thanks to the embroidered patterns on the sleeves. A scattering of rain drops stuck to his leather pants, never soaking into the material, but slowly rolling off as he moved. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, showing the tension of muscle in his forearms as he collected the hair on his head and twisted a loop of twine around the bun. Stray strands stuck to his the wet skin of his neck, a stray droplet of water running down the front and landing perfectly in the dip between his collarbones where that strange tattoo circled. El imagined the musky scent of his skin wet with fresh rainwater and a hint of sweat, wondered what he would taste like if she ran her tongue up his neck, lapping up the dripping—

“What were you two talking about?” asked Shadowheart, leaning against the tree with her arms crossed. Gale joined Astarion on the dry patch of ground, their backs against one of the wooden crates.

“There’s something I need to talk to everyone about.”

“If you need to talk to everyone, then why tell her privately?” Shadowheart had been suspicious of any banter between their group, clearly assuming everyone to be as secretive and untrustworthy as she was proving to be.

“It doesn’t matter,” El snapped back at her, perhaps a bit too harshly. She could feel a flush rising up her neck—from agitation or embarrassment, she couldn’t quite tell. The last thing she wanted was to make it obvious that she felt something for Gale. It was ridiculous. Their priority was removing the tadpole, and yet she found herself looking for his reaction at most everything she did or said. Last night she drifted off to sleep by recalling the smile he gave her across the campfire at dinner.

Ignoring Shadowheart’s remark, Gale retold what he had relayed to Elspeth so far: he had a condition that required him to consume magical artifacts.

“I only tell you all this because I need your help,” he continued, making eye contact with El and then quickly looking away. “It’s been days since I’ve last consumed an artifact. Since before we were abducted. I need to find one, and soon.”

“Why?” asked Shadowheart.

“Yes, Gale,” added Astarion. “Why should we have to part with the valuables we come across?”

“The price of ignoring my condition is too great to pay, I assure you. I can’t share much else right now, but trust me when I tell you that it is vital—dare I say, critical.” Gale’s eyes were dark, his face grim. He looked again at Elspeth, who unhooked the heavy pouch on her belt and took a seat on the ground beside him.

“Here,” she said, extending a foreboding amulet in her palm. “Will this do?”

“That?!” Astarion bolted upright from his lounging position. “We can use that!” The Amulet of Lost Voices they found in the room where they awoke Withers gave off a faint glow of blue light. It would be useful, no doubt, but there wasn’t anything else to offer.

“It’s all we have,” she said.

“What happened to the—the—” Astarion searched for the words, grasping at the air like he might find them there. “The locket with the dancing lights! Why not give him that useless thing?!”

“I sold it.” Shadowheart’s voice was almost drowned out by a surge of heavy rain.

“Why?!”

“Like you said,” she shrugged. “It was useless. Had I known we’d be expected to supply our valuables for someone’s appetite, perhaps I would have kept it.”

“I’m sorry,” Gale said, true apology in his eyes.

“You’ve nothing to apologize for.” El shot Shadowheart a cutting look and dangled the skeletal amulet in front of Gale. “Here.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, eyes darting to their dismayed companions. “We might have something back at camp. I can wait.”

“Are you in pain?”

“What?”

“Are you in pain?” she asked again, motioning to the bridge where they stood before the rain corralled them to the tree. “You were clutching at your chest over there.”

Gale sighed, still not making a move for the amulet. “Yes. Yes, I’m in pain.”

“Then take it.”

At Elspeth’s insistence, he opened his hand to accept her offering, letting the stone beads clack against each other as they dropped into his palm.

***

Gale wasn’t sure what he did to deserve such generosity, but he would not take Elspeth’s kindness for granted. They hardly knew each other, she knew only the very basic need-to-know details of his condition, he hadn’t done anything particularly helpful for her, and yet she relinquished a powerful item with no hesitation. Was she biding her time, putting herself in his good graces to call in a future favor? It didn’t seem that way, but these were desperate times, after all.

“Thank you,” he said, pressing the amulet into his chest as a bright violet light emerged from the orb inside of him, enveloping the object’s magic, consuming it with the ferocity of a starving animal. The relief was instant. The gnawing pain in his chest loosened until it was gone. Satisfied, the glow from the orb retreated back to its cave, leaving Gale with a crumbling, dead amulet in his hands.

“What in the hells…” Astarion remarked from beside him.

He could feel the stares of his companions, and gods, he wished he didn’t have to tell them about any of this, wished he could handle it on his own and not have to rely on help from others. He knew he’d have to reveal the disastrous details of the orb soon enough, but for now it was enough to wallow in shame at his incapability to merely keep himself alive.

“Everyone be quiet,” Elspeth said suddenly, eyes wide in terror. “Listen.”

Gale’s self-pity was interrupted as the group shifted instantly into high alert. Now that the rain had settled into a steady drizzle, they heard a series of growls and high-pitched snickering. It was in the distance, but too close for comfort. El poked her head above the caravan for a closer look.

“Gnolls,” said Shadowheart, who was peeking around the opposite side. “Shit.”

“What should we do?” El asked.

“Attack first,” Shadowheart answered, fastening the bracers she had taken off as they were resting. “Catch them off guard.”

“Or,” Astarion added, gracefully and silently rising from the ground. “We could sneak away quietly and avoid a fight altogether for a change.”

“I think I’m with Astarion on this one,” Gale said, standing with the others. “Gnolls are nasty creatures. Vicious. Driven only by bloodlust and hunger. Avoiding them is the wisest option.”

“I don’t know if that’s going to be possible,” El said, panic growing in her voice as the gnolls moved closer, matted blood dripping from their canine faces. She was right—they were too close now to escape unnoticed, but the creatures still seemed oblivious of their presence. They still had a chance to catch them unawares.

“A fight it is, then,” Shadowheart smirked as she picked up her mace.

“Are you well enough for this?” Elspeth asked Gale, readying her bow with a lightning arrow, the muscles in her arms contracting as she prepared to shoot. “If you need to rest, we can try to—”

Gale conjured a ball of red light in his hand and responded with a devious smile.

“Ready and willing.”

The evening was beginning to settle upon them. Across the camp, El dug through their shared traveling chest, pulling out the few pieces of armor and weapons they had found so far, examining each item before adding it to one of the two piles beside her. Gale continued his cooking, chopping up an onion on a makeshift cutting board to drop into the pot over the campfire. It wasn’t his best cooking, that was for damn sure, but it smelled decent enough for what it was. And what it was… well, best not to think about it too much. He looked up from the pot to a flash of bright blonde hair and an armful of equipment being dropped at his side.

“These are all the items we have which might have a hint of magic in them,” she said, kneeling in front of the small pile. “And by ‘might,’ I mean they’re not rusty old daggers. I can’t feel anything special, but you’re more in tune with magic than I am. I thought you might want to check, just to be sure?”

Gale glanced down at the pile, turning a blade over in his hand even though he knew by sight alone that none of the items had any magic in them. He looked up at Elspeth, concern creasing her brow, but her eyes hopeful.

“You’re very kind,” he said with a faint, reassuring smile. “But no, there’s no trace of the Weave in these. Even if I could detect a small hint of magic in them, I’m afraid it would be merely a drop of rain on a roaring fire.”

Her shoulders dropped with a sigh.

“But I’m alright for now,” he added. “I don’t need another item just yet.” He swallowed, something like nerves creeping up into his throat. “I appreciate your enterprising approach to my problem. I really, truly do.”

The evening passed uneventfully, everyone eating their meager rations of mystery stew before retreating to their bedrolls. As Gale snuffed out the candles outside of his tent, Elspeth knelt in prayer in front of her own as she had done every night. He heard her mumble something in Elvish before opening her eyes and pushing herself up to her feet. Her green eyes caught the moonlight beautifully, and he caught himself staring before she spoke.

“Thank you for trusting me with your secret,” she said, a hand on the flap of her tent. “I know it wasn’t easy for you to share it.”

“Your help means a lot to me,” he said with a bittersweet smile. “I was right to put my trust in you.”

She smiled back cordially before looking down at her feet, her face flush with pink even in the moonlight. “Goodnight, Gale.”

“Goodnight, Elspeth.”