#“aim for the moon because if you miss you still end up among the stars 🥴” except i am launching myself out a window with a firecracker

[lightbulb-warning]

i like keeping all my wips open because otherwise they go straight into "i forgor"-ville (population? everything im not currently staring at.)

my laptop fucking HATES it though. very unsupportive of you, bestie. wdym you can't handle the weight of 12 different overly ambitious projects at once?? massive you problem, you inanimate object.

[teneguine]

@duskroine sent: 

A chance at discovery of one’s self-worth had caused them to miss their father’s last birthday. And the birthday before that. Even during the war, when each day was reached with hands painted under bruises, it was difficult to place attention on a single figure of the army. Even for a single day. Even if that individual was of their own blood and name.

Fate was not kind to them then. Not when one battle would threaten their chance to open their eyes the next day— even if that day was the date of their father’s birth. It is because of this memory that Ophelia prepares the gift weeks beforehand. Tying locks of wheaten blond into a ponytail to reduce the danger of taking fire to any strands. Under the eye of moonlight and a companion of skill, they work diligently.

The gift is done on the morning of birth. Dusk seeks out dark in the early hours of dawn, cloak drawn over their build due to the quick arrival from village to monastery. Surely, sneaking out for days on end would damage the reputation they’ve built up, but…

“Chosen father?” Ophelia asks, thankfully catching the sight of Owain stepping outside of his room now instead of having to hunt him down throughout the hallways. A journey that didn’t seem very appreciated after all the work that has exhausted their mind. “Dusk has come forth with greetings of a delightfully celebrated day!”

Nervousness twitches their smile but Ophelia ignores it. Two steps forward, there’s still space in front of them. They lower their cloak’s hood and wipe a grease stain from their cheek— it doesn’t come off quite right. “For many moons, among the lifespan I have grown into upon this continent’s horrid seasons, the stars lit a treasure in the midst of my path. This treasure, blessed by the constellations of a goddess, is my gift to you.”

As they speak, they untie the long cloth hanging from their hip. Covering falls to the ground and the sound of metal unclipping uncovers the draw of a raised sheath. One of leather and gold buckles, tightly latched over seams and patches of bronze.

“Welcome to your arsenal of darkness—” In a flash of threatric, Ophelia raises the sheath diagonal before them and slowly begins to reveal the sword within. First the hilt, a golden material too reflectant to be titled as iron but whatever metal it is, matches the lining of the sheath’s sides. Then, with a pull of their wrist, the entire sword is revealed. Wrist flicks the weapon forward, blade aimed at Owain’s chest.

“WHOOOSH! I present thee: ABYSS’S VALOR!!”

The dark leather of the sheath holds nothing to the engravings that line the blade’s face. Of a language that, rightfully so, is known to them. Immediately recognizable to Owain’s eyes. A pause brings out Ophelia’s doubt, they tuck the blade back into the sheath and step closer, holding it out for Owain to take. The essence of protection magic is recognizable even from the distance they stand at now.

“But, um.. This is more than a gift. I want to apologize,” Ophelia mumbles, gaze cast at the sword and not at him. “I went through your equipment long ago and…” Another pause, they seem to shrink. Lowering their shoulders and attempting to make themselves smaller in perception.

“Ylisse,” is what they say, “I wanted to… incorporate memory of it into the blade but I… was not sure of its language.” Or culture. Or even geography. Because it is Owain’s home before it will ever be hers. Ophelia nods to the sword, “I searched through your belongings in hopes of finding something to write into the metals and while I found nothing, I did see… well…”

Again, she only gestures for Owain to unsheathe the blade now that he holds it. In formal Nohrian, a secondary language to him but a primary for her, there lies the words in script:

The Story of Dark, Dusk, and Lissa.

"I am... deeply sorry if this act has overstepped a boundary between Chosen father and daughter." A small but apologetic smile settles onto her lips, albeit a bit nervously. "I can have a new sword forged within the next few weeks if you prefer it to be redone as such..."

//via the birthday asks that were lost when i got locked out of his old blog; if anyone else still has one that they’d like me to answer, let me know!

Early mornings are a staple in Owain’s life. On more occasions than he can count had he been forced to be up before the crack of dawn, lest that crack splinter and give way to revealing light. Light which, in the future, could spell one’s doom. For bathing in light was to be made a target for Risen, and if they spotted you, they won half the battle. He’s no stranger to sleeping in, either (everyone has their lazy days) but the fact remains that a sunrise is often accompanied by Owain’s wake-up cry.

And besides, he prefers training when nobody else is awake. 

So to see Ophelia at his door is a genuine surprise for him. That there is something wrong is among his first thoughts, but that idea is shot down when they mention a special day. The End of the Last Holy War? The Day of Devotion? No, what sort of holiday could it be...

“Many moons...” he repeats, and then it hits him. “Chosen Second, surely this cannot mean-” And it does. On this day twenty-two years ago (time relative to him, of course), the universe was bestowed one Owain Dark. Whether that was a curse or a blessing is yet to be seen, but one thing remains certain: Ophelia remembered. Shock colors his face as they continue, shaking off any morning drowsiness with a dropped jaw and wide eyes.

WHOOOSH! There it is, held before him in the hands of another: Abyss’s Valor. Owain is slow to take the sword at first, believing for a moment that he is still dreaming or seeing tricks of the light, but when it rests comfortably in his hands, he’s reminded that this is real. It feels of a decent weight--not too heavy or too light--and can be deftly maneuvered by him even undrawn. When he does pull out for the second time, though, he appreciates its craftsmanship. The metal is unlike anything of standard munitions--shining and well-tempered enough to make a grown man cry. And when his eyes gloss over the inscription, when they read the hallowed words written by his kin, they well up with tears.

“This,” he sniffs, cheeks burning red and powerless to stop a flood of tears, “Crimson Ophelia, this is nothing to apologize for! You have crafted for your father (with your own two hands, might I add!) his most mythic armament! For a thousand thousand years shall I cherish this gift! It will be the stalwart defender of our home, passed down for generations unlimited! If ever a Chosen One is lost, Abyss’s Valor shall shine and light their way.” 

He doesn’t even bother re-sheathing it, choosing instead to throw his body onto his child’s. Their frame is held tight against his--maybe a little too tight--and the sloppy mix of cried tears and running snot makes contact with their hair. Owain doesn’t care. He’ll wipe it off when he’s done. For now, Ophelia ought to know how appreciative he is of their gift. “Thank you, o blessed kin of mine,” he whispers, “It’s perfect.” 

The hug lasts for what feels like half the time it took Ophelia to make the damn thing, but eventually breaks. When it does, Owain is sure to run his sleeve and then his clean fingers through their hair, adoring the effort his child puts into everything. He’s quite jealous, if he’s being honest with himself. Sometimes Ophelia manages to find ways to outdo even him, and he’s supposed to be the greatest. But as he looks upon them now and his smile turns wide, he realizes that this feeling is simply part of being a father. To raise a generation more successful than his, that is the true mark of parenthood. 

“Now then... You mentioned not knowing of Ylisse’s language, yes? Wait here, Warrior Chosen by the Stars. I have something you may wish to see.” It is fortunate that this exchange takes place just outside Owain’s bedroom, for he has the ability to turn around and retrieve that special something. His sword is mounted above his desk, displayed in a way where both the ornate sheathe and decorated blade are visible. When he returns to Ophelia though, he holds a book. A dusty old book, with a title so faded he almost mistook it for another. 

“Behold!” he extends it out to them, intended for their hands to take, “The Manual of Justice! Written entirely in the tongue of Ylisse, it is a collection of only the most legendary and harrowing of names. Stygian epithets line its margins, divine monikers marking each chapter. It is the construction of my fabled vocabulary: the very vocabulary used to pen my Book of Supreme Fatal Divine Names.” He trusts they remember that one. It, too, holds a special place in his heart, but is mostly written in Nohrian dialect. Odin figures it best to have multiple written records of his genius, so that no matter where one may originate, they can draw inspiration from his epic tales. 

“We shall comb its contents together, and I will use it to teach you the language of my home. Take heart, Ophelia of the Glittering Stars, that when it is time to visit, you’ll be able to finish all the castle’s tomes in a week!”

[prettywordsyouleft]

Forsaken | Part 8

Summary: As one of the Forsaken, Jinyoung had no right to covet anything as his own. When he stumbles across you standing in the middle of the village he had plundered, the memories of old make him risk it all, clutching at the past in hopes for a better future.

Pairing: Park Jinyoung x reader

Genre: warrior au / star crossed lovers / angst / romance

Warnings: death, kidnapping, cursing, a myriad of emotions - this is a really sad love story.

Index: Prologue | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 

It was different now.

Your days weren’t spent cleaning or preparing meals for the camp – much to everyone’s disappointment. Of course, you still managed to turn dinner into something delicious when you were finished with your training, but quite often you were too exhausted to go the extra mile as you once had.

As soon as Jinyoung had signalled the need to start preparing, you had been put under Mark’s guidance. There he had worked on improving your aim with an arrow, your speed increasing with the intense practice. Whilst you were nowhere near the level of archer Mark was, you felt capable wielding the weapon.

A sword, however, was an entirely other ball game. “What, no, I couldn’t.”

“You can and you will,” Jinyoung encouraged, handing you his sword. You almost dropped it, not expecting the weight behind it. Jinyoung sighed and came over to support you. “Careful, this isn’t a toy.”

“Precisely. I don’t understand why I need to be anywhere near it.”

“I need to know you can protect yourself if I can’t reach your side immediately.”

Panic flashed throughout you. “Why, where will you be?!”

“There are a lot of variables in what we’re trying to do, Y/N. I can’t bring you along with me unarmed.”

“So I’ll use bow and arrow.”

“Up close in battle?” he commented darkly and you went to respond until you noted the concern deeply embedded in his eyes.

Swallowing heavily, you fixed your grip around the hilt, inching your hands apart between the guard and pommel. Jinyoung worked behind you on your posture and helped you raise the weapon in front of you. “Spread your legs to support your weight, good, much better. Have you got it?”

“I’ve got it.”

“Swing out at that bag hanging from the tree there then.”

“Swing it out how?” you wondered, turning to look at Jinyoung and with the weight of the sword, you tumbled forward with a sudden loss in balance. Jinyoung lurched towards you to help you back upright and gave you a pointed look. “Well, you said swing but never showed me how.”

“Like this,” he said as he directed your movement a couple of times, you nodding when you felt you had the hang of it.

Stepping towards the bag a little more, you then swung the sword, the bag splitting upon impact. You jolted some with the force but your excitement of hitting the target made you laugh with triumph. “I did it!”

“Okay, so you swung a sword once and almost fell over, nothing to be that victorious over, your opponent would have you on the ground by now.”

Grumbling under your breath, you followed Jinyoung’s calm instructions and continued to practice, even trying a jab a couple of times.

“Good, now aim to break this stick,” Jinyoung asked and held it up in front of himself. You blinked slowly and made no effort to follow through. “Y/N, now!”

“But, you’re in front of me.”

“Of course, because when we are protecting ourselves, there’s usually always an attacker. Right now, that’s me. Now take out my sword, which is represented with this stick.”

“I can’t wield a weapon at you!” you exclaimed and Jinyoung moved swiftly, disarming you from the sword and pointed the tip right at your chest. With an arched eyebrow, Jinyoung shook his head at you.

“Why can’t you?”

“Because it’s you.”

“That excuse doesn’t work, Y/N. We’re not just running along the countryside to catch a fishing boat. We’re risking ourselves every minute away from this place. As soon as I turn my back on the Rebellion, they will send their hunters our way and treat us as prey. They are trained killers, and-”

“So are you, all of you are. Youngjae and I will do our best,” you interjected, sending him a pout before turning on your heel. Jinyoung shifted in front of you, walking you backward with the point of the sword now lightly nudging you in the chest. “Jinyoung, I’m not a killer.”

“I do not want to make you one but there may come a time where you need to choose to fight. What will you do if someone cuts me down?”

“Don’t speak like that to me,” you pleaded with a sob but Jinyoung didn’t relent. You imagined the scene within your head, your actual vision now blurred with a veil of tears. Gasping as the cruel conjured image continued to play out in your head, you moved with ease towards the grip of the sword, taking it out of Jinyoung’s hand and pointed it at him.

“Good girl,” he breathed, stepping around you and hugging you from behind. You dropped the weapon with a clatter and gripped at his arms around you.

“I want to keep learning,” you announced shakily, turning around to bury into him. “So I can protect you too.”

“Will you take any of this with you?” you asked as you looked around at Jinyoung’s trinkets. The man working on strengthening a satchel bag, stopped for a moment to stare at you. He nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “What?”

“You.”

“Whilst I’m pleased that you don’t plan to leave me behind, what about your finds over the years?”

“They were never mine, all taken from those I stole from.”

“Surely this gold statue will be good to trade for money,” you pointed out, lifting it from the desk. “Oh, it’s really heavy.”

Jinyoung smirked. “It’s a missing treasure. Our hands would be cut off before they pay us for it.”

“Wow, this world is undecidedly cruel.”

“I tried so hard to keep you in some pretty space, didn’t I? It’s not realistic. The world we both survive in is cutthroat. You work hard and die trying. It’s just how it goes.”

“Do you think we’ll make it to the boat?” you questioned softly, not looking in his direction. Jinyoung didn’t respond and you sighed. “Why go if we’re-”

“Because at least we’ll die trying.”

“I want to make it. I’ll believe we will in everyone’s stead. I will project that we can make it.”

“Just like that tree, huh?”

You smiled, thinking back to the past once more.

“You will not even make it past the trunk. It’s got no true footing for you to grip on to.”

“I want to rescue my kite you made me,” you proclaimed and Jinyoung shook his head.

“I’ll make you another one.”

“I love that one.”

“Don’t be silly, you’ll fall and get hurt.”

“No, I’ll make it, just you watch!” you refuted, marching up to the tree and looked around for something to help you scale it. Sticking your shoe into a groove on the bark, you attempted to grasp at a knot up higher.

You ended up flat on your bottom a moment later.

“See, I told-”

You got back up and tried again, and again, until you were triumphant in reaching your beloved kite. When you stretched out to pull it from the tree, however, you lost your balance, toppling from the branch you had precariously sat on and landed straight into Jinyoung’s waiting arms, the pair of you then falling to the ground with a thud.

“I don’t know whether to be proud of you for doing the unexpected or whine at you for bruising my ribs.”

“Both. I’ll accept both,” you mentioned with a smile, leaning in to peck his lips as pre-emptive pain relief. “I’ll kiss you until you feel better for us to go fly this kite again.”

“Can I choose something to take?” you asked, leaning over the desk and pulling out a leather-bound journal.

Jinyoung’s eyes flashed with recognition. “How did you find that?”

“When I was cleaning. I was reading it when you got back. You owe me an apology for lying. You did a whole lot more than not think of the past, Jinyoung.”

“Writing you letters was my only vice,” he muttered, seemingly satisfied at the way you clutched the book to your bosom all the same. “Fine, take it. Just don’t expect me to read them to you.”

“Now there’s an idea!” you exclaimed, flipping the book open eagerly. Jinyoung snatched it out of your hand and snapped it closed. “Jinyoung, I want to hear all about how you missed the way the moonlight illuminated my sleeping form beside you and how each full moon-”

He cut you off with a hasty kiss then, pulling you into his lap to deepen it. Your humour was now lost in among the steadily building desire, your hands anchoring to the collar of his shirt as not to be swept away with this strong emotion.

Jinyoung pulled away, breathing heavily. “You don’t need me to read them to you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I plan to experience it all with you in person instead,” he stated confidently, bringing you in for another mind-blowing embrace.

All the moments you had dreamed of over the years were blooming into fruition.

Your love for Jinyoung would blind you both from what was to come.

_________________

Part 9

All rights reserved © prettywordsyouleft

[GOT7 Masterlist] | [Main Masterlist] | [Request Guidelines]

[itsomgitsgreenblogging]

It’s Not Living (If It’s Not With You): A Critical Role Fanfic

Guess who’s back? Honestly, I have to thank the Essek Fanclub Server for this. You guys are awesome, and an amazing inspiration. 2019 was a pretty bad year in terms of my writing, but, it ended amazingly because of the Critical Role Fandom. Here’s to 2020! Have some hot wizard yearning and sexy dream sequences inspired by my favorite song by the 1975. 

Enjoy!

Warning: Explicit Sexual Content

Read it on AO3

Preview:

This was all because he hadn’t seen the Mighty Nein in a month. He was...getting all confused and acting like some sort of lovelorn maiden from one of the trashy Empire smut novels that he definitely didn’t read after he confiscated them.

“By the Luxon, let them come back soon, or else I might really go mad,” Essek muttered to himself.

“Where are they?” asked a courtier. The question was hissed at Essek as he paused in the Lucid Bastion, the green-lantern glow washing his face out to a pallid hue. 

“I do not know,” Essek said simply, with a smile, finding it better than lying. 

____

“Where are they?” Professor Waccoh grumbled at Essek, over the tops of the papers she had stacked on her desk. Reports, ideas, and death machines all found their place there, scattered like snowflakes or ashes amongst the heap. 

“I do not know,” Essek responded, still smiling. 

____

“Where are they?” the Bright Queen demanded, hand dripping with jewels glinting like knives in the light as she slammed it upon the table. 

Essek smiled, and shook his head. 

____

“Where are you?” Essek asked the empty house, but the windows remained darkened. It stared back into him, searching, and he didn’t have a response. 

____

“Will you be long, Shadowhand?” 

“Not too long, but I do wish for some privacy,” Essek told his shadow with a sidelong look. In the next moment, the shadow disappeared. For a moment he remained outside the temple, just relishing the stolen moments of being alone, before slipping inside the building without any further delay. Really, it was better to get this over with. 

The Temple of the Lord of Light that was closest to the Bright Queen’s abode was a lavish affair. The ceilings were crowded with rows of geometrically patterned lanterns that cast a glow that could be hard for Essek’s eyes to handle. Carved into the walls were the sculptures depicting the mythology of the Lord of Light, His Glorious creation, the Vanquishing of the Spider Queen, and the Ascension of the Bright Queen. Along that were prayer altars that various drow and other citizens of the Dynasty huddled by, to light their own candle and pray. Often when one saw Essek float by, they bowed their heads out of respect for him. 

He approached the private praying rooms, and as he did so he apparently caught the eye of one of the clerics. Essek recognized her as Derise, one of the head clerics of the Lord of Light. Though he loathed to do so, he dispelled his levitation magic. His heels clicked as they touched the floor. Clerics could be touchy about the appearance of power in their sacred spaces, and many of those with power among the clergy did not like him for a litany of reasons. He was young, not of one of the storied bloodlines, rather recently adopted in comparison to others, and yet he had gained remarkable power within his first life. They didn’t like him because he wasn’t one of their little puppets and he knew all their secrets in a way that perhaps only the Luxon might, and that made them afraid of him. 

(Though he didn’t wish to think of them, it was part of the reason he had found certain members of the Mighty Nein so refreshing. Religion without certain pretenses had its own charms.)

“Lord Shadowhand,” Derise said, pointedly not bowing her head. She held her head up high instead, as if issuing him a challenge. Essek, instead, smiled as he usually did. He curled his fingers behind his back in a display of complete openness. 

“Lady Derise, I pray the Light finds you well on this day,” Essek said, not bowing because he was certainly still wearing his back brace. Instead he inclined his head an inch. A vein jumped at her jaw. Amatuer, Essek thought derisively. 

“And may it find you well, too. It is a lovely surprise to see you haunt these halls,” Derise said, with a tight smile. “I am sure the Bright Queen will be pleased to hear you are working on your religious studies today.” 

“Matters of security tend to keep me from my spiritual needs. A bad habit of mine, unfortunately.  The Bright Queen understands, of course, being the leader she is.”

“The Bright Queen is certainly accommodating with her favorites,” Lady Derise said, looking down at him from her nose.  

“I am afraid that I am far too stubborn to be accomodated,” Essek laughed lightly as he walked forward only pausing to look back at her. “Your daughter, however, is a very accommodating creature. I know she was so pleased about her cousin’s engagement to General Dozall, that is how she ended up at his house at the witching hour.”

“That--it was---” Derise sucked on the air like it had been punched out of her chest. she coughed hastily, like being caught on her own deceit was physically painful. Really it was pitiful when those older than him were so easily tangled in the web. He almost felt bad for her. Almost. But it wasn’t in his nature to pardon stupidity. 

“Hm? Well, all’s well that ends well,” Essek said evenly. “You really ought to go to a healer. I can always have one of my shadows escort you, just like they did for your daughter. It wouldn’t do to have you in trouble, my lady.”  

“I am too busy to entertain bad jokes, Lord Shadowhand,” Derise said, her tone clipped and icy. “May the Light keep you.” 

“And may it keep you as well.”

Derise stormed off. Essek found the royal prayer chamber, which he was allowed to use due to his position as Shadowhand, off of the main cathedral. It was a beautiful chamber with lofted roof painted with images of the constellations and the sun and the moon. In the center was a large fountain, portraying one of the first lives of the Bright Queen holding her arms aloft with the dodecahedron, about her were creatures of the forest and behind her was the fountain styled as a waterfall. It was popular among artist renderings of the queen to have her placed like that, though the fountain of youth iconography was a bit on the nose for him. Essek enjoyed the arts, but hadn’t had time to properly commission something since he had his portrait painted. 

He cleaned his fingers within the blessed waters, before kneeling before the altar. He cleared his mind, closed his eyes, and prayed in Undercommon, 

“Oh Glorious Lord of Light, You who were first in the Universe and Master of All Creation. Keep me and bless me, in this life and my future lives. Let Your glow illuminate the darkness inside, so that I may reach new heights. Show me the way as you did Our Most Righteous Queen, so that I may never be led astray. Let me pray for ascension, for consecution…” 

There was the sound of delicate footsteps upon the marble and rustling fabric. Essek opened his eyes and looked to see the Bright Queen. As always she was arresting to look at, today fashioned more like a river-bathed-in-moonlight. She was without the armor she tended to wear at court, but adorned with a necklace made of platinum and blue topaz that clasped high at her throat and spilled across her skin like the tide. He began to stand, but she lifted her hand and he remained where he was. 

“Your recitation of the Book of Madark is quite beautiful,” the Bright Queen remarked, looking towards the altar with the deeply fervent expression she always did. “I always did prefer Madark. He made me sound quite grand.” 

“He never overstated your glory, your majesty,” Essek said honestly, bowing his head slowly. 

“Madark was quite in love with me, I’m afraid,” the Bright Queen sighed, smoothing out her dress that shimmered like the scales of a fish. “Quite boorish about it too. I do not like men who overstay their welcome.” 

“Or women who flirt and swoon,” Essek added before clearing his throat, “And the glorious star herself, may She guide us forever. Our Eternal Blessed Queen, who Heralded the Truth. Beauty Incarnate, who sets the heart ablaze with a single look-- ” 

“Oh, the Book of Terawane. Ghastly stuff. I always told her that she was much better suited to singing than to writing. So melodramatic,” the Bright Queen said with a long-suffering hum. “I can bear it when you recite it, Essek. But do not make me listen to the High Priest give his lecture of how my breasts are twin fawns and my lips are a violet ribbon one more time.” 

“Are you asking me to sanction his disposal?” Essek asked, taking a seat beside her. 

“Nothing so dire,” the Bright Queen laughed, her voice silvered bells upon the marble and high ceiling. She looked into the fire of the candlelight thoughtfully. “No…” 

Looking upon her, he often wondered what she felt. She had achieved perfection, she was the umavi. And yet as the firelight danced across her cheek, Essek wondered if she ever tired. She broke his revelry with a tap of her fingers against the stone bench. 

“I’m sure you need no news,” the Bright Queen said. “The Mighty Nein have met with King Dwendal after being missing for so many weeks.” 

“I was aware.” 

“What do your shadows tell you that the human arcanist did not? Was it right to pull back the assault do you think?” 

“Yes, it was. It was the cultists who were utilizing our assault to better their aims, we have confirmed reports of a Priestess of the Dawnfather being in cahoots with the conspiracy, and the Mighty Nein dispatched her. Now they work to broker peace. They are being asked to coordinate a parlay between Empire and Dynasty, by giving us back one of the beacons. In their private talks, they are anxious about finding a neutral location, but have not seemed to betray us. Though, Beauregard did state she infiltrated us to get closer to the enemy.” 

This was all really just a formality. She knew what he knew, and he knew what She knew. Just another part of the game, Essek thought. The game in which they would all be winners or they would all be losers. It would be up to the Mighty Nein, and the prospect was somewhat terrifying. 

“Just that claim is enough for me to have them killed on sight,” the Bright Queen warned him. 

“Considering the slipshod job they did of infiltrating us, I find it very likely and compelling that they are just saying what they need to say to retrieve the beacon. That was the assignment given, and that seems to be what they are doing. Besides, they did not hinder our operatives while in the Empire.” 

“One of the reasons you amuse me so is you are such a delightful pacifist,” the Bright Queen said. 

“So long as it amuses you, your majesty.” 

“You would be all I wish you to be, then? Have you no thoughts of your own?” the Bright Queen dared. 

“All I have ever done, and will ever do, I do to serve at your leisure. I am just one of the voices you allow to fill up your ear. However, considering you chose and continue to choose to fill it with mine, it gives me some hope about where your opinion lies.” 

“And where is that?”

“The long game, your majesty. It would do the Dynasty no good to rip the Empire out by the throat, utterly decimating their population and society. It would only serve to prove the Empire’s propaganda right, and move the masses against us. Instead, we take the high road. We show the Empire citizens we are not the monsters they claim us to be. And then, slowly, we can...improve upon their society,” Essek said simply. 

“You care for the masses.” 

“I must admit my bias for the common people, no matter their country of origin. At my core, I am still very much the street rat Skysybil yanked off the street.” 

“And does it not concern you that they haven’t messaged?” 

“I’m sure they are just busy, saving the world and all that,” Essek stated. 

"Are you sure you are not just lonely for your wizard pet?" The Bright Queen's asked.

"This is far more amusing," Essek promised with a smile. 

The Bright Queen's considered him. She reached out to cup his face and turn it up towards the candlelight. Essek blinked rapidly, but was docile and allowed her to do what she wished. 

"Tell me something that no one else knows, Essek," she commanded him. 

"I have no secrets from you, your majesty," Essek said, unable to help the way his head tipped to the side in curiosity. "What would you have me tell you?" 

"I would have you look at me, unhindered by the mask you wear," she bid him, her fingers running in his hair. "And tell me your feelings, uninhibited. Do you believe that I am in the right?" 

"With all of my heart," Essek said without hesitation, "I believe in you, for you are my sovereign."

"And you live to serve me, of course. But do you trust in my judgement?" 

"I do, but I do not trust those who may seek to influence your decisions. You are divine, my queen, but not infallible. Though I am devoted to you with all of my heart, I will do my best to change your mind should I think you wrong.” 

"With most of your heart," the Bright Queen's corrected, releasing him. "I hope you don’t take me for a sentimental idiot. You are a mortal, and your desires are that of a wild young foolish creature."

“I’m sure it seems that way.” 

“They cannot be changed, my dear Shadowhand,” the Bright Queen said mournfully. “My nation will only ever be safe when the Empire has been decimated. It is within their nature to expand and conquer, and even if we broker a peace now it will not last.” 

“If you believed that, I would be out of the job,” Essek informed her. 

“Perhaps,” the Bright Queen stated. “But for now, what can we do besides pray?” 

Between that breath and the next she was gone, leaving him in the prayer chamber alone. 

 _____

"Will you require anything else, my Lord?" 

Essek looked up from his reading to see one of his servants. Essek smiled at him, and watched as the servant relaxed minutely and settled the tray with tea by the bedside table. This one was a newer hire, an assistant to the cook when he wasn’t completing general housekeeping tasks though Essek had the sneaking suspicion he would prove to be a better cook with time. It was important, to know and cultivate your assets. 

“No, Amald, you are dismissed for the night,” Essek said. “Tell your wife I send my regards and well wishes to her health. She is with her third, yes?”

“And ready for the end of it, I’m afraid,” Amald said, tusks showing with his smile. “This pregnancy has not been easy on her. Our Denmother believes the birth will be difficult too.”  

“Well, I shall send for my personal healer then,” Essek said, closing his book. He held up his hand at Amald’s immediate attempt at response. “Do not worry about the cost, I shall take care of it. Consider it my gift to you and your wife, and a favor I may ask repaid.” 

“Of course,” Amald said his voice rich with feeling and gratefulness, bowing so deeply that Essek was worried he would topple over. “You are most kind, my lord.” 

 Essek blinked at the sight, fighting off his frown easily. Essek often enjoyed compliments. He was handsome, talented, shrewd, powerful, generous any number of things. Kind though? Not one of the usual ones. 

“Until tomorrow,” Essek said, and Amald took off. 

Essek enjoyed the remainder of his tea, a wonderful blend of ginger, licorice root, peppermint, and chamomile. He always found going into a trance so much more pleasant on the tail-end of nice tea and a good book. He could almost hear his Denmother lecturing him about the importance of trance, after collapsing with exhaustion during his first year of his education. 

Essek slipped into bed, laying down among the sheets and pillows. It was always easier to trance when he wasn’t sitting, or his back would protest. He listened to his heart beat, to the breath in his lungs, felt the way his ribs moved beneath his skin, fell deeper...deeper…

He was in his Denmother’s salon. Not his Denmother yet...at least not on paper. Mathulsda Theylss was frowning at him severely, looking him up and down as if all his faults were written upon his features and could be categorized accordingly. 

“Smile in a way that doesn’t make you look like you swallowed a frog,” his Denmother scolded. Essek’s reflection looked back at him. A sixteen year old Essek looked annoyed at best, contemptuous at worst. “Smile.” 

“I don’t want to smile,” Essek snapped at her. 

“You are lucky you were born in this era, boy,” his Denmother scoffed, leaving his side for a moment to take a sip at some wine. “Or you wouldn’t have a choice about what was done with your pretty face. You were the one complaining about the way they treat you, listen to my advice or don’t bother to complain.” 

“How is smiling better going to help me? They hate me because they think me common,” Essek demanded, and was given a pinched cheek for his question. She released him and he held his cheek, glaring at her. 

“No, they hate you because they know you are anything but common,” she said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. She looked at herself in the mirror, and Essek looked at her reflection and saw the transformation. She was truly arresting, in the way she smiled and turned her head just so. “It is easy then, to change hatred to love. You suss out those who hate you, and then you go to their friends. You find their weaknesses and can exploit them easily, because there is nothing for them to hate about you. Your professors will adore you, and will teach you all you wish to know. The noble dens will look at you and say, what a wonderful boy. The Bright Queen will favor you. Forget how to frown, Essek. That horrid little street urchin you were doesn’t exist. You are pretty, pleasant, considerate, and you smile. It is no longer a mask you can slip on and slip off when you play your childish little games with Skysybil. It is who you are now, forever.”

“I’m not like that, that’s not who I am,” Essek said, staring at himself. “I’m…”

“Essek Theylss is,” she said softly, as if it were a mercy. Her hands were upon his shoulders. “If you wish to be Essek Theylss, it’s who you will become. If you cannot get along with them, if you cannot make allies and cannot play the game, we have no use for you. There are other children with talent, though maybe not as talented as you, but they can become far more useful to us if you will not. So? Are you willing?” 

Essek watched his own reflection as he schooled his face into a soft smile. It fit onto his face cleanly, naturally, as if this were the way he was always meant to look. Maybe it was the way he was meant to look. Maybe she was right. If this was what everyone wanted then this was for the best. The Denmother patted his shoulder, in a mockery of fondness that tore that thought out by the root. 

“Very good, Essek,” she praised, standing in front of him to fix the collar of his uniform. She was taller than him, looking down at him with cruel delight. “Isn’t that so much better? We must always look our best, don’t we--?”

Wake up!

Essek tore himself out of that trance, jerking up so fast that his back twinged. He pressed his hands to his face, taking a few moments to just breathe. He knew better than this, Essek thought, thoroughly annoyed at himself as he lay back down with a huff. A trance was a fluid state, a visitation of memories or dreams affected by waking emotions and thoughts.  Bad thoughts led to bad memories or dreams which led to bad trances. 

“All I have are bad thoughts,” Essek said as he breathed out to the ceiling, resigned to his fate. There was just too much jumbled together in his mind, too much worry. 

Something you don’t know? Essek thought crossly. I miss the Mighty Nein, their shenanigans and their quirks that make me feel like I am not altogether that odd and that I have my life in a workable order. I don’t believe that I have a mask anymore, there is only this. I don’t know how to be without a smile. I don’t even know what it’s like to be that person anymore, but I feel as close to it as I ever have when I am with Caleb Widogast of all people. I want them to like me. I want him to want me, whoever that is.  

Essek continued to breathe, though he felt that it was a struggle. He needed to rest. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be as sharp as he needed to be. 

Rest, Essek told himself, forcing his eyes closed. Rest.

Entering into a trance again, he was greeted with a dark space. It wasn't unpleasant, but it was a comforting absence. It was a night sky without stars, the inside of your eyelids, the feeling of being underwater, in the warmth, in the bath--

"Essek," Caleb murmured. 

Essek was in bed, somewhere comfortable and soft. A weight on the bed next to him, a body pressed deliciously to his as if searching for warmth. This wasn’t what he wanted, Essek thought dizzily. He wouldn’t be able to rest like this, not when his body suddenly felt so alive. 

“Essek,” Caleb called again. There was a dip in the bed, the sensation of being straddled, a press of a kiss to his neck. Essek shuddered at the soft touch, the way he was being kissed like he was precious. Like he would shatter at a harsher touch. He gasped as his eyes fluttered open. 

“Oh,” he sighed, reaching up to touch Caleb’s face, brushing across his cheek with the back of his hand. Caleb leaned into the touch as if he chased it. His eyes were the powdery blue flowers painted in the mural on their barbarian's wall, regarding him with a tender, searching expression. The emotional whiplash almost took Essek right out of this, but he was anchored by the feeling of Caleb’s body against his. 

“Will you stay with me?” Caleb asked him, catching his hand. He nuzzled it sweetly, causing goosebumps to ripple across Essek’s skin, before cradling Essek's face in his hands. Caleb didn’t smile as much as he should, in fact, Essek had gotten the distinct impression that Caleb had long since gotten out of the practice of smiling. But he would look so lovely, if given the opportunity. Essek’s traitorous heart told him that perhaps he would be the one to offer those opportunities, if Caleb would let him. 

"Yes," Essek said, managing to get the word out from his heavy tongue. Caleb managed to remedy that problem by dipping his head down and catching Essek in a kiss. Essek tipped his head, to deepen the kiss, to let it linger as long as he could. To feel the imprint of teeth and the stroke of the tongue that left him tingling all over. Essek trailed his fingers over Caleb's bare arms, feeling the hair there, the rough criss-cross of scars against sun-worn freckled skin. 

They kissed and explored each other without worry or haste, until Essek lay breathless beneath Caleb, allowing Caleb to pamper his skin with attention, to lavish him with his desire in a way that had him shivering. Essek couldn’t untangle himself from Caleb, from his legs or his arms, and he didn’t want to. Essek was caught there and he never wanted to escape from Caleb’s arms. 

"You are so beautiful," Caleb whispered, nipping his collarbone. Essek's breath caught in his throat. 

Essek regarded Caleb through a half-lidded gaze, memorizing the exact way Caleb’s hair escaped his tie, and the constellation of freckles dusted across his nose. The adorable little human curve of his ear, the human thickness of his body. Essek had seen the way that others looked at Caleb, with a desire that soaked in one’s skin like a warm summer rain. It made Essek covetous and proud, because Caleb had eyes for him.  They were a well-matched pair, in Essek’s opinion. 

"Please, do tell me what you find so beautiful about me," Essek bid him. 

“Smug,” Caleb chuckled. 

“I am merely asking for the facts of the matter,” Essek told him, sitting up. He climbed into Caleb’s lap, something very bold and daring for him, but it was nice to be somewhat taller than Caleb in that moment. Essek found the shell of Caleb’s ear he had previously admired, tracing it with his lips and the barest brush of his canine, letting Caleb shudder under his touch. He curled his arms around Caleb’s neck, looking deep into Caleb’s eyes as he pulled his head back with the softest tug. Caleb bared his neck to him easily, so easily submitting to the touch, and it set upon Essek the fire of desire “Tell me, be a clever boy and tell me what I want to hear.”

 “You are the most powerful and beautiful man I’ve ever laid my eyes upon,” Caleb groaned, moving their hips together in a way that made Essek shudder. “I need you. No one else could ever compare to you, Essek.”

“Yes,” Essek gasped, feeling Caleb hot and hard and longing against him. It was driving him crazy. He had spent so long without a lover, without sampling the pleasures of flesh. He hadn’t needed it, and he hadn’t missed the few and sparse flings of his youth. They had been bare-boned things that couldn’t even be called romance, a simple almost instinctual satisfying of urges, a useful distraction, a way to utilize his pretty face to get what he needed. Knowledge, power, the game of politics had been so much more entertaining, and intellectual curiosity being quenched was so much more satisfying. People were easy to manipulate when they were kept at an arm’s length, it was so much easier to smile when there was nothing at stake. 

But this? This was something else entirely. He couldn’t even control his body, couldn’t think through the haze of desire.  He resurfaced and had to have pushed Caleb underneath him, because suddenly his hands were digging into his shoulders and his hips were moving desperately to the staccato rhythm of his heart as Caleb dragged him harder and more deliciously against him. Pleasure tore him open, it filled him up, it was so good--!

“Look at you,” Caleb moaned, pressing his flame-hot hands against Essek’s belly. “So lovely, so beautiful wrung out like this, just for me. What a treasure you are…” 

“More,” Essek demanded, not sure how much longer he could last but wanting to wring out this moment as long as he could. Everything was on fire, on a pin-needle edge, but he wanted to be greedy. He wanted all the things he couldn’t allow himself, all the things that Caleb could give him and that he could give to Caleb in equal measure. 

Oh by the Light, they were making love. The realization made Essek lightheaded, it made his back arch with the intensity of the sensation, it sent his teeth on edge. He would be ruined for everything else, Caleb would ruin him, but he had to give in. 

“You are exquisite,” Caleb gasped, reverently, desperately--lovingly and then he gave in to the pleasure, forcing Essek over the edge with the intensity. Essek wilted upon him, no more strength in his limbs to hold him. Caleb stroked him through it, with him. For a few blissful moments, there was nothing else in his mind. 

Slowly though, he emerged. Essek peppered Caleb’s face with kisses, curling his leg around him, burying his face into Caleb’s shoulder and his soft, fragrant hair. Caleb’s fingers scratched the back of his head, in a way that made him sigh with sated pleasure. 

“It is time to wake, Essek,” Caleb chuckled, voice amused and hazy with warm gentle lovemaking. 

“No,” Essek grumbled, more firmly pressing himself to Caleb. It was a stubborn childish thing that well in his chest, but he didn’t care. In that moment, completely divulged of his mask, he just wanted to be selfish.  

“Yes, it is,” Caleb said wistfully, and as Caleb gently stroked Essek’s back in soft comforting waves that drew him deeper, further...softer…

Essek resurfaced having drooled into his pillow. He sat up and looked at himself in the mirror, at his mussed bed-head and very inelegant splotches across his cheek and--his dream! 

His face burst into heat, he grabbed the closest pillow, buried his face into it, and bit into it hard to stifle his scream. Oh by the Light! Had he reverted back into his second decade? He thanked the Luxon and all the Gods above and below for the gift of living alone. He didn’t think he had ever been so mortified in his entire life. 

“I’ll never be able to look at him again,” Essek said mournfully, spitting out feathers he had managed to rip out with his fangs. He brought his blessedly cool fingers up to press to his hot cheeks. 

This was all because he hadn’t seen the Mighty Nein in a month. He was...getting all confused and acting like some sort of lovelorn maiden from one of the trashy Empire smut novels that he definitely didn’t read after he confiscated them. 

“By the Luxon, let them come back soon, or else I might really go mad,” Essek muttered to himself. 

His reflection in the mirror seemed to agree. 

[kcrabb88]

A Sort of Electric Spark

Note: A piece for Barricade Day 2019. 

As midnight settles over the barricade, Enjolras takes a moment to mourn the deaths of Bahorel and Jean Prouvaire. Courfeyrac soon joins him, and then the rest of his friends. The remaining Amis grieve together, missing two of their own without knowing what the dawn holds. 

In the beyond, two souls wait. 

An impossible, raven-black midnight falls over the barricade.

Enjolras looks up at the sky, searching for any scattered stars. He finds a few, latching onto their dim light and pulling that light into himself. The crescent moon is lost among the deep, impenetrable black, the clouds holding it hostage. Enjolras sits down on the ground in a dark, shadowed corner outside the Corinthe, snatching just a tiny fraction of a moment alone. He looks toward the Corinthe itself, weak candlelight spilling out from the window of the room where their ill and dead lay. The orange glow drips onto the paving stones outside, revealing the smears of red-brown blood on the stone.

Bahorel is dead.

Before Enjolras could even catch his breath, Jean Prouvaire died, too.

He remembers the chills that shot up his back and down his arms when he realized Jehan was missing, taken in that first breach of the barricade that stole Bahorel’s laughter.

He saw Bahorel fall. He saw the smirk on his face die in a moment of grim surprise as the guard thrust the bayonet into his chest, fresh, bright blood pouring from the wound and onto his scarlet waistcoat.

Enjolras wanted to run to Bahorel, then. But Bahorel was dead in a minute. Less, perhaps. Lucky, because he wasn’t in pain, though it left no room for even a fleeting goodbye. He remembers hearing Jean Prouvaire call Bahorel’s name in a strangled, grief-stricken cry, the sound piercing the night sky like the final lines of an epic, tragic poem, soaked in tears and blood.

He lost track of Jean Prouvaire after that.

Long live the future!

He remembers those words. Those final, fateful words. He remembers the anger bubbling up in him like hot, sticky, inevitable lava when he spun around to the police spy, the boiling rage turned cold as it left his lips.

Your friends have just shot you.

Truth be told, part of him wanted to shoot Javert then and there, but good sense won out.

Jean Prouvaire understood him, somehow, when he shot that man in the head. Although, Jean Prouvaire understood so much. More than most.

As for myself, constrained as I am to do what I have done, and yet abhorring it, I have judged myself also, and you shall soon see to what I have condemned myself.

Death. Death is all around him. He knew it would be, but the reality of watching his friends fall is something else entirely. Something he could never prepare himself for, no matter how much he might have tried. He prepared himself too, for taking life on the barricade, though he shivers at the memory of that particular incident, done not in the heat of battle, but with a rationality as everyone else watched. There was nothing for it—it had to be done, but it did not make the doing less gruesome.

Oh, Enjolras, Prouvaire said to him once, when they both stayed late at the Musain, his friend’s lips stained red with wine. You can keep no secrets from me, you know. You are not so mysterious.

Mysterious? Enjolras asked. Have I ever claimed such?

No, Prouvaire said, leaning across the table, that particular glimmer in his eye, that glimmer that made Enjolras feel as if Jehan might have lived a thousand lives before and just wasn’t saying so. But I think you worry, sometimes, that you struggle to articulate how much you love us all. But we know, Enjolras. We all know. You are not so hard to read, if one knows you well.

Prouvaire’s face appears in his mind’s eye, the light brown eyes filled with determination as he leans over a poem, the page splattered with black ink. Prouvaire’s hair was always over long, and Enjolras sees it now, the reddish-blond strands falling from behind his ear and onto the paper, the tips just brushing the still wet drops of ink.

That’s when Enjolras feels the tears coming. He sucks in a breath, trying to stop them. He doesn’t have time for his grief, not when they must sort bodies and tend to the ill and repair the barricade and and and…

The grief leaves him no choice.

The grief comes, anyway.

It crawls up from the pit of his stomach and pushes against his chest, the white-hot tears finally falling from his eyes, some of them landing on the blood-streaked stones beneath his feet.

I so admire you for your gravity, Enjolras, he hears Bahorel whisper in his ear, a memory of a few months ago. But I think today what you need is a bit of laughter. Don’t you agree?

Enjolras laughed softly at just those words. You don’t think I laugh enough, Bahorel?

Oh, you laugh, Bahorel said then. But it’s that quiet, dignified chuckle, you see. I like to make you really laugh. You snort when you find something particularly funny, and I’ve only heard that, oh a handful of times. I aim to make it happen again today.

He cries harder, feeling the sobs rack his body as he fights for control of himself.

He puts a hand over his mouth, stifling the noise and trapping it all against his palm.

He misses them, and it’s only been hours. The future lays out in front of him like an infinite mystery. Will his other friends survive? Will he? Will they come out victorious? He would lay down his own life to achieve the other two things, but he does not get to dictate the end of this simply by swearing a sacrifice. He wishes he could. He wishes and wishes and wishes.

This was never a guarantee. Not once. Not ever in the course of history. The point is in the trying, and both Bahorel and Jean Prouvaire knew that. And if enough people tried, if enough people tried again and again and again as time flowed on, then one day, they might win. Even with winning there would always be another fight. Their problems were like a hydra—many headed and complex—but it did not make the vanquishing any less necessary or immediate, even if everything could not be won at once, nor taken with a strategy that would only leave them with more struggles than they started with.

The future builds itself not by some inevitable course of progress, but through the reverent and constant dedication of anyone who might believe they can help better the world. That belief takes many different forms and follows different paths, but that truth remains.

Long live the future!

He hears Jehan’s last words again, ringing louder inside his head.

He thinks of another memory, one of the last memories he has of Bahorel and Prouvaire before they heard the news of General Lamarque’s death. They were all stuffed into Combeferre’s rooms, all nine of them together, and Bahorel was sitting on Combeferre’s sofa with his waistcoat undone and his sleeves rolled up, Jehan splayed out across the cushions with his head resting on Bahorel’s thigh. Prouvaire was saying something about one of the poets or dramatists both he and Bahorel admired, waving his hands about while he told the story. Something he said made Bahorel really, truly laugh, throwing his head back against the sofa as the sound filled the room and sent a smile sliding across Enjolras’ lips, even if he didn’t know what they were talking about.

Here in his place of darkness and death, that’s how he’ll remember them.

More tears come, after that, and he jerks up when he hears the sound of footsteps coming toward him, a warm, familiar voice whispering his name.

“Enjolras?”

Courfeyrac.

“Enjolras?” Courfeyrac repeats, stepping closer to him. “Are you all right?”

Enjolras wipes his eyes, not quite able to speak just yet. He nods, but Courfeyrac knows him far too well for that silent lie.

Courfeyrac gives him a sad, half heartbroken smile, sitting right down on the ground with Enjolras and crossing his legs. “Even when you’re looking for darkness you still sit near a little bit of light, don’t you?” Courfeyrac gestures at the candle in the window.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras whispers, willing his voice to work. “I just needed a brief moment I….I’m afraid I let myself get upset.”

Courfeyrac leans forward, thumbing away some of the stray tears with a careful, gentle touch, his fingers moving to brush Enjolras’ loose, golden curls behind his ears.

“Your hair is too long again,” Courfeyrac says, his voice trembling. “Brushing the tops of your shoulders, almost. So unfashionable, Enjolras, it’s not the 18th century, you know. What will I do with you?”

“Prouvaire’s always was too long, as well.” Enjolras feels his voice grow a touch stronger as he shares his grief with someone else who knows it all too well.

“Yes, well…” Courfeyrac murmurs, his hands coming to rest on either side of Enjolras’ face. “I never knew what to do with him, either, and all his medieval clothes. Bahorel was the one with the fashion sense.” Courfeyrac’s voice cracks here, and Enjolras learns forward, pressing their foreheads together as Courfeyrac moves his hands to take Enjolras’ own. “You’re allowed to be upset, Enjolras. I know we don’t have much time…” Courfeyrac trails off here, and Enjolras isn’t certain whether he means because of the work they need to do on the barricade, or with life itself. “But you’re allowed a moment. You’re allowed a moment for our friends.”

A thousand arguments brim on Enjolras’ lips, but he doesn’t pay them mind, tonight. Not when Courfeyrac is looking at him like that, with tears swimming in his dark green eyes, a thin slice of moonlight falling on his brown curls as the clouds finally move away. Courfeyrac pulls Enjolras into a tight, long embrace, his touch lifting away some of the heaviness in his chest. Enjolras runs his hand up and down Courfeyrac’s back, reveling for a moment in all the tiny signs of life: the heat of Courfeyrac’s skin in the late spring weather, his slightly hitched breaths, the feeling of his fingers clutching onto Enjolras’ shirt.

“I love you, Enjolras.” Courfeyrac’s words pierce the air like a warm, invisible magic, and Enjolras doesn’t just hear them. He feels them, too.

“I love you, too.” Enjolras’ voice shakes as he speaks, and he doesn’t swallow that vulnerability back. He wants Courfeyrac to hear it. He wants Courfeyrac to know just how much he loves him, because none of them know whether tomorrow might be the end.

They break apart then, another familiar figure squatting down next to them, the newly revealed moonlight glinting against his spectacles.

Combeferre.  

“There you two are,” he says gently, having been crying himself. Even if others might not notice, Enjolras knows, because he knows Combeferre. “We were all looking for you.”

Enjolras looks up, seeing Joly, Bossuet, and Feuilly standing a few feet away, the newly revealed moonlight making their faces soft and silver. Enjolras thinks the gold of dawn suits them better, but he’ll take whatever light he can find, right now. The paint stains on Feuilly’s fingers are visible under the moon’s glow, which also accentuates Joly’s freckles and winks off the edge of Bossuet’s sad smile.

Combeferre helps both Enjolras and Courfeyrac up from the ground, keeping a hold of their hands as they walk over to the others. There’s no need for words, really, because they already know. All of them.

They’re missing two of their own. They’re missing two pieces of their hearts. Their souls.

And they don’t know what the dawn will bring.

Enjolras has perhaps never been more aware of his own breathing as he is right now. Never more aware of his heartbeat. Never more aware of the smell of the evening breeze and the faint sounds of a sleeping city. These are things he often doesn’t pay attention to, because he is always doing something, always thinking, that sometimes those simple pleasures don’t occur to him as often as they ought to. But he feels Prouvaire’s poetry in the air tonight, bidding him to stop, and stand still.

All of them gather into one embrace, holding tight to each other.

“If I know anything,” Enjolras whispers, closing his eyes and soaking up the presence of these people he loves best, and the absence of two others. He feels Paris itself breathing around him, wondering whether or not the people will rise with the sun. “It’s that you all represent the best parts of the future we dream of. And that we have tried. That we have lived. And that whatever happens, there is no one I would rather face tomorrow with. You, and the two we’re missing.”

“To Jean Prouvaire,” Feuilly says, meeting Enjolras’ eyes as they all break apart. “Our poet.”

“To Bahorel,” Joly adds, wiping his eyes.

“Our very own brawler for the good of man.” Bossuet raises his hand to the sky in absence of a glass, his eyes flickering briefly to the upstairs of the Corinthe, where Grantaire still sleeps. “I imagine wherever they are now, they’re together.”

“Look.” Combeferre grasps Enjolras’ arm, pointing upward. “A shooting star. Or. Well it’s not really a star, it’s a bit of meteorite. But still. Lovely.”

Courfeyrac shakes his head, his soft laughter like music to Enjolras’ ears. “Let’s just call it a star, for tonight.”

Enjolras looks up, watching a brilliant streak of silver shoot across the black sky before it vanishes.

Prouvaire was always the one who believed in signs, but tonight, Enjolras thinks he does too.

I see you, Enjolras says inside his head, hoping, praying, even, that something exists beyond this world, that his friends can hear him. Their bodies might be gone from this earthly plane, but their spark still stays with rest of them, and Enjolras holds it close to his chest. And I suspect I might be seeing you soon.

                                                                       #

“Where do you suppose we are?”

Bahorel asks the question, standing in wide, white, empty space with Jean Prouvaire. Prouvaire finds the place delightfully eerie, or at least he would, if he weren’t still processing the fact that he’s dead.

And the sense that they’re waiting for something.

“In some kind of in-between sort of place, obviously,” Jehan says, his hand still grasping Bahorel’s sleeve, which he hasn’t let go of since they both woke up here, their deaths separated by only a short stint of time. He remembers watching Bahorel fall. He remembers swallowing the horrible wave of nausea that swept him up in its grasp and the way his heart seemed to thrum throughout his entire body, those memories almost more vivid than his own of being taken by the guards. Of his own execution.

Bahorel laughs, the sound echoing even louder than before. “Obviously. I’d like to shoot those men who shot you. See if I don’t.”

Prouvaire smiles at him, blinking back a few tears. “We’re dead, darling. You can’t.”

“Never say never to me, Jean Prouvaire.”

“Hush.” Prouvaire waves his hand in the air to cut Bahorel off. “I hear something. Someone’s coming.”

Prouvaire narrows his eyes, watching one figure come through the white haze in front of him.

Two figures. Three. Four.

Joly first. Then Bossuet. Then Feuilly. Then Courfeyrac, all one after the other.

Prouvaire’s hand slides down from Bahorel’s sleeve to his hand, still unwilling to let go. Before they reach their friends another figure appears, three bayonet wounds marking him.

Combeferre.

All seven of them crash into one another, and Prouvaire starts crying.

“You’re here,” he says, kissing each of their foreheads in turn. “We…we waited.”

“Didn’t have much of a choice,” Bahorel adds, his voice husky and near to cracking. “Where’s…”

“Grantaire was still asleep,” Combeferre answers, and his voice does crack. “Enjolras is…I don’t know. I think he went into the Corinthe but then I lost track of him.”

“Not a scratch on him, last I saw,” Feuilly adds, taking Prouvaire’s free hand when it’s offered. “Don’t know how.”

“Bastard,” Bahorel mutters fondly. “That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s Enjolras.” Courfeyrac turns as he speaks, hearing the same footsteps Prouvaire also hears, reaching back for Combeferre’s hand and taking it in his own.

Another, curly-haired figure appears through the white haze, looking disheveled, his face oddly full of color, even in death.

Grantaire.

“What’s…what the hell is this?” he asks outright, though he looks relieved to see them.

“Don’t know,” Bahorel answers, clapping him on the back.

“Where’s Enjolras?” Prouvaire asks, searching through the haze. He doesn’t want Enjolras to be dead, he only feels certain that he is.

“He…” Grantaire swallows, his hands shaking as Bossuet and Joly each take one in their own. “We were shot at the same time. Together. He took my hand so he must be…”

Then, a final figure walks through the haze, and Prouvaire sees the bloody marks of eight bullet wounds.

Enjolras.

Eight. One for each of their friends. Enjolras stops in his tracks, gazing at all of them as if he has never loved anything or anyone more, even here at the edge of time and space.

Prouvaire of course, has always known that Enjolras loved only one thing more than the cause he dedicated his life to.

All of them.

Prouvaire reaches Enjolras first, putting his hands out for Enjolras to take as Bahorel comes around to his side, throwing an arm around his shoulders.

“We waited for you,” Prouvaire says, pulling Enjolras’ hands toward him and pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

Enjolras presses Prouvaire’s hands tight, giving Bahorel a smile. “Where are we going?”

Not where are we, but where are we going?

“Onward,” Prouvaire whispers. “Wherever that may go. Lead the way, Enjolras?”

Enjolras smiles, and even in death it’s dazzling.

“All right,” he says, very softly. “Let’s go.”

After that, there is only a warm, bright light, and maybe, just maybe, the voices of those who came before them and the ones who will come behind, all ringing out in one unified chorus, welcoming them to whatever lies beyond.

[epochalisms]

001. zhaozi

THOUGH HER PRINCE has only started his training, he is impatient. Yonghuang is the first prince; he knows decorum and has made sure that any nearby person would not know of his plight, yet his hands are often blistered and Zhemin can tell that his grievances towards himself are deep. Steadfast ambition and quiet resolve keeps him here when all others will have retreated inside already.

He is five years old.

Though back home and here too, the boys starts their warrior training young and under the care of instructors who were the best the kingdom had to offer. His teachers are already praising him for his quick study, for his talent yet they do not know how hard that he works underneath the cover of darkness when the only audience is Zhemin and Juhua, holding her lamp ever afloat for him to see the target.

Her son is beautiful; he has his father’s steadiness, a strong jaw and intelligent dark eyes. He is light itself, her prince though she does not dare say crown prince. They are already discussing succession even though her emperor has only ascended a year ago. He is not the only prince of the kingdom but he is the eldest prince and the measuring stick of whom all other princes would be judged against. And the other prince well —

Zhemin loves Yonglian as though he is of her flesh but sometimes, watching him falter, at his raspy breathing during the night and the worried stares of the Fuca elders and Rongyin’s tears and then again at Yonghuang, strong and smart and charming and she feels her heart stutter. The two princes are as different as the sun and the moon and all she can do is clutch Yonglian close and whisper fiercely to Yonghuang to protect his brother until the end of time. He loves you, she says. Please, she says because the Empress cannot.

Yonglian has already gone to bed, Zhemin wonders if she should order her own dear, quick-silvered boy back inside. His father is not coming tonight. He has not come for a few days though she knows that he must share his attentions with the rest of the palace. He is not theirs anymore, but Yonghuang has been practicing. He is shaking with disappointment right now, all day his sword swings have been overreaching and his arrows just-quite missing the center. He has heard the tutors say (and how she wished she could slap the man then) that when his aim is better that his father will come. Zhemin has watched him stagger back, off-balance. But he is determined and she knows that her place is not to instruct the tutors, though it makes her heart ache watching them allow himself to tire himself out as the Manchu custom was for him to practice until he masters it himself.

“My darling,”

Yonghuang spins back from the target, nearly stumbling from the whiplash of his bow. Yet he bows, face flushed with sweat and exertion but gazing at her with so much adoration —

This is her son, her joy and she indicates her head before placing one hand upon his shoulder. She brushes her lips against his cheek, he’s still a child, face flush with baby fat and she wants to keep him like this forever though his hands are already calloused and his face dark from the midday sun.

This is not her place but this is her son and so she takes his bow and hoists it up. Her muscles have grown weak from the years spent in the palace but she nocks one of the arrows before pulling the string back, one eye closed and fires —

( Hongli competing with her over archery, trading kisses that never miss their mark as prizes and words sharp enough to cut always to the heart. Above them the bright, dazzling blue skies. And she finds that she misses him, misses the dark intensity of his eyes, the curl of his lip, the knowledge that even though she had nothing at that time, she had him and she had their family. )

She steadies her resolve. The arrow flies towards the target and hits true.

Yonghuang’s mouth is open and she relishes in the fact that she can surprise him. He is a sweet boy, a child still who has little understanding that they’ve lives before him. “I’ll teach you as I’ve taught your father,” she says and oh — was it possible that sweet Yonghuang’s mouth opened just a little bit more? A giggle burst from her lips. She’ll have to warn Yonghuang to close his mouth before one of the poor fireflies ends up in there.

Her son nods, resolute. He reaches up and she gives his bow back to him. His father had promised her a long time ago that he was going to find her a bow. Perhaps he’ll actually keep his promise now that he’s emperor, she thinks and bends down as she straightens his form. “Don’t think about the target, just about how your arrow will follow your line of sight,” she lifts his arm higher so that it remains straight, the back of his elbow in a perfect tangent to his target.

“Now fire,”

He does and the arrow flies from his bow, sailing across the air before embedding itself within the target. It still does not hit the red but this time it’s much closer and remains there, firm. Yonghuang beams and cheers; he is allowed that for now but when the other princes arrive, they will have to be far more careful. He stands up straighter before trying again and the arrow once again embeds itself within the target.

He gives a whoop of joy before running to collect the arrow once again. When he runs back to try again, she places her hand upon his shoulder once again. “You should rest, baobei” she says. “Tomorrow we’ll try again,”

He’s a filial son and save for the droop in his shoulders, he nods before her and sets the bow and arrow back to its proper place. “Do you promise, mama?” he asks and she scoops him up in her arms and nods her affirmation. Soon he will be too big for that but he is her treasure and she strokes his hair and presses kisses among his sweat lined brow.

“We’ll practice together after your tutors have left,” she murmurs because he is her prince. Hongli had been her prince once but he is gone now. There is only Qianlong now and though she finds that she can love him, it’s a different sort of love. She’s grateful that Hongli’s given her this at least before he left, this sweet boy who looks to her like he is the sun, as his father has once done. She feels her hands shake again, tears rising unbidden — it’s stupid, the Imperial Noble Consort Zhemin should not be crying, not a month after the Emperor’s coronation but she’s fearful and Yonghuang pulls her close. He doesn’t understand, she thinks, this brilliant boy whose eyes will become too old for his age and who will have to fight his way to the throne.

Because that’s the only fate for him now as one of the princes of the palace.

She knows everything about him. She knows that he likes pretty birds and throwing her silks above to watch them flutter down and that he likes the color of purple because it brings out his eyes. She knows that he’s fiercely competitive, fiercely proud as only a son of the Dragon Emperor can be, the way his eyes alight and the ramrod posture he holds upon greeting foreign dignitaries and nobles. The way he looks for stars atop the roofs of the palace and that his dream is to pilot a dragon-boat. She’s seen the way he looks when seeks his father’s approval, the way he already misses his father when Qianlong’s at one of the other palaces. He has a good heart, she knows, he is as kind to the servants as he is to the nobility and she does not wish to surrender him to the squabbles of the palace, the game of succession that will be played. Not yet.

Her hands clench and she bites the cry into her flesh. She hoists him up and he clings to her and even now, when he’s tired, when he doesn’t know why is mother is crying, he is still trying to comfort her. “Let’s get Yingtao to make us some dumplings tonight,” she says. It’s a segue but the way his eyes light up warms her heart. “And tomorrow we’ll practice arrows and then we’ll practice with swords — “

“ — and then we’ll make wagashi!” he finishes, an earnest, childish look directed towards her. “You promised that a week ago!”

She laughs, ruffling his hair. “I did, didn’t I? We’ll have to get Yingyao gege and Hefang to go and get us some ingredients. We’ll have to make a lot of them for Fuca and Yonglian and Ruyi and Hailan — “

“And grandmama and baba but we won’t make any for baba’s other wives,” he says. “Especially not Jin gugu and Gao gugu,”

Zhemin blinks at him; was her distaste for the two so obvious that even Yonghuang noticed? She shakes her head and instead carries him into the palace.

“A prince should be gracious,” she murmurs, remembering the analects — the first books that Hongli had gifted her when she was learning. This she would tell their son, this Zhemin can still impart. “A prince should be filial,” She would be kinder to Jin and Gao and the rest of them, brightly colored birds brought into the palace as her old mistress has been. To win the favor of the Emperor for their families, she cannot fault them for that for they too are only trying to live. Qianlong is resting in Yikungong tonight, he will not be coming to Zhongcuigong. This Zhemin knows, this she has cautioned herself to when her Hongli was chosen not too long ago.

“A prince should be loyal and a prince should be kind,”

He nods, he’s dozing off and his eyes are closed and he misses the tears that threaten to fall from her eyes. He knows at least to some degree what his future will be though they are (perhaps the only ones here) with no ulterior purpose. They have no family nor nobility nor wealth, they are strangers here save for the love of the Emperor though she fears that perhaps there will be a day where love will not be able to save them. She’s seen the Empress Dowager, plotted with her against the Empress, against all the others — though she has always believed that her and Yonghuang will be safe —

She misses Yonghuang’s look of concern until she feels him snuggling closer to her. “It’s okay, baba will come home soon,” Sleepiness and conviction mixed in his voice and she finds him smiling in turn as they stepped over the threshold and into the light of the palace.

“We’ll save a few dumplings for him,” she says with a smile. “I’ll invite Rongyin and her attendants too,”

Just like old times except Zhongcui gong was already so much grander than their old home which she and Fuca privately had called their summer garden. Though there are flowers here, perhaps flowers far nobler than the wildflowers they were accustomed to, she misses it there and she finds herself missing Fuca. Though she’s the Imperial Consort now and Fuca is the Empress and while Zhemin will mourn everything they’ve lost, she’ll also get up tomorrow morning and fret over her hairpins and Yonghuang’s new clothes and teach him how to shoot. She’ll help Fuca manage the six palaces and help the Empress Dowager with her flower arrangements and before Qianlong, before this palace, when it was just Zhemin and Fuca Rongyin and Hongli they were happy. She’s been happy and she’ll be happy again.

And she’ll carefully box up all their old memories, folding them carefully into origami flowers and cradling them into her heart and teach him how to shoot straight and ride. Her boy nestles closer to her, her Yonghuang is tired tonight and he will be tired tomorrow when there will be classes and training. There will be other princes but at the end of the day, Yonghuang is his father’s favorite. He is the eldest after all and is there any boy on earth better than he?

There’s a knock at the door and a maid announcing the arrival of Empress Fuca. The Empress Dowager will be joining them soon. There’s the scent of dumplings wafting from the kitchen. There’s the lanterns being lighted and the flowers blossoming. Soon it will be summer and the chrysanthemums will be in full bloom. They’ll make a new life here, a grand one, she promises herself. When the Empress Dowager comes, there is still one empty chair and without batting an eyelash, she turns and invites Mingyu to sit. When an attendant goes to take Yonghuang from her, Imperial Noble Consort Zhemin only shakes his head and pulls him closer. She picks up her chopstick to grab a dumpling and gracefully deposits it into Yonghuang’s plate.

[welcometothepenumbra]

BONUS: THE THIEF AMONG US

VOICE 1: I don’t care if he says he’s on his way; I want him on his way.

VOICE 2: Yes, madam, but—

VOICE 1: Are you dense? There’s a thief on the loose! Your home isn’t safe in your own home!

VOICE 2: Yes, madam, but I’m trying to tell you—

VOICE 1: And he’s late! Why is he late? This detective had better be as good as your research says, because so far this is a mess! A late mess, and I swear—

VOICE 2: Madam, I am trying to tell you that the detective is here.

VOICE 1: Oh. Then what are you waiting for? Send him in and leave us alone.

VOICE 2: Yes, Madam Rockridge.

SOUND: DOOR OPENS. FOOTSTEPS.

VOICE 1 [ROCKRIDGE]: What’s your name again? Slade or Sash or something?

VOICE 3: Shh-shh-shh-shh-shh-shh-shhhhh.

ROCKRIDGE: Shhh what?

VOICE 3 [IT’S TOTALLY NUREYEV]: Shah.

ROCKRIDGE: I’m getting really tired of being hushed, you—

SOUND: DOOR CLOSES.

NUREYEV: No, no, madam, that is not my intent at all. That is my name. Shah, Perseus Shah, private investigator. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Blair Rockridge. (CHUCKLES)

ROCKRIDGE: What’s so funny?

NUREYEV/SHAH: You must be wondering how I knew your name.

ROCKRIDGE: From the news? The business reports? The message I sent you? My mailbox?

SHAH: Precisely. From research. A good detective always does his research, Madam Rockridge, and so you know I must be the very best there is.

ROCKRIDGE: That… makes a lot of sense, actually.

SHAH: (LAUGHS) And isn’t it reassuring to know that you’re in capable hands?

ROCKRIDGE: It is.

SHAH: Especially when those hands are the only thing holding you up over the writhing pit of burglars and thieves down below.

ROCKRIDGE: Exactly! Wait, what?

SHAH: This is a really incredible room, Madam Rockridge. Gold and jewelry and art on every wall. Is this a showroom of some sort?

ROCKRIDGE: It’s the, uh, l-library, actually.

SHAH: A library! Without a single book. Just as I thought; the thief has already struck.

ROCKRIDGE: Already struck? I’ve never kept books in here. I don’t really go in for antiques.

SHAH: No books? You’ve never kept a book? Not a single book? Zero books, is that what you’re saying?

ROCKRIDGE: None.

SHAH: Are you certain of that?

ROCKRIDGE: Yes���?

SHAH: Are you certain that you’re certain?

ROCKRIDGE: Yes…?

SHAH: You’re absolutely certain there has never been a book in here, not even one that has snuck in?

ROCKRIDGE: I’m– yes. There have been no books in here. Now, if we could get to the point—

SHAH: No books, eh? Well, what do you call this?

SOUND: THWUMP.

ROCKRIDGE: A book?

SHAH: Not just any book, Madam Blair Rockridge, this is A History of the Taming of Jupiter, As Wrote by One Who Saw It. By Zara Moon, first edition. And I found it on that shelf, right there.

ROCKRIDGE: No you didn’t.

SHAH: I did!

ROCKRIDGE: No—

SHAH: Yes!

ROCKRIDGE: Detective Shah, I don’t own any books.

SHAH: You own this one.

ROCKRIDGE: If I say the book is mine, can we move on?

SHAH: Instantly.

ROCKRIDGE: Then the book must be mine. There. Now, can we talk about how to protect my collection already?

SHAH: In just a moment, Madam Rockridge. But, if this book is yours– well, if you’ll just allow me to follow this train of thought for no more than twenty-five minutes…

ROCKRIDGE: Twenty-five minutes?

SHAH: Two minutes, then. A crafty haggler you are, Madam Rockridge, crafty indeed. (CLEARS THROAT) Now, this book is yours, as we’ve established. Yet when I first entered, you insisted that you did not own any books which, by process of logical reasoning, leads me to deduce that you are unsure of the exact contents of your collection. Is that so?

ROCKRIDGE: Sure, sure.

SHAH: If that is the case, Madam Rockridge, how can you be sure the burglar hasn’t struck already?

ROCKRIDGE: What?

SHAH: I said before that I believe in the power of research, Madam Rockridge. And my research tells me this: the letter you received from a thief threatening to steal you priceless collection? It is not a unique occurrence. The wealthiest class across Olympus Mons has received letters just like this one, and many of them have already been stolen from.

ROCKRIDGE: That’s impossible! I would have heard!

SHAH: Would you? Did you tell anyone?

ROCKRIDGE: Well, of course not. I’d be a laughingstock.

SHAH: And so would they, Madam Rockridge. Especially when the pattern is so clear.

ROCKRIDGE: Pattern? There’s a pattern? Well, that’s good, right? If there’s a pattern, there must be some way to stop it.

SHAH: There could be! Perhaps there could be.

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS.

The thief always strikes three times, and then he moves on to another target. The first time he arrives, he always takes…

ROCKRIDGE: Takes what? Takes what?!

SHAH: Fossils. Any fossils in your collection, priceless relics of history, all that – gone. But you should be fine, Madam Rockridge, your fossils are still all accounted for, I take it.

ROCKRIDGE: But… I don’t have any fossils.

SHAH: Your fossils are missing?

ROCKRIDGE: I… don’t think– I- I don’t think I had any fossils to begin with.

SHAH: Of course you had fossils, Madam Rockridge. What collection doesn’t have fossils? See that blank space on the shelf there? Just the size of a skull, isn’t it?

ROCKRIDGE: I don’t remember a skull.

SHAH: Look at it carefully. Remember the skull. A sand bat skull, remember? A little chip underneath its one eye. That’s just the size, that must be what was there.

ROCKRIDGE: It is just the right size, isn’t it? The thief must have taken it! There’s nothing else that could possibly have been there!

SHAH: Fossils, gone! Not a good sign, Madam Rockridge, not a good sign.

ROCKRIDGE: What’s next? Detective Shah, you’ve got to tell me! What’s the thief steal next?

SHAH: Well, I have good news there, at least. On the thief’s second trip, he steals all the books in your collection.

ROCKRIDGE: Oh, that’s good. My book is still here, safe and sound and– oh my god!

SHAH: Madam Rockridge?

ROCKRIDGE: The book! The history of the… whatever by whoever! It’s gone!

SHAH: Gone! (GASPS)

SOUND: RUNNING FOOTSTEPS.

So it is. Gone without a trace. Well… there’s only one conclusion to be drawn.

ROCKRIDGE: No!

SHAH: The thief…

ROCKRIDGE: No!

SHAH: …is hiding somewhere in this room right now.

ROCKRIDGE: No! Detective Shah, do something! You have to stop him.

SHAH: It will be very difficult, but for you, Blair Rockridge, I’ll do anything.

Provided I’m paid in advance.

ROCKRIDGE: Done.

SOUND: COINS CLATTERING.

SHAH: Plus expenses.

ROCKRIDGE: Done!

SOUND: COINS CLATTERING.

SHAH: Good. Well, let’s begin, then. If you want to catch a thief, Madam Rockridge, you must first think like a thief. Quiet, for a moment please, this will be a considerable challenge for me.

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS.

If I were this thief, I would need a way to carry all of the things I stole. A bag! Madam Rockridge, get me a bag!

ROCKRIDGE: I don’t have a bag!

SHAH: Something else, then, quickly, quickly!

ROCKRIDGE: Uh-uh– wh-wh- what about this curtain? Priceless silk. Would the thief use that?

SHAH: In a heartbeat! Give it to me.

SOUND: FABRIC RIPPING.

Excellent, perfect. Then, of course, the thief would take everything he could hold and load it into the curtain. Help me, Madam Rockridge.

ROCKRIDGE: Everything on the shelves?

SHAH: Everything everywhere, now!

SOUND: LOUD CLATTERING.

Yes, yes, perfect. Then, with the bundle all loaded up, the thief would hoist it over his shoulder, like so.

ROCKRIDGE: Then? Then what would the thief do?

SHAH: I must think, think.

Aha! Of course!

ROCKRIDGE: What is it, what is it?

SHAH: Then the thief would take the bundle and bring it with him to the door.

ROCKRIDGE: And then?

SOUND: DOOR OPENS.

SHAH: Then the thief would walk through the door, and then…

SOUND: DOOR CLOSES.

ROCKRIDGE: Detective? Detective Shah?

SOUND: RUNNING FOOTSTEPS, DOOR OPENS.

Detective Shah, where are you?

MUSIC: STARTS.

MUSIC: ENDS.

***

SOUND: COMMS BEEP.

NUREYEV: Well? What did you think of that?

VOICE (FROM COMMS): Very impressive, thief. I asked for half her collection with minimum collateral, and you delivered me the full collection without so much a sound. Well done. I think I might be able to use you after all.

NUREYEV: And if the pay is right, perhaps I could use you as well, Miss…?

VOICE (FROM COMMS): Miasma. And what name do I write on the check?

NUREYEV: No check. No name either. It might not be fair, but it’s my only condition. I know who you are, and you never, ever know who I am.

VOICE [MIASMA] (FROM COMMS): I don’t care who you are, thief, so long as your work is good.

NUREYEV: The very best. You’ve seen that for yourself.

MIASMA (FROM COMMS): Don’t get ahead of yourself. You say that’s your only condition, then? You’ll do anything else?

NUREYEV: If the pay is right.

MIASMA (FROM COMMS): I need to be certain of this, thief. My aims are too important to be delayed by some flaring out of conscience, and I won’t stand for—

NUREYEV: You have nothing to be worried about, Miasma. I’ve been doing this for a long time. There is nothing and nobody that could shake me now.

MIASMA (FROM COMMS): There had better not be.

NUREYEV: But enough pillow talk. I take it this isn’t a social call.

MIASMA (FROM COMMS): Of course not. There’s something I need you to steal, and I’m afraid it’s something the public will have their eye on.

NUREYEV: I’m up for a challenge. Where am I headed, Miasma?

MUSIC: STARTS.

MIASMA (FROM COMMS): To Hyperion City. I need you to steal the Death Mask of Grimpotheuthis.

MUSIC: ENDS.

***

SOPHIE KANER: The Thief Among Us starred Noah Simes as Peter Nureyev, with Sophie Kaner as Blair Rockridge and Kevin Vibert as the Valet.

It was written by Kevin Vibert and sound designed by Sophie Kaner, with original music by Ryan Vibert.

The Penumbra is created and produced by Sophie Kaner and Kevin Vibert.

[hazusreaderinserts]

Legacy [Naruto Reader-Insert]

You’re definitely a Yamanaka, aren’t you?

Family and Village secrets run rampant. All you wanna do is survive long enough to see Naruto become Hokage and to find out who you really are.

[Fem! Reader x Various]

Warnings: Long Plot, Slow-burn, the slowest of the burns.

Crossposted on Wattpad and Quotev Masterlist

Chapter 4

The 'Deer Festival', as the civs of Konoha affectionately dubs. It was one of the biggest yearly celebrations of Konoha. Every other clan in Konoha had their own tradition. The Uchiha clan had their 'Festival of Fans', a summer event that you subtly think was a ploy to increase their clan income.

The Deer Festival is a festival that is held every year at the Nara compound to celebrate the arrival of the Takemikazuchi-no-Mikoto. A great god that was thought to have descended from the heavens with a pure white deer as his steed.

You also know of another, more recent myth; If you spot the White Deer, you'd be destined for great things. And if you and your significant other manage to catch a glimpse...

You know how it goes.

At dusk, all of the villagers gather in front of the Hokage Mountain and a grand procession (which all the men in the Nara clan would have to take part in) will lead them towards the Nara compound (which would be set up with stalls that sells various things like food and other relevant goods) where some religious rites will be performed.

The festival ends when dawn breaks.

The Yamanaka and Akimichi clan members show up, of course. All the clans do.  Akimichi sold food. Yamanaka sold drinks and various corsages of the botanical variety. Uchiha sold round paper fans in various designs, in homage to the origins of their name. The Aburame usually have several vendors dedicated to their love of bugs and the Inuzuka preferred selling goods of the animal variety. Other clans joined in the fun too, but this year there didn't seem to be many.

Brother stands beside you with you in a plain black yukata with a beige haori, draped over his shoulders. His ninjato, which he carries around in his normal shinobi clothing, was tucked neatly into his sash.

"She's a jealous one, she never leaves once she gets a hold of you. " He says with a smile when you ask, earning him a look of extreme doubt. It's a sword. Swords don't have emotions. His smile doesn't reach his eyes. Brother only smiles like that when he wants to deflect the situation. Or if he's lying. You don't know which of the two is his reason.

But you couldn't deny that it was beautiful in both craftsmanship and make. The handle is long and narrow, and the cord wrap looked worn. It was dusty and faded, like it had seen many battles which it probably had. The blade itself is taller than you. It was an heirloom from Mother's side of the family and Brother had been the one to wield it when he came of age. He was 10 when the sword chose him.

You spot the carving of a great white serpent etched on the sword's guard and the eight-pronged star gilded on the pommel. You don't notice them until now. 

Brother wasn't home very often and that meant the sword wasn't around much for you to examine at your leisure.

You were wearing a luxurious yukata in your favourite colour with little purple bush-clovers as a pattern. Bush-clovers are your clan's representative flower, so you deem it was appropriate to wear as a member of the Yamanaka clan.

Mother was quite reluctant to attend, giving the excuse that she 'didn't like the hustle and bustle of a loud and noisy celebration'. She has used other variations of this excuse in the past so you asked Brother instead.

You stand within the throng of people watching the procession approaching the gates of the Nara compound. There are many people in yukata and haori, and you spot a couple of them were wearing their corresponding clan's traditional clothing.

The atmosphere is festive and the night sky is already lit by a couple of firecrackers. Jingles of the kagurasuzu and the reverberating beats of the taiko drum fill the air in a harmonious symphony. It is loud and you could feel the sound of each beat vibrating through your body. It is almost hypnotic, and it definitely helped make the mood.

As the procession reaches the final stages, you caught sight of a very familiar black-haired, ponytailed boy dressed in the traditional clothing of his clan, waving his hands and dancing to the likeness of a deer among the others who were doing the same.

You greet him with a shit-eating grin on your face when you caught his eye. You imitate the move that he was doing and gave him a thumbs up with a dramatic flourish. This is totally going to embarrass him.

Shikamaru sticks his tongue out, made a face and mouthed some words at you before leaping into the air with grace as part of his dance.

You giggle. You didn't need to know how to lip read to know what he had said to you.

The dance wasn't funny or silly at all. It was beautiful. Ethereal even. You only tease him because his reactions amused you.

The procession comes to an end, and the festival finally begins.

Lanterns are everywhere on the main road and various vendors advertising loudly for their goods. You saw a couple of vendors selling candy apples and other sweets further away.

You haven't seen Ino and Choji yet but you know they are around. Ino is probably running the flower stall with Father, and some other members of the clan, and Choji was probably running a small Yakiniku booth at the end of the road with his.

Brother slips his fingers into yours and leads you down the road towards the sweets. His hand are large. Much bigger than your own by at least three-fold. He makes you feel warm and safe.

You look up at him to observe his profile. You think he is subjectively handsome but maybe others think otherwise. He has narrow eyes that were the colour of amber under the afternoon sun and a slim but prominent jawline. He usually wore his hair short. The snowy streaks on the tips of his hair were now reaching his scalp.

It wasn't there before. How long has it been since it got that bad? When did it start showin-

You break your gaze and blink when Brother runs a finger over your knuckles.

"What are you looking at, little mouse? " He says with a hint of a lilt in his voice, his eyes glittering half-moons as he looks at you, " Your brother too handsome for you?"

You shelf your concern away and shake his hand, hard, throwing him off-balance. He laughs and so do you. You felt pleased that he was enjoying himself.

You feel that he plays the part of a friend, a confidant, a mother, a father, a mentor and a brother. Sometimes a mixture of the above and sometimes all at once. He basically raised you. Between a mother who is never home long enough for you to make a parental connection to and a father who never has time to talk or to check up on how your lessons were going, never giving you the time of day when you try to talk to him, brother is the only one who cares enough to be all those things for you

But today he's playing the part of a brother. And you're happy with that since he's enjoying himself.

Brother halts to a sudden stop when you bump into someone else.

"Oh, it's you." 

You narrow your eyes and give the person who spoke the stink eye. Sasuke clearly sounds like he is annoyed by the sight of you.

Of course it's your luck to bump into the person you consider your rival today.

Brother smiles and lifts up his other arm to wave at the person beside the younger Uchiha, " Didn't expect to see you here with your brother, Itachi-kun."

Ah, so he knew Sasuke and his brother then.

"Hakunetsu-san, what a surprise. " A modest voice comes out from the older Uchiha as he returns Brother's smile with his own.

He looks like Sasuke, but with a hint of visible tear lines. His hair was in a low ponytail and he had a parted fringe. Brother's features were more masculine than his. But his eyes. His eyes reminds you of the dark sky after the setting sun. Black, like the sky when the moon rises. 

His eyes pierces you like how his smile pierces your heart. Your instinct tells you that he is a dangerous man. A dangerous man with pretty, pretty eyes.

And maybe you have a crush on him.

You stare at his general direction with a vacant look as Brother exchanges pleasantries with him and some other words.

Sasuke just looks at the ground with discernible impatience as he held onto Itachi's hand. He doesn't get that much time with his brother so he just wants to just move on already.

" That's fine, we can look after her when you're away. The least I can do for a senpai. " Itachi says, still smiling.

" You're doing me a big favor! Thanks. You'll see her in a couple of days." Brother then gives your hand a few squeezes, "Say 'thank you' to Itachi-nii will you?"

You and Sasuke share the same wide-eyed look. No. No. NO!

"T-th-thank you, Itachi-nii, " You stumble on your words and you sport an embarrassed look on your face as your cheeks turn pink.

The younger Uchiha boy frowns and aims a kick at your leg when the older boys weren't watching. He misses.

Itachi directs a kind smile at you, "It was nice meeting you. We'll see you in a few days."

You feel your heartbeat quicken for a second.

You also don't forget to give Sasuke a nice, fat finger when Itachi looks away. Brother chuckles under his breath when he sees your hand making rude gestures to his colleague's little brother from the corner of his eye. The offended look on Sasuke's face almost makes you forget how childishly your brother had treated you.

Four of you say your goodbyes and walked toward opposite directions.

The bad mood that Sasuke put you in made you want to go find Shikamaru. You tell Brother that you'd be right back and you dash as fast as you could to the Nara's main house. You are confident that the Nara boy would be there, hiding from the other festival attendees after the earlier incident.

As you whiz down the road, you spot a shimmer of white antlers behind some bushes from the corner of your eyes. 

You blink, but it was gone before you could make sure you saw what you did.

[illustrache-blog]

SPOILER ALERT: The Iron Throne Belongs to...

“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.” -Robert Frost

If you grew up anything like me, you were born into a life that was pre-decided for you. You go to school - aiming for those straight A’s, then apply to the best universities so that you can graduate and hold a degree that displays how literate you are, being oblivious to the possibility of ending up in a completely different profession than your major. But if Brian May, didn’t give up on his Ph.D. in Astrophysics, half-way, only to go back and complete it years later, the world wouldn’t have a Queen.

For those of us who aren’t as brilliant or musically talented as Brian May, let’s get back to the grind - you move on to medical, law or grad school and get a master’s because that will guarantee a job. Chances are, you will hate the very same job you worked so hard for, but have to stick with it because you need the money from all the student loans, right? That is, assuming you didn’t find yourself a sugar-daddy or work as a part-time stripper.

What’s next? Get married? Have kids? Raise those kids and work yourself to death? Unless you happen to be one of the few brave-hearts that said, “screw you, society,” and decided to go ahead and do your own thing or your parents are really rich and you’re going to inherit their possessions anyway - or you’re a serial killer, you must relate to some of this.

Personally, I am in the hustling phase - about to graduate in three months, thinking about “what’s next” while trying to maintain a social life, a healthy diet and 8 hours of sleep.

This is where I try to gain some perspective about my life and my choices.

If you ask me about my five-year-plan, I will say “I don’t know” because I do not have one. Unfortunately, I am not one of those people that has every detail about my life figured out. Actually, who really does? All it takes is getting run over by a car because you decided to run the light so that you could make it in time for class/work - boom! your five year plan is dead, even if you survive.

While I figure out my post-grad plans, I am trying to ensure that I don’t delve into society's expectations of me. Society might say “go get a job” and by job they mean “a real job” even if it isolates you from being you. For instance, what if I decide to say “forget about finding a job, I am going to take a plane to France to visit the Notre Da-” Oops!

The point I am trying to make here is that the rules, standards and boundaries that society validates might not apply to you - and that is okay. If you are up to the challenge of pursuing what you really want and it makes you happy, it is valid. You don’t have to follow the bandwagon just because everyone else does. Perspective. Even if you aren’t on the road that most people chose, you are not alone. Robert Frost took the same road and now he is in every high school/college English literature curriculum. If Frost isn’t the role model you’re looking for, Apple’s 1997 Advertising campaign will give you more people to look up to, who fought their own battles and made history:

It is important to realize that the road to being different comes with its own challenges. It is not going to be easy. In fact, it could be worse than you imagined, mainly because you are in charge. You make the rules. You overcome your own barriers. You do what’s right for you - since there is no given formula to make it to the top unless you find one yourself, which comes with trial and error.

A significant factor that mutually exists in the stories of most successful figures is their ability to listen to themselves over what others told them to do. There is no doubt, you have to be courageous to take a step. Take it from the Bible, if not from me. Isn't that what God told Moses when he led the Israelites escape Egypt and ended up splitting apart the Red Sea? You have to trust the process. You have to be prepared for the worst outcomes and you must be able to cancel out the “noise” including society, your peers and most importantly the negative voices in your own head that tell you you’re not good enough.  Above all, you must be able to maintain your own perspective.

No, you don’t have to have your life together by 30 because society says you should. You don’t have to have kids before you’re ready because everyone else thinks it’s the best time to do so. You don’t have to prove yourself to people that do not matter. You don’t have to succumb to pressure that will make you detest your life and fill it with regrets - so much, that you only begin to survive rather than live. You don’t have to give up on your dreams so that you can “fit in.”

Society’s expectations may greatly differ from your own. You can choose to try and please the people around you, and still not please everyone. However, you most definitely can choose to please yourself and succeed. Even if you don’t, you tried. This does not apply if you’re some kind of psychopath or associated with an extremist group. If blowing up the twin towers is the type of thing that makes you happy, please borrow someone else’s perspective in life.

Don’t get me wrong. Rules exist for a reason and they might lead you to your destination, but you are allowed to navigate the route of your own life’s journey. It all depends on your point-of-view. In other words, perspective. For anyone that hates reading, doesn’t care or has more important things to do, such as get a Ph.D. in Astrophysics, let me leave you with one of my favorite quotes-

“Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you'll land among the stars.”

― Norman Vincent Peale

Finally, I would like to say, you’ve GOT this. The iron-throne is yours. You rule!

If you made it all the way to the end, here’s a link to a great song on perspective, “Living in the Moment” by my all-time-favorite artist,  Jason Mraz:

Thank you for taking the time to read this post.

Thank you for being you.

[cerastes]

I dedicate to this to everyone who has let their dreams of writing die.

This is pretentious, or maybe vain, and I apologize if it comes across that way, I do not intend for this to be like that at all, as aside from narcissism in jest, I really think people should retain humility while still accepting and acknowledging their own good points, but when I log into my writing blog, sometimes I see a message like this and it’s wholly disarming. I know it seems like I am making a big deal out of what is basically a compliment, but hear me, I decided to not share my writing online again after some really bad stuff happened, on a personal level and on an artistic level. You may perhaps not believe me due to the way I carry myself, but I am very, very meek about my writing. Literature is something I have an eye and a passion for, and since I know good literature when I see it, it makes it terrifying when I finish writing something, because I know the flaws. It’s kinda like how graphical artists see their awesome finished products and say “this sucks” because they know real good illustrations, that, too, happens with writers, and oh man, it’s terrifying. To add to that, my previous relationship more or less began and crashed down in flames because of writing. My quality as an artist took a dive because I grew complacent, and because I focused on producing just one thing, and one thing only, something that satisfied my partner, and then I realized that despite my popularity in that community and the praise, it all felt hollow. I had not taken a step up, I took a step down. What used to be a mere exercise for my own amusement, that is, purple prosing, which is objectively terrible but it’s oh so fun to do, like eating a greasy hamburger, became more or less my modus operandi. That’s not good. It was all stagnant, it was fun, it was a cheap thrill, but part of me knew I was really just wasting away when I could be improving. That was a big part of my overhauling the blog in that RP community to just become user-drive stories: People would send asks with quite literally whatever content in the message and I would turn them into hopefully fun and neat reads, usually based on humor, and a bit later, it was time to close up shop, because the community had all really gone to shit and, sans a couple of exceptions, everyone whose skills I respected were already gone or just not into it anymore, plus, I had been writing in the Gensokyo setting for far too long. I needed a break, both from it and the bad memories that writing for the character in itself brought (because the character is intricately involved with another character, the source of my problems, and I will never, ever write a character in a vacuum or extirpate an essential part of them for personal reasons).

After that, I kind of just put the pen down. I felt afraid, honestly, because I knew anyone with writing chops could see past the hot air and the purple. I kept my daily writing exercises up for a few days and then I just gave up. In part, I was focusing fully on truly getting better from my depression, on which I was making really good progress, especially after a rather harsh and spectacular break up threatened to push me back in, thus needing my full attention, but another part was, really, that I was just so furious with myself that I couldn’t bring myself to write. A part of why I had made another “identity” when making that blog, aside from a joke aimed at some people, was so that I could start from zero, so it wouldn’t be me just being like “hey guys go follow my new blog give it attention please!”. I really disliked that attitude. You have to earn your reader base, not guilt trip for it. There was a period in that community which consisted of people making blog after blog for whatever fucking character or version of a character they could make, putting “HEY THIS IS MY NEW BLOG” on the main Skype, enjoying 2 days of attention, and then proceeding to whine forever because they ran out of inauguration-slash-pity asks. That’s no way to improve. I wanted to start from zero. Big fat irony that then I grew insecure because, damn it, I could put out drabbles and what not but I’d probably be, I don’t know, pity likes or “I know you” likes. A mess. I didn’t want that. That, coupled with my immense dislike of my own writing quality, put me off writing for a long time.

Just last year, at the end of the year, I decided, hey, it’d be cute if I put up some stuff. I mean, I made the ‘ideablog’ and I hadn’t used it at all (an attempt at trying to share my stuff again that failed initially as I was too afraid), might as fucking well, because if I have a redeeming quality, that’s just going through with whatever comes to mind at any given point. Reception has been surprisingly... Existent. It’s been good, and the praise and opinions I’ve received both publicly and behind closed doors has been both empowering and enlightening, but, I just think it being there at all has been out of my calculations. Aside from this message, I’ve also been asked if I have my stuff organized in a Dropbox for quick downloading so it could be loaded as an e-book and, if not, if I gave my authorization to do it. Another message I received was if I accepted commissions. What the hell do I say to that? It’s wholly disarming and moving, I couldn’t be happier. No one is more critical of my writing than I am, and next thing I know, someone says they’d pay for it. I’m not trying to blow my horn here, it’s just, fucking hell, I am so happy that I didn’t give up entirely, that I came back for the pen, and that the pen waited for me. I want that to reach you, I want you to know that not giving up has been the correct decision. I am lowkey shedding tears right now because, fuck, I love writing, what the fuck, I really was gonna let this go, but I am so fucking happy I didn’t, and on top of that, other people enjoy what I have to show? It’s paid off both personally and artistically to keep at it? Holy hell.

Just, please, don’t give up writing. It’s hard, it’s not immediate like seeing a drawing is (which means no disrespect to graphic artists at all), it’s no walk in the park or a cake in the walk or a piece of the cake, but it’s worth it. Rather, “don’t give up writing” is not fundamentally my message here as much as “don’t give up your art”. If it’s drawing, writing, composing, sculpting, whatever, don’t give it up. It pays off. You really have to go in it and give it the hardest try you can, whatever it is, your utmost effort, and it’s not easy, but look, all that aside? It’s about you enjoying it.

You’ll never reach perfection, but that doesn’t mean you can’t or shouldn’t try, and you should shoot for the moon anyways, because if you land it, you kill the moon and you do us all a favor, but if you miss, hell, you still land among the stars. People really don’t want perfection, they want a good read. That’s easy to understand as a reader, but difficult to get as a writer. I think getting it as a writer, however, only pushes you to become a better writer than striving and inevitably failing to reach perfection does. At least, it’s what I’ve learned.

And for those of you who have become discouraged because you saw others do something close or similar to what you wanted to do, and in some cases, an almost identical concept? Do it anyways. Take it from me: Ideas and concepts are a dime a dozen. It’s the execution that really matters. The world has not seen what YOU do with that idea. You have not seen what you do with that idea. Maybe you have in your brain, but haha, let me tell you, what ends on paper tends to be wholly different than what initially was in your head. It tends to be better. You’ve not seen that. Everyone can imagine the perfect Olympic pirouette, but doing it is what matters. Everyone can imagine the perfect football kick, the perfect boxing straight, the perfect baseball pitch, but what does that matter if we don’t bring that imagination into a tangible form? That’s what writing is, after all, it’s our ability to show others what goes in our brains and hearts, what it is that inspires us. You don’t want to write because you got inspired, you want to write because you got inspired and want to give it shape.

So get writing.

So get making art.

Do it for yourself, and others will love it, I promise.

I’m not saying it’s as easy as just doing, but doing is the first step. You need to work hard to improve, and you need to both be confident enough to know you did a good job, yet humble enough to know you’ve got room for improvement (and hopefully, where it is you’ve got room for improvement). You can worry about improving after you get to the “doing” stage, however.

And if you gave up, please, consider giving it another try.

You never know who is out there waiting for your product. Only one way to find out.

[tomeandflickcorner]

Caravan of Courage: An Ewok Adventure

I’m actually approaching these next two reviews with a sense of trepidation.  While I remember loving the Ewok movies as a kid, it’s been years since I last saw them.  I think the last time I watched them prior to this moment was in the early 90s when they’d air on television.  So I have absolutely no idea how they’re going to hold up now, or how they’ll come across to my adult brain.  Before I begin, I am aware that the Wiki page states this movie is supposed to take place before Return of the Jedi.  But something happens in the movie that makes me feel as if it makes more sense for the events in this film to have occurred after Return of the Jedi rather than before.  I’ll explain what I mean when we get to the scene in question.

The movie begins with a prologue of sorts, with a mother and father searching for their missing children.  Throughout the movie, it becomes apparent that this family of four, the Towani family, were traveling somewhere in their star cruiser, but something went wrong and they crash landed on the moon of Endor. Because they didn’t know where they were, they could hardly send a transmission for help, so they were pretty much stuck there until they could get the ship repaired.  But on the night the movie opens, the two children, 14-year-old Mace and 5-year-old Cindel, have apparently wandered off, despite their parents’ instructions to stay near the star cruiser.  While the parents, Catarine and Jeremitt, are out looking for them, they are ambushed by a giant troll-like being called the Gorax.  The Gorax ends up capturing Catarine and Jeremitt for reasons that are not made clear.  Did the Gorax plan on eating them?  Did he just want to keep them as human pets?  It’s never really addressed.

But anyway, the movie then cuts to the star players of the movie- the Ewoks.  Specifically Wicket and his family, which consists of his father, Deej, his mother, Shoudu, his two older brothers, Weechee and Widdle, and his baby sister, Winda.   (Incidentally, you might recognize Widdle as one of the two Ewoks who hijacked the Walker with Chewbacca during the Battle of Endor in Return of the Jedi.)  On this day, Weechee and Widdle have also gone missing.  So Deej decides to go off looking for them, utilizing a hang glider to search the forest.

So, remember how one of the biggest issues with The Star Wars Holiday Special (not the only issue, but one of the biggest) was the fact that they were mostly focusing on a family of Wookiees and didn’t give us any subtitles, expecting us to just figure out what was happening on our own?  Well, in this TV movie, they did learn their lesson.  Sort of.  While they don’t give us subtitles in this one, either, we did get a narrator. Yeah, they got Burl Ives, who you might remember from the Rankin Bass version of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer (among other things), to narrate this movie. Unfortunately, this really doesn’t work to the movie’s advantage.  There are times when it feels as if the Narrator is talking down to the audience. And at first, the use of a narrator makes the movie seem more like a nature documentary on Ewoks rather than a plot-driven movie.

Deej eventually locates his wayward sons. They were apparently climbing a rocky cliff but got stuck halfway up.  After Deej helps them get out of their predicament, the three Ewoks start making their way back to their village.  But first, they have to make a detour.  While he was gliding over the forest on his hang glider, Deej saw something glittering in the sunlight through the forest canopy, so he decides to take his sons with him to investigate what it was.  And that’s how they discover the crashed star cruiser.  They step inside to investigate their discovery, and thus end up finding Cindel hiding behind a panel.  Not sure if we’re supposed to conclude she made it back to the star cruiser after her parents ran into the Gorax or if she’d been there all along and the parents just didn’t look hard enough.  Either way, Cindel, being 5-years-old, instantly decides the Ewoks are friends based on how cute they were.  Her brother, Mace, on the other hand, is less trusting of the little teddy bear Aliens.  Instead, he charges in and aims his blaster at them, stating that they might be the beings who took their parents.  I’m guessing it’s been a few days since the events of the movie prologue. Eventually, the Ewoks take the two kids back with them to their village.  Though they take Mace back by tying him up and carrying him.  Rather similar to how they initially treated Han, Luke, Chewbacca and R2 in Return of the Jedi.  The Ewoks must really not like human males.  That, or they just don’t like the hostile ones.

Now, I gotta pause to talk about the two kids. There’s no sense in denying that neither of these two give a good performance, even by child actor standards. In fact, with the kid who plays Cindel, Aubree Miller, this was her first acting role.  And believe me, it shows.  But I can forgive her for that because, again, she’s only 5-years-old. Mace, on the other hand?  I don’t think he’s even trying sometimes.  There are some points in his performance when he seems to think all you need to do to convey emotion is to shout your lines. Also, I sometimes get the feeling that the movie was trying to make Mace a discount Luke Skywalker.  Sure, he shows no indication of being Force Sensitive, but his costume throughout the movie bears a strong resemblance to Luke’s X-Wing pilot outfit.  Even his haircut seems similar to Luke’s.

When they get back to the Ewok Village, it soon becomes apparent that Cindel is sick with a fever.  Fortunately, Deej and his wife, Shoudu, are able to give Cindel some medicine that helps her, but when Cindel is still ill in the morning, they have to go out and gather more medicine for her.  To get the key ingredient for the medicine, they have to travel to this tree in the middle of the forest.  Because this specific tree emits a special kind of fluid that the Ewoks have used to treat their ailments for eons.  (I wonder if this is the Tree of Life they mentioned in The Star Wars Holiday Special.)

It’s at this point where we first start to see how much of a dingbat Mace is.  While the Ewoks are harvesting the tree’s curative sap for Cindel’s medicine, Mace spots a large hole in a nearby hollow tree.  And there appears to be some kind of cute little fuzzy critter inside this hole. For some reason, Mace decides to go over and stick his hand into the hole in order to get this critter.  Yes, I know Mace is supposed to be 14 in this movie, but at the same time, he’s presumably grown up in the Star Wars universe. You’d think he’d know better than to go about touching random fauna like this.  The moment he reaches inside, a larger creature ends up biting down, latching onto his hand.  Apparently this creature is a predatory animal called a Temptor.  The fuzzy creature Mace saw was part of the creature’s tongue.  I guess this creature is a bit like an alligator snapping turtle, in the sense that it lures prey to come closer with their tongue.   So the Ewoks have to drop what they’re doing to come to his rescue.

Despite Mace’s stupidity, the Ewoks are able to gather up enough tree fluid to manufacture more medicine for Cindel. The following morning, the medicine seems to have done the trick, as Cindel is feeling all better.  And right away, she develops an instant friendship with Wicket, possibly because they’re supposedly around the same age.

Also, it’s here that I noticed something a bit off-putting about the movie.  This is supposed to take place in the Star Wars universe, in a galaxy far, far away.   So can someone please explain to me how the Ewoks share their home with animals commonly seen on Earth?  I’m not kidding, here.  By this point in the movie, we’ve seen the Ewoks have ponies, goats, rabbits and ferrets.  Is this movie is suggesting that those particular species are actually native to the moon of Endor and somehow ended up on Earth as an invasive species?  I mean, the events of the Star Wars films are supposed to have happened a long, long time ago.  So maybe, by the time then became now, the native people of the Star Wars universe somehow found their way here to the Milky Way and ended up colonizing Earth, bringing with them an assortment of critters that we now associate with our planet.  I guess that’s as good of an explanation as any.

Anyway, Cindel starts trying to communicate with Wicket about how they ended up on the moon of Endor, explaining how their star cruiser crashed.  Out of nowhere, Wicket starts repeating Cindel’s statements in comprehensible English. Or Basic, to use the Star Wars terminology.  Yep, this movie shows Wicket starting to develop the ability to speak Basic.  By the time the sequel, The Battle for Endor, comes along, he is able to speak Basic fluently.  And that is why I take issue with this movie supposedly taking place before Return of the Jedi and therefore think it makes more sense to set this movie after the Original Trilogy ends.  Because if this did take place before Episode 6, then there is no reason why Wicket wouldn’t have been able to actually engage in a conversation with Leia.  Or why the other Ewoks seemed to be so hostile to Luke and Han upon seeing them.  If they’d already met Mace and Cindel by that point, then they must have noticed the fact that Han, Luke and Leia were from the same species.

Because of her newfound friendship with Wicket, Cindel suggests to Mace that the Ewoks could help them find their parents. Mace, however, isn’t convinced, dismissing the Ewoks as animals.  Which is weird, because he must have realized by this point that the Ewoks are sentient beings.  And, being from the Star Wars universe, he should be at least somewhat familiar with non-humanoid Aliens.  Regardless, Mace decides to take Cindel and sneak away in the middle of the night so they could continue the search for their parents.  Which was really stupid on his part.  Once again, they’re on a planetary moon they’re not familiar with and therefore don’t know what nocturnal fauna there might be.  But that’s what Mace decides to do.

After traveling for a bit, Cindel insists that they’re lost and she can’t walk any further, so Mace sets up camp, building a campfire to keep warm.  As they’re sitting around, they start to discuss their parents, and whether or not they’re dead.  Mace then starts to confide in Cindel how he wishes he’d been a better son.  I guess the implication is that Mace sometimes misbehaved.  And it’s possible that this is basically him saying that he shouldn’t have wandered off the night Jeremitt and Catarine went missing.

At that moment, this wolf-boar creature suddenly appears and starts to chase the two kids, forcing them to take refuge inside a hollow tree for the night.   When morning comes, we see the Ewok family had managed to track them down, as they are trying to fight off the wolf-boar.   And there’s no denying the stop-motion effect they used with the wolf-boar did not stand up against the test of time, as it looks really dated.  Nowhere near as good as the Rancor.  Yes, I know this movie was made on a considerably smaller budget, but even so.  Eventually, the wolf-boar is brought down by a well-aimed poison dart from Wicket. And, when they get a close look at the dead wolf-boar, they see he’s wearing a collar. Meaning he belonged to someone.  But what really catches Mace and Cindel’s attention is the fact that their father’s Life Monitor is stuck to the collar.  Life Monitors, from what I gather, are a type of bracelet that you can wear, which is used by groups of people to keep track on the life status of everyone else wearing the bracelet.  Since Jeremitt’s Life Monitor states he’s alive, the children have a renewed hope that they’ll find their mother and father.  

But before they can hope to reunite with their parents, Mace and Cindel have to figure out where the wolf-boar came from. Because knowing that would most likely help determine where the parents are.  To help Mace and Cindel, the Ewok family take them to Logray, the village shaman, in the hopes that he could help determine the parents’ location. Thankfully, Logray can help them. Because he has some kind of magical spinning top thing that can enable you to observe things in other locations. That’s right, magic now exists in the Star Wars universe.  Even though it’s never mentioned at any other point in the Star Wars media.  Though I guess it’s possible what the Ewoks call magic is actually the Force.  Does this mean Ewoks can be Force Sensitive, too?  Anyway, Logrey’s magic top helps them learn that the missing parents are prisoners of the Gorax.  Upon seeing the danger her parents are in, Cindel begs Deej to help them rescue them. After some hesitation, on account of the fact that the Gorax lives in a Forbidden Fortress that no Ewok has ever returned from, Deej ultimately decides to accompany Mace and Cindel on their quest to rescue their parents.  And his three sons, Weechee, Widdle and Wicket also volunteer to go along.  

Here, we do get a rather nicely acted scene, considering the actors are wearing Ewok costumes.  During the night, we see Shodu mournfully looking around at her family while everyone is sleeping.  It is clear that she is fearful about the safety of her family and is terrified that she might not see her husband or sons again.  After all, the Gorax is suppoed to be very dangerous.  Eventually, Deej wakes up to comfort her, even though he is probably equally as scared.  I don’t know why, but there’s just something about this scene that I really appreciated.

When morning comes, we finally get to the whole caravan thing this movie’s title promised us, as Deej, Weechee, Widdle, Wicket, Mace and Cindel prepare to leave on their journey to the Gorax’s lair in order to rescue Mace and Cindel’s parents.  And it only took four days in the show’s timeline for the actual plot to begin.  Before they leave, Logrey performs some sacred Ewok ritual, in which each of the travelers are given a special totem.  According to the Narrator, these totems were all once owned by the Legendary Ewok Warriors.  (Shame we couldn’t get more clarification on who these Legendary Warriors were.)  The first three totems are all basically feathered headdresses, with each one supposedly representing a different attribute. Deej gets the White Wings of Hope, Weechee, the oldest son, gets the Red Wings of Courage and Widdle gets the Blue Wings of Strength.  The other totems have a bit more variety, however.  For instance, Wicket is presented with a magical walking stick and Cindel receives a candle that’s called the Candle of Pure Light.  As for Mace, his totem is a rock.  But because Mace is a twat, he dismisses the rock as useless and purposely drops it as they leave Logrey’s hut.  While I understand why he might not see the significance of a rock on this journey, it’s not as if Cindel’s candle or Wicket’s walking stick had an obvious significance at this point.  And at least a rock is somewhat useful.  What did Deej and the two oldest Ewok sons get?  Feathered headdresses.  While I’m sure they are ceremonially significant to the Ewok culture, they’re not going to be of much use in a fight with the Gorax.  Anyway, the last two totems in the ceremony that Logrey performs are an ivory tooth and a crystal.  Deej brings these last two totems with them in order to present them to two other Ewoks, in the hopes that they will join them on their quest.  With the totems all gathered up, they all set off. Though, since Cindel and Wicket are the youngest ones there, they are allowed to ride in a special tent-like compartment strapped to a horse’s back.

The first Ewok the group end up seeking out is Chukha-Trok, who I gather is a renowned Ewok warrior who works as a woodcutter, considering how the movie introduces him.  He ends up felling a tree that just narrowly misses Cindel.  Which immediately puts Chukha-Trok on Mace’s bad side.  So Mace isn’t pleased when Deej offers Chujha-Trok the Ivory Tooth, offering the Ewok woodcutter a place in their company.  At first, however, Chukha-Trok doesn’t seem willing to go, until Mace starts insinuating that he’s not a real warrior.  Which obviously is a huge insult to Chukha-Trok’s pride.  This leads to Mace challenging Chukha-Trok to an ax-throwing contest.  A contest that Chukha-Trok quickly wins.  As a result, Mace begins to respect Chukha-Trok, and he asks him to help them find their parents. This time, Chukha-Trok decides to join the caravan. I do have to give Mace a bit of credit here, to be honest.  While his transition from being dismissive of Chukha-Trok to respecting him as a brave warrior might have occurred a bit too quickly, this was obviously the movie’s attempt at giving him some character development.

Next, they visit Kaink, an Ewok Priestess and the only female apart from Cindel.  Her totem is, of course, the Crystal.  Kaink agrees to join, on one condition- the children have to pass some kind of magical test.  But this test is not exactly clear.  Kaink places the Crystal totem in Mace’s hands and it transforms into a lizard, which he drops in shock.  Then, when Cindel picks the lizard up, it transforms into a mouse.  Apparently, this is enough to convince Kaink to join the rescue mission.  But it’s not clear what this magic test was.  The crystal becomes a lizard and then the lizard turns into a mouse?  So what?  What was this supposed to convey?  The all-knowing Narrator is completely silent on the matter, offering no explanation.  So if anyone from the die-hard Star Wars fan base can offer any insight on what this was, I would love to hear it.

Of course, that’s not the only time the Narrator fails to explain things.  At some point, the group stops to rest and Mace notices a nearby lake.  For some reason, the sight of his reflection in the water makes him curious and he tries to touch the lake.  The moment his finger makes contact with the surface of the lake, he’s instantly trapped beneath the water.  When Cindel sees her brother is in trouble, she calls the other Ewoks to help. They try to extend a rope or a tree branch for Mace to grab so they could pull him out, but the rope and branch are also zapped into the lake the instant they touch the water.  But Wicket has the magic Walking Stick he got from Logrey. Only that is able to successfully penetrate the surface of the water, enabling them to successfully pull Mace out. Like with the magic test Kaink performed, we’re not given any clarification on what this lake was, or why it trapped anyone and anything that came in contact with the surface of the lake beneath the water.  It’s just something the movie included to add some tension.  And to give Wicket’s Walking Stick some significance.

Speaking of scenes that only exist to provide tension, we then get a scene when the Ewoks are getting ready to continue on. Wicket is swinging around on a tree branch, but when he’s told the others are about to leave, he abruptly lets go, which ends up scaring the horse carrying Cindel, prompting the horse to bolt.   So Chukha-Trok has to chase after the runaway horse and keep Cindel from getting hurt.  Once that crisis is averted, they can continue on their way.

When night falls, the Ewoks end up setting up camp. Out of nowhere, there are a bunch of fairy like creatures flitting around.  These creatures are apparently called Wisties, and I guess they were featured in the animated TV show, Ewoks, at some point, but since I only remember watching one episode of that show, I couldn’t say for certain.   The Wisties end up catching the attention of Mace and the other Ewoks.  Well, all except for Widdle, who steps outside his tent, looks around for a second and then decides to go back to bed.  Needless to say, it’s at this point that I found myself really liking Widdle.  Anyway, when Cindel comes out of her tent to see what’s going on, the Wisties start to flit around the Candle of Pure Light, which she just happened to be carrying at the time.  Noticing their interest in the candle, Cindel places it on the ground, and the Wisties, I guess, get absorbed into the candle and merge into Izrina, the Queen of the Wisties.  Once again, we get no explanation as to what just happened, but Queen Izrina ends up joining Mace, Cindel and the Ewoks on their quest.

At long last, after crossing the Desert of Salma (because there’s now a desert on this forest moon), they reach the mountains where the Gorax is supposed to live.  But the entrance is hidden from view.  That’s when Kaink gestures to Mace, pantomiming him to use the rock he got from Logray.  Mace sheepishly admits he threw the rock away, much to Chukha-Trok’s exasperation. Fortunately, Wicket then reveals he’d picked up the rock after Mace dropped it.  When Mace thankfully takes his rock back, he finds out that it’s actually hollow and that something is inside the rock.  He throws it to the ground, revealing this arrowhead.  The arrowhead, as if pulled by a magnet, slides across the ground and slips under a particular stone on the base of the mountain. Which indicates that this is where the entrance is.  Mace ends up using his blaster to blow up the stone blocking the entrance.  Okay, who gave this 14-year-old kid a blaster so powerful, it can blow up a stone?  And if they had blasters with this much capability, why didn’t they ever utilize it during the Original Trilogy?

So they enter the cave, and it’s decided that Widdle, Wicket and Cindel should hang back, on account of them being the youngest members of the caravan.  Widdle in particular isn’t happy about being left behind, but he still abides by the group’s decision.  As such, Deej, Weechee, Chukha-Trok, Kaink and Mace continue on while Widdle and Wicket keep Cindel company.

Deej’s group soon come to this seemingly bottomless chasm. Taking note of what is so obviously a spider web stretching across the crevasse, Mace decides to use the web as a bridge, and they start to cross. But as they neglected to observe, where there’s a spider web, there’s most likely a spider.  Sure enough, a spider attacks them.  Mace strikes back at the spider with a knife, and the spider falls into the abyss.  But as Mace and the Ewoks are crossing the divide on the spider web, another spider appears and stars to attack  Deej.  This time, it’s Kaink who comes to the rescue, as she uses her Crystal totem to hypnotize the spider, resulting in that one to fall into the pit as well.  Meanwhile, we see a third spider has found his way to where Cindel, Wicket and Widdle were waiting.  This third spider is quickly dealt with thanks to Wicket and Widdle, though.

Eventually, Mace and the Ewoks find the lair of the Gorax, where they see the parents trapped in a cage suspended from the ceiling. But the Gorax is also there, currently eating something.  Weechee, partially inadvertently, ends up luring the Gorax out of his lair, allowing the others the chance to free Catarine and Jeremitt.   The rescue attempt involves using the Gorax’s ax as a catapult and providing the parents a rope to climb down on.  But while the rescue is still being carried out, the Gorax, having lost interest in Weechee, returns.  So everyone has to make a run for it.  But Chukha-Trok stays behind to face the Gorax, repeatedly striking at the Gorax’s leg with his ax, despite Mace’s attempts at urging him away.  

At that moment, Queen Izrina remembers she’s involved in the movie.  She’s been hanging out in Mace’s pocket this whole time.  At Mace’s request, she flies at the Gorax and disorients the giant by darting around his head.  As the Gorax is flaying around, he ends up hitting the sides of his lair, causing a bunch of rocks to fall.  Chukha-Trok ends up getting hit by the falling rocks, much to Mace’s shock and horror. Mace runs out to try and help the fallen Ewok, but Chukha-Trok was too gravely injured by the falling rocks and ends up dying in Mace’s arms.  Before he dies, Chukha-Trok ends up giving his ax to Mace, which was probably meant to indicate that the two have come full-circle in their relationship and now consider each other as friends.   Mace momentarily grieves his friend’s death, but, due in part to the sub-par acting, he gets over it relatively quickly, and he hurries off to rejoin the others.

Meanwhile, the Gorax is trying to go after the other Ewoks, but Catarine and Jeremitt and the Ewoks team up to create a makeshift trip-wire that they use against the Gorax.  This almost results in the Gorax to fall into the bottomless pit, but he lands just short of the edge, so he doesn’t fall.  It takes the combined efforts of Kaink, who uses her Crystal totem to drop a stalactite onto the Gorax’s head, and Catarine, wielding Mace’s blaster, before the Gorax falls into the crevice to his apparent death.

At this point, the movie seems to be wrapping up. Mace, rejoining the others at this moment, embraces his parents before showing Deej Chukha-Trok’s ax, explaining the warrior’s sacrifice.  And then, Cindel appears on the other side of the chasm with Wicket and Widdle.  And she’s overjoyed to see her parents safe, and vice versa.  However, it turns out the Gorax still has a few hit points left, as he reappears at this point, trying to climb back out of the pit, right in front of Cindel.  When the Gorax tries to grab Cindel, Mace jumps into action and throws Chukha-Trok’s ax at the Gorax.  The ax lands home in the Gorax’s back, forcing him to fall into the abyss once again.  This time, the Gorax is defeated for real.  So Cindel is safe, and the Towani family can be properly reunited at last.

The Towani family then travels back the Ewok village with the Ewoks.  After Mace bids goodbye to Queen Izrina, thanking her for her help, he rejoins the celebration going on.  Because it’s not just the Towani family that’s been safely reunited, but the Ewok family as well.  And because of the friendship between the two families, I guess, Deej gives the White Wings of Hope to Cindel.  The movie ends with the Narrator delivering one of the cheesiest closing lines ever. About how the movie’s protagonists all learned what they already knew- that courage, loyalty and love were the strongest forces in the universe.

So that was the first Ewok movie.  While I can see why I liked it as a kid, now that I’m an adult, I realize that a lot of this movie didn’t make a lot of sense. Obviously, Kid Me was a lot more accepting of stuff.  Not only that, it dawned on me how this movie might actually be seen as boring.  For the most part, it’s just these two kids interacting and walking around with some Ewoks.  In fact, I think it’s safe to say that if you threw Lord of the Rings and Care Bears into a blender and mixed them together, this is pretty much what you’d end up with.  But at the same time, this movie is clearly meant for kids.  And it must have kept enough kids entertained back in the 80s, because a sequel was released the following year.  Check back next week for my review on that one.

(Click here to go back to the directory)

[ekebolou]

New Book Prelude: The Armistice

Okay, I said I would create another blog for this, but I didn’t.  This is sort of a free-story lead in for New Book.  I’ve posted it before.  It’ll be in several parts.  I’m going to post the first chapter of New Book after I get done with this.  Maybe posting will force me to come up with a title.  You may have seen this before, since I’ve posted it before, but the first chapter should be new, I think...

Be warned: Naughty language ahead.  Link to the next part at the bottom of the post.

Anyway, here goes:

The Armistice: Part One

“I will tell you the great secret that so escapes you, muj – a soldier’s life is very simple.”

Each swept their own heavy flap of fabric back to enter the tent, but it was Boera who pushed to the front first – and truly pushed, for a good wager brought a good gathering.  Through a crowd made twice as thick by layers of armor and twice as loud by game, he trailed his dark company by the inexorable and – for his companion – unfortunately irresistible bond of friendship in vast parties. 

“This is what troubles your life – you don’t realize this.”

As they had settled into the front, a hand was instantly flat before him – whose hand, what kind of hand, how did it matter?  Gamely, Boera fished in the purse at his belt and took out few bits, pointing to his chosen contender to place his bet.  It was a fine contender, its shell shiny, its squeaking high and impassioned, and even his sour friend nodded his approval.  “It is only this: Do as you’re told!  And when nobody is telling you to do anything–”

He knelt and gestured down at the elaborately constructed dirt-track circus.  “’Ta! Rev, then you do as you like.”

The rat racers were ready to unleash their steeds; some even had intricately woven leashes, made from filched silver thread and scrounged bits of metal.  These were nothing compared to the finely worked hats perched delicately, even jauntily, between their tiny rodent ears.  One had wings, to match those fixed to the twine holding its turtle shell on! Boera repeated his enthusiastic gesture as the race began, bald tails scraping the ground as the rats scampered down the track.

“No, Boera,” Rev said.

Boera’s enthusiastic gesture wilted.  Rev stepped over his shoulder and walked to the edge of the track.

“I like the little hats, for instance,” Boera tried.  “That’s new.”

“Life is complicated when it’s short.”

“And there is Rev, our shining bright dawn,” Boera rose and stepped away from the crowd. 

“I am,” Rev said, grinning.

Over the objections of seven nations worth of soldiers, Rev took a hunk of cheese from his pocket and tempted one of the competitors away from its circuit around the circus so he could coo and scratch its chin.  The Sathian among the crowd threw their arms up, much as Boera had, while their Erro allies sighed.  The Baathians immediately tried to renegotiate the odds, Sivery as quickly trying to block them.  Felanese, Sulerian, and Tarkesh soldiers all shouted for their race to continue despite this interruption.  The tent, quite beyond the cacophony of rats, filled with the chittering, sliding, bellowing sound of a half-dozen languages mixing in a way that had no meaning to anyone, yet was understood.

Get the fuck out of the way, so we can lose money reasonably!

Shrugging, Rev let the rat down and stood, nodding his head for Boera to follow or not as was his wont.  Boera rolled his eyes, aggrieved at this faithless turn – of course it was against his wishes, but he would follow.

Rev kept his grin; his ears felt empty – nothing jangled, tugged, or rang – but that was what four years’ campaign would do to a man.  Each and every Sivernisat had gone back to their tent and carefully and with much thought removed the heavy bangles piercing their ears and set them aside. It was a grave and serious ritual, completed in a moment, which meant they could commence the labors of peace instead of shouldering the burdens of war. 

They could, for example, construct tiny hats for racing rats, and set odds using an elaborate system of tortoise shells for handicaps.  Or, as Boera would have pointed out, fuck an innumerable host of their former allies and enemies alike.

The labors of peace varied from Sivery to Sivery, Sivernisat and Sivereponet; the earrings were mostly the same.

They shouldered their way out of the tent, through a hole that probably shouldn’t have been in the tent wall.  Of course Boera would follow.  Boera had been his tentmate for the last eight months, since the others had died.

“All of the handicaps will have to be recalculated,” Rev cried, throwing his own hands up.

“Yes,” Borea said, leaning away as they walked, leading despite his implied intention to follow, “you’ve weighted that one with cheese.”

“That’s all it was fit for.”  Ren turned, roughly guessing his next trajectory and angling it to agree with Boera’s.  “Weighting rats.”

“And soldiers,” Boera agreed.

In truth, the cheese was the best cheese they’d had in nearly a year. It was certainly better than starving. Certainly better to have a companion.   Certainly better than the cold. But it was the soldier’s prerogative to complain, and they were still soldiers, if only for as long as the celebration.

As if to deny the cold of their memory, the night was warm, weather neutral as the armistice that gathered them here.  Loud, foreign insects did their best to drown out the celebrating ‘honor guards’ and ‘escorts’ and ‘name-your-dynasty’s-ruler’s vaunted immortals’ – the mighty survivors.  The moon was full and pendulous; the stars glittered under the few faintest wisps of gray-black cloud.  Warm as it was, Boera and Rev passed by numerous bonfires filling the camp, because, so it was: fires and festivals and soldiers and the end of war – warm or not: big, big fires. 

“Rats like soldiers,” Boera said, leaning in close, well aware the conversation had only begun to tiptoe around the actual subject.

“Rats,” Rev replied, “are so much more noble.”

“You were stood up.”

“Stood up!”  Rev threw his hands up, identical to a thwarted Sathian gambler.  Bringing them down, he seized an errant tall stalk of the local grass, not yet beaten down by the young festival, and stuck it in his teeth.

“Stood up,” Boera clucked.

“Almost stood up,” Rev admitted.

Boera nodded sagely.

“Eh...” Rev elaborated.

Boera waited.  A small troop of naked soldiers scampered by, no doubt aiming for the river nearby, by their trajectory going to miss it by some twenty yards.  Either that, or they really wanted to run through the tent that several others had set up to cover a very somber discussion of the philosophy of war and a rousing game of dice.  The chase to the river would be fantastic.

“It just didn’t last very long,” Rev said, tossing down his piece of grass. 

“How could it!”  Boera gestured out at the madness around them.  “How could it!” he repeated, gesturing with a remarkable lack of ambiguity at Rev.

This was not a compliment, but rather a statement of stale disbelief. As this was not the first day of the festival, nor the first day of their tentmate-ship, the conversation had been had long before.

“It’s been so long,” Boera snagged his own piece of grass, whipping Rev in the chest with it before sticking it in his teeth, “since you have let someone fully enjoy your... physique, you have become an infernal expert in the... extraneous arts.”  His gesture was amply illustrative.

“Don’t stress your Sivereponet tongue, Boera, you’ll want to use it later – and who calls those extraneous arts?”  Rev returned with an illustrative gesture of his own.

“Anyone who just wants a simple fuck!” Boera shouted, calling the attention of some thirty reveling soldiers around them.  They focused like hawks, howled like wolves – a few Felanese, by their uniforms, went so far as to queue up.  Rev raised his brows, then his shoulders, then had to glower and close his posture off with an elaborately undiplomatic line of Felanese (or – all the words he knew) to dissuade them. 

“You’d think we’d learned better than to volunteer,” Rev muttered.

“Eh,” Boera shrugged, “for war.  For fucking, why–” and he performed a little triple-step, ending in an elaborate presentation of himself that received scattered applause, “–begin the line here.”

Boera took his bows, and they continued their walk, now directed by his impeccable sense of ‘finding something to do.’  “You are a complex fuck.  You are the Alta-puzzle of fucks.  Scholars for generations will talk about what it takes to actually unlock to combination to your pants.  Actually – no, you’ll just test a man until he spends himself before he can touch you. And that means you’re not a puzzle at all, you’re actually just a choosy bastard.”

They’d had this conversation before.  They paced out its rhythms and responses as they walked, encased in the total silence of uncrowded merrymakers.  Until they got to the important part; call and response.

“You could choose me.”

Rev shook his head.  “The bed moves for lovers, but a wise men stakes down his tent.”

“It’s a fool’s adage, I tell you,” Boera groaned.  “A travesty to believe tentmates should not be lovers.”

“You’ve not yet broken it, and you’ve all the cause in the world.” He lifted a finger to correct himself. “All the character in the world.”

“With but your consent I would.”

Rev gave him a sideways look.  They walked in silence.  Relative silence.  There was a great deal of singing.

“Boera,” Rev said, and waited for his friend’s sly and eager glance. “That is a terrible notion.”

“Yist,” Boera chirped.  “But I, my dear, would consider it a personal achievement to be able to hold out against your extraneous enticements.  How long is the average?  Nevermind – to know would dissolve my dreams – how do you resist?”

Rev laughed, and kept his secrets as Boera entertained him with a series of exceedingly crude gestures.  This ended in another companionable silence while Rev pretended not to notice how Boera nudged, bumped, and directed him with false fronts of fleeting interest in yet-further-away displays of debauchery. It was no issue, until Rev noticed a decided turn in the tone of the slurred singing, a slight change in the way the camp sprawled around them, a different mixing of the colors of fabrics.

“Boera.”

“Mu’ vlastni?”

“Where are we going?”

Responding with only a look, Boera quickened his pace, dragging Rev behind yet again.  After a moment it became clear enough that Boera intended to go into a long tent bedecked with wildly colored flags.  That was part of the strangeness – the way the tents stretched to great lengths rather than peaking like the Erro or draping like the Felanese.

“This is the Baath camp,” Rev hissed.

“So you noticed?”

But Boera didn’t slow down, leaving Rev with little recourse beyond sulking silently in step behind him. 

“What are we doing here?”

“What, you think they’ll kidnap you in the middle of the armistice signing?”  Boera was slightly more delicate with his tone; he made sure to laugh.

“I think we were better off with the rats.”

“You mean back by the Sivereponet?”

“Them and the small rodents in shells.”

Letting himself be mocked was Boera’s concession, and he rounded it off with a laugh and an arm over Rev’s shoulder, bearing him down to have his ear tweaked as if Boera were an extra-heavy earring.  He did not, however, then let Rev go.

Rev’s incredulous and confused expression stood in for many words.

Wordless stammering was also the bones of an old conversation: Boera couldn’t possibly have brought Rev down here for a fight.  Though a soldier sick of war, as all soldiers always were, if they were sane, he would admit he picked fights because he enjoyed it.  The very notion disgusted Boera.  Like a spouse with a drinking habit, Rev had come to slinking about when he went abroad for trouble. 

This time, Rev refused to help as they barged into the tent and got a face full of canvas for his trouble.  Blinking back the light from what might have been the most furious bonfire of them all, he breathed the heavy, sweet scent of Baathian fruit-and-honey wines, as well as fresh timber and old sweat.  Several tables and benches pushed together created a single long table the length of the tent, blocking them from the impressive pit and chimney (those surely weren’t stone bricks – even Baathians weren’t so foolish as to have hauled stones to a treaty camp) over the bonfire, long and low as it could be made while still being ferocious. 

He freed himself from Boera’s arm and fixed his tentmate with a look of grave disapproval. 

“So, I have followed you here, Boera.  What business could even you have among Baathians?”

“Well, muj, the people I know, you know I know, and I must know at least a few Baathians...”

“Bullshit,” Rev said.

Boera looked mortally offended.  “You are a man of pressing needs, o tentmate, and I only seek to relieve you of them.”

Rev narrowed his eyes, pulling his head back in a gesture of suspicion that would have been much more effective if accompanied with the slow jangle of earrings.  “You didn’t bring me here for a fi–,”

Boera’s hand came up so fast, Rev thought he was going to be punched, but instead, he pressed soft fingers to Rev’s lips.  He only removed them after a tedious spate of muttering what Rev assumed must be highly sacrilegious prayers, as Boera believed in no gods.

Boera took a deep breath.  Seeing impatience still writ large on Rev’s face, he made a weighing gesture with his hands and started peering about. 

“There’s a man here I want you to meet.”

“I don’t want to meet any Baathians–” but before Rev had finished, Boera seized his elbow and dragged him towards a gap in the long benches. Whatever comforting noises Boera was making to try to ease the scowl on Rev’s face were soon lost in the raucous conversations of the soldiery at the tables.  Both of them had to skip lightly aside to avoid a man launched bodily over the back bench by a Sathian woman who’d mounted the table to plant her foot in his chest.  She paused to secure her footing, bare chest shining with sweat and hair backlit by the fire such that she seemed to embody the night itself, imbedded with stars, before she stomped down on the bench to step over her foe and continue a leisurely stroll towards the hogsheads. 

“Not that man, I hope,” Rev said.

“Ah, no,” Boera said, but as the soldier next to him slipped head-first backwards off the bench, he used the chance to throw Rev down in a the space just cleared.  Before he could protest, Boera slapped him on the shoulders, and made fading excuses as he disappeared after something for them to drink.

Rev refused to have anything to do with this.  He would demonstrate his displeasure with a sullen silence, completely useless as Boera wasn’t here to be bothered by it.  He adjusted his seat on the bench, considered eating a bit of cheese from his pocket, remembered he’d given most of it to the rat, renewed his scowl.

He didn’t like Baathians.  He would admit that Baathians in general had a pleasant aversion to shirts – or maybe that was just because they seemed to be mostly celebrating with Saathians, who saw shirts as a sign of weakness.  Maybe Baathians did, too, though everybody – Saathians included – wore something into battle.  He wouldn’t know, not liking Baathians one bit, and certainly not enough to have learned any of their cultural mores.  He demonstrated his distaste by not participating in them, which was completely useless because it amounted to sitting there doing nothing.

His scowl deepened when he realized just how unoccupied Boera had left him.  No one tried to speak to him, too busy being Baathian, which was simultaneously offensive and uninteresting.  He, of course, couldn’t understand Baathian, so he couldn’t even sneer derisively at the right moments to insult people who were speaking, no doubt of reprehensible Baathian things. 

He did really like the Baathian aversion to shirts.  Not being able – or, rather, unwilling at least while Boera was waiting upon him – to pick a fight, and so cruelly forced to idleness, he could do nothing but watch people parade past, and kick away the soldier trying to take her seat back when he woke up.  The other Baathians seemed to approve of this, as the woman next to him issued something that was either a congratulatory cheer or the final stages of a wasting disease, and slapped him on the back.  This did not lead to fight, but rather, due to his morally-maintained silence, to more watching people parade past.  He was rather more relaxed when Boera returned. 

“I see no man,” Rev said, peering around Boera and raising his hands.

Boera knocked him in the forehead with one of the mugs he was holding and threw a leg over the bench.  “You see your favorite man.”

“I see a man who abandoned me amongst savages.”

“And who brought you delicious Baathian wine, gained at great personal risk from the horde of savages by the barrels, without you so much as even having to move or attempt to summon to your tongue enough Baathian to order it.”

Rev checked his hair for spilled wine, and sipped what was obviously meant as a libation of appeasement.

“Who do you see?”  Boera grinned at him.

“I see... very nearly my favorite man,” Rev replied.  He glowered at the Baathians around them.  “If only he kept better company.”

“I could not agree more,” Boera grumbled.  Before Rev could grasp this reversal, Boera had turned and said something witty enough in Baathian to get his own slap on the back, not that Rev was jealous.

The Baathian wine was good enough – and alcoholic enough – that Rev fell easily into the business of getting drunk.  Decently drunk, that is; not nearly sober, but just drunk enough to ensure he wouldn’t cause someone to come over the table at them.  Also not drunk enough to try to speak to any Baathians, no matter what language they chose, so the burden fell to Boera, who was able to slide into the conversation smooth a snake in a mail suit. 

Boera, in turn, felt far more comfortable when he finally noticed Rev falling into a pleasant and languid silence beside him, almost half as drunk as he needed to be to not start any fights at all.  In fact, for the past few minutes of mindless, half-Sivery, quarter-Felanese, quarter-mimed conversation, Rev had paid no attention at all, no doubt due to some ridiculous notion he was somehow being both superior and insulting.  So Boera let his own attention wander – he let his smile grow warm, let his pose grow alluring, let his current company knowingly begin a grinning departure and smiled broadly as decidedly different sort of company approached.

Boera sampled and rejected a few, who did not take it poorly.  After all, the armistice signing was a veritable open feast, full of soldiers happy to no longer be dying, and eager to express their zeal of life by wasting copious amounts of its generative fluids. 

But finally, a very smooth-looking Baathian, sadly shirted, slid onto the bench beside Boera.  They ran through a few different greetings in sundry languages until it turned out the Baathian spoke decent Sivery.  He passed a number of tests Boera lobbed his way in the form of gratuitous insults, ridiculous challenges, and pointless diversions, proving he could survive a conversation with Rev.  In fact, Boera dared even believe he might thrive.  Then, with his most practiced lascivious and welcoming smile, Boera turned, seized Rev’s lapel, and used shunting him into the Baathian’s lap as a means of levering himself off the bench. 

“Let me get us drinks,” Boera said, then turned his grin to Rev. “Stesti!”

“Stesti-fuck!  Boera!” but Rev called to a hand waving farewell over the passing walls of Baathian soldiers.

“That went poorly.  Is that your friend?” the Baathian asked.

“No.”  Rev seized his flagon – full, he noticed, which it hadn’t been a second ago but somehow Boera must have dumped his in before he disappeared, which meant Rev now had a disgusting mix of peachy-berry wine Boera had been drinking and the salty-bloody wine he’d been drinking.

“You’re the only Siver here,” the Baathian pointed out.  “I think.”

“That Eponet, horse-thieving scum is not my countryman,” Rev growled.  In his furor he took a drink of the wine, which was worth spitting on the table. 

The Baathian laughed.  “Baathian wine doesn’t agree with you?”

“Nothing Baathian agrees with me,” Rev growled, topping his threat off with a grin. 

“I agree with you,” the Baathian said.  When Rev gave him a skeptical look, he half-stood to reach over and sniff the wine in Rev’s cup.  “That would taste terrible.  Why did you mix them?”

Pulling back, Rev slopped wine up his sleeve and cursed.  “You know I didn’t, you fool.”

“Better a fool than a lush,” the Baathian said, still sporting a small smile, perfectly undisturbed.

Rev was getting a good look at that smile because the Baathian hadn’t moved back.  Rev would have, of course, leaned forward so to follow up on his threatening tone, but the Baathian had moved in for him.  It didn’t feel properly threatening that he only to had to lean forward an inch or so to put himself in biting distance of the Baathian’s face, but he did it anyway. 

“Better anything than a slaver.”

The Baathian’s expression didn’t waver.  That, Rev had to admit, was the teeniest bit admirable.

“We agree again,” he said.  This close to his face, Rev noticed that he said it with delightfully curved lips. 

The Baathian’s hand was moving somewhere over to Rev’s right, but Rev wouldn’t let himself look; it’d break his intimidating stare. 

He needn’t have worried.  The Baathian broke first, as he brought Rev’s cup up to his lips, and glanced down at the liquid before turning – only just enough to sip. 

His expression folded instantly into disgust, and he pushed away, laughing.  “Dear God, that’s disgusting, Siver.”

“Yes!”  Boera said, appearing from behind with three newly filled cups.  He intervened between them only long enough to set the cups down, then forcefully and with several intrusive nudges forced Rev over on the bench so he’d be next to the Baathian.  Actually ‘next to’ didn’t cover it, as Boera pushed so close Rev could barely move his arms with elbowing one or the other.  With unobliging eagerness, strangers pushed onto the space Boera cleared, leaving Rev with nowhere to run. 

Rev was all right with that, for the most part, as Boera had noticed. Boera reached across to push a cup towards the Baathian, whose confusion at Boera’s change in position didn’t go so far as to refuse a drink.  At the same time Boera blocked all of Rev’s attempts to use his right hand to grab his drink, forcing it into his left so he couldn’t elbow the Baathian without spilling on himself.  

“How are we going to get you properly drunk with that disgusting slop?” Boera said, with rather more teeth than were strictly friendly. 

“How am I responsible for that disgusting slop?” Rev hissed back.

“How can either of you get drunk on wine?”  the Baathian asked.

Both Sivery turned, and he shrugged at his cup.  “I always end up behind a tree first.”

After a moment’s shared silence, Boera threw his hands up.  “What a manly constitution!”

“What a crock of shit,” Rev said.

“What is going on here, exactly?” the Baathian asked.

“A pleasant evening among friends and allies,” Boera replied.

“Baathians are not friends,” Rev hissed.

“Nor is that Siver, according to you,” the Baathian said cooly, sipping his wine.  “Horse-thieving epo-something scum, wasn’t it?”

Rev’s head sunk between his shoulders; it had been a bit much, the horse-thieving part.  Through one squinted eye, he glanced at Boera, whose expression bore the marks of infinite hurt.  Reaching out, Boera slapped the back of Rev’s head so hard his forehead hit the table.

“I need someone to fuck my friend,” Boera said, while Rev whined like a kicked dog.

“That one?” the Baathian said, glancing at Rev.

Boera’s expression confirmed this, with the utmost reluctance. “Though if you pass him over, I’m not too proud to become a runner-up.”

“I am not to be passed over, for I’m not being offered – offering – and I wouldn’t be passed over, anyway, were I even on the table, which I’m not.”

“You’re on the bench,” the Baathian observed.

Having confused himself in his own retort – perhaps he’d already drunk too much – Rev chose to ignore him.  “I am not involved in this!  Boera, are you insane?  And if I were, it would certainly not be for a Baathian!”

“Muj – muj Povstalec,” Boera said, seizing Rev by the back of the collar.  Generally a peaceable fellow, it wasn’t so much that Boera was being so confrontational as it was that he’d called Rev by his real name – or as close as the Eponet got – that told Rev he was serious. 

“We are all so very aware of your opinion on Baathians.  How could you doubt me, think I would not take this into consideration?  Have you not courted every other breed of soldier around here?  Have you not found yourself disappointed at the end of each one? Are you not, infected by your madness, beginning to yearn to fight someone, you great idiot?  It is an armistice.  In the war, it was madness to try to get yourself killed when three other nations were offering to do it for you, but now it is insanity.  Tasteless insanity, too!  Even the great, be-medaled fucks and flouncing court fops have finally seen that we should not be fighting anymore.  The insanity that afflicts you is now out of place, even more so than usual.  Fuck someone, please, so that I don’t have to deal with your madness disturbing our nice and peaceful tent while the armistice is being signed, so I can fuck whomsoever I like without you deciding to fight them when they wake up.”

“That was once!”

“Three times!”

“Those other two were assholes!”

“Which I thoroughly enjoyed, and you had no right to treat any of them that way and you know it, you bastard!”

Releasing Rev’s collar, Boera gave him a great clap on the shoulder, pushing him towards the Baathian.  “Look – if you do not like him enough to fuck him, then you can fight him instead; either way you will finally be satisfied.  I would put my money on a little bit of both.”

“You know, I’m right here,” the Baathian said.  “Don’t I get a say?”

Both Sivery fixed him with stares like a pair of cats in the dark. 

“It’s an armistice!  Who’s being picky?” Boera said, ignoring Rev’s glare.  “Besides, don’t you like my friend?”

“I can’t say he’s taken a shine to me.  If I say I do, do I still have to fight him?”

“Well, I don’t like you,” Rev replied, “and I’ll fight you any time.”

“Well, if any time includes never, then we have a deal,” the Baathian said, sipping his wine.  “But there are quite a few others here who I would neither fight, nor fuck, and your friend here hasn’t exactly been charming me from my cup.”

“Ah,” said Boera, sweeping himself up from the bench to put a hand on each of their shoulders.  “But that’s because you haven’t heard the best part.”

“Is it not the fighting?”  Rev asked.

“Is it not you?”  The Baathian said, and smiled. 

The shine of that smile made him completely impervious to Rev’s burning glare.

“I like him,” Boera said.  “I’m reconsidering this plan.”

“Then I can fight him in the morning?” Rev asked.

“The best part,” Boera said, leaning heavily on the Baathian, “is that nobody gets to fuck him.”

“How is that the best part?”  The Baathian asked, genuinely confused.

“You have not heard my challenge,” Boera said, gesturing grandly.

“I am not a challenge,” Rev roared, and stood, and the standing was an issue, or at least standing so suddenly.  He didn’t quite fall, and didn’t quite trip, but did get an uncomfortable rush of blood, and the bench didn’t help him stand.  Boera caught his shoulders -

Boera grinned at him.  Rev’s eyes widened, and he shook his head, but Boera’s grin only widened.

Twisting his grip, he threw Rev’s unsettled weight into the Baathian’s lap. 

It was not for nothing that the Baathian had on that soldier’s uniform, for he dodged any untoward damage from Rev’s violent upheaval by throwing himself into the drinkers behind him.  Could not have been more than a second Rev spent in his lap.  In his fury at being so mishandled, Rev only managed to clip Boera’s temple with an open-handed slap, stinging his fingertips to a degree that nonetheless satisfied his vengeful impulses.  He ground the dirt under his heel as he turned to stalk out of the tent, a meaningless and rising cacophony of Baathian following him out.

Part Two

[a-d-n-d-journal]

Game Session #11

Characters:

Mirri in the wind, tabaxi; rapier, lute, cleric (of Tempus) robes

Rysiel, half-elf druid; acid burns, simple clothing and leather armor, scimitar

Teir, tiefling warlock; acid burns, vibrant gold skin and black hair w/silver highlights, horns, hooves, expensive-looking clothes and leather armor, carries a dagger as his only (physical) weapon

Zastu, dragonborn rogue; white scales almost completely covered in a hooded cape and mask, leather armor, short bow and shortsword + dagger

Noteable NPCs...

Sydiri Haunlar, human (Chondathan) fighter; brunette, chain shirt, dagger, shortbow, wooden club

Zephyros, cloud giant; windswept white hair, wispy white beard, billow purple robe with gold stars

It's been a busy week since our last game, so there are some things I can't really recall about our session. We all got together at Mirri's-player's place and had some tacos, which was great!

Picking up from last time... The adventurers discovered that some of the cultists missionaries had flown upstairs to... Do what? They weren't sure, but they needed to get up there! They spent some time trying to figure it out. They estimated about 100ft up, and they had enough rope, but no way to get it up. Rillix, the Tressym, could not carry that weight. However, the winged cat could carry something small... Rysiel turned into a crab and Rillix carried him up. But first the druid spent some time actually trying to find the cat, and then some more time trying to convince it to do the task. Rillix is very intelligent, but Rysiel ended up bribing him. Once upstairs, the tressym wouldn't leave Rysiel alone until he fed it some of the meat dropped from the griffons (in the aerie above the second floor). Rysiel looks around... Zephyros is lying catatonic on the ground, drooling a little bit. A pillow is halfway under his head, and it looks like someone tried to pull the blankets off the giant's bed, but gave up halfway through. A slightly glowing orb floats 10ft off the ground in a corner, and a 5x9ft chest sits in another. The walls are filled with shelves of giant books. A hole in the ceiling leads to the aerie. There's no sign of the cultists missionaries or their giant vultures. Not being in immediate danger, Rysiel tries to figure out how to get the rest of the party up.

Zastu ties the two 50ft ropes together and fastens it to an arrow (not sure why I decided an arrow could life 20lbs of rope, but a tressym couldn't -shrugs-). It takes two tries, but she gets the arrow through the hole 100ft up, where Rysiel grabs it. (Retcon: I forgot to give the party a magic item at the start of the session...) Sydiri had found a peculiar rod in among the junk that Zephyros dumped down earlier. It had an engraved design of a horse's head at each end, and a button. Teir played with it and discovered that, when the button was pressed, the rod stopped moving in midair. It seemed pretty stable, so the decide to use it. Rysiel ties the rope, temporarily, to Zephyros' hand, allowing Zastu to clamber up with the floating rod and a boost from Teir and Mirri. At the top, she and Rysiel tie the rope to the rod and let Mirri up. Teir ties the rope to his waist with Sydiri's help, and is raised. The warlock uses Guidance to help the process. OK, so they're all at the top. Now what? Zephyros is "awake", but unresponsive. They try healing him, but no cure spell works. Teir casts Shocking Grasp, which jolts the giant upright, but all he will do is ramble incoherently. They decide to leave him be. Mirri's been curious about what's up here for a while, so they look around a bunch, eventually settling on the giant's bed and playing the lute. Teir checks out the chest, which is more than big enough to get into. There's some clothing, a giant comb with gems in it, and a spellbook. The spellbook is super interesting, but Teir can only copy spells that have a ritual component... None of these ones do. The warlock casts Detect Magic and looks around. Lots of magic stuff, like Zephyros' staff, the spellbook, the floating orb, the floating rod, etc etc, but nothing they didn't already know about. The books on the shelves appear to be journals that Zephyros has written, so they contain no more interest than the ones he's already brought down for them. Teir sends his spectral raven up through the hole in the ceiling to the griffon aerie. It's a lot lower than the ceiling of the 1st floor, so he can see through its eyes. Two griffons watch curiously, but leave the raven alone. There's some nests, some meat from a leftover hunt, but nothing interesting, and no cultists missionaries either. Eventually satisfying their curiousity, and realising that the cultists missionaries aren't there, they head down the rope (except for Mirri, who naps on the giant bed). Once downstairs, the three discover that Sydiri has gone outside to speak with the cultists missionaries. They check in on her, but she seems fine. They're really bored. A few hours later, Zephyros has recovered and descends to the first floor. The cultists missionaries come in to hear his descision. The giant seems ready to ask them to leave, but Sydiri seems to have converted to their way of thinking. There's an awkward conversation with the party, where it sounds like they want Zephyros to help them? Again, it's not clear what the cultists missionaries really want. Zephyros does end up asking them to leave though. On their way out, the cultists missionaries drop a pouch of something, which Zephyros gives to the party. Rysiel snatches it, and not knowing what the sparkling dust does, he takes a pinch and tastes it. He turns invisible, must be invisibility dust! But Teir is pretty sure it's fae-related, and not what they think it is. No one bothers asking the high-level wizard giant, for some reason.

A few days pass. Zastu finishes making her minor healing potions, and Sydiri still talks occasionally about how cool it would be if the prime material plane were reverted to a state of elemental chaos--where there was no ground and you just fell into the sky forever. It's pretty creepy. Anyway. She's outside one day when she sees a silver dragon approaching. Teir and Mirri go outside to investigate/greet them, while Rysiel and Zastu stay inside with Zephyros. As the silver dragon approaches, they see that it carries THREE dwarves in each talon. That's how big this guy is...! Teir greets him respectfully in draconic and asks what they're doing here. The dragon is pleasantly surprised, and tells them that he owes the dwarf queen a favour and he's just ferrying these dwarves around. He also asks about Rysiel's dragon skull, because he can see the druid poking his head through the curtain. It's an evil blue skull, but unfortunately Rysiel did not kill it. Oh well. The dwarves themselves are brusque. They're here to stop the giants from flying too near their territory. Giants have been tearing up the land, and they don't want any boulders or anything dropped on any settlements (like with Nightstone). Teir and Mirrir are making some progress with the negotiations and convincing the dwarves that Zephyros isn't going to harm them, but... Suddenly Rysiel casts Ice Knife and hurls it at the dwarves!! I guess he doesn't like them? The Ice Knife misses, but each of the six dwarves reaches into their pouch simultaneously and grabs a potion, which they then quaff. They all turn into puffy clouds and start floating (slowly) into the tower. They float past Rysiel, who can't do anything, and start moving about the first floor. Zephyros asks what's going on, and the party fills him in. The giant wizard casts Charm Person on two of the clouds, making them friendly toward him. They then revert to solid for and start chatting. The giant doesn't seem overly concerned, and they really just seem to be exchanging pleasantries. What an eccentric guy... (There are a bunch of skill rolls in our chat log, but I don't remember what they're for) Eventually the remaining four clouds start floating up to the second floor. A minute later there are sounds of throwing axes hitting something. Zephyros stops chatting and starts casting levitate. Zastu and Rysiel manage to grab his feet as he rises into the air, but Teir doesn't try and Mirri misses. They hang out with the two dwarves downstairs.

Upon reaching the second floor and seeing the dwarves throwing axes at his Navigation Orb, Zephyros casts Resilient Sphere over the valuable item. Thwarted, the Dwarves turn to the three newcomers. Zastu springs into action--she doesn't want to kill the dwarves, so she aims to try to knock them out, but misses. Rysiel does the same, his attack connecting. Unfortunately, there are four dwarves with multiple attacks. They don't want to kill either, so two of them gang up and knock out Zatsu. Rysiel is a bit more lucky, and she remains on her feet. On Zephyros' turn, he casts Mass Suggestion. All but one of the dwarves is affected, and Zephyros commands them to leave peacefully. The remaining dwarf stands there trying to rouse his companions from their magical stupor, but it doesn't work. Rysiel takes the opportunity to cast Cure Wounds on Zastu, waking her up again. The angry druid prepares to cast Moon Beam, but it's Zephyros' turn, and his Charm Person spell allows him to convince the remaining dwarf that they should leave peacefully as well. The giant ends up ferrying them all downstairs, where the dwarves decide to leave under the magical compulsion. Zephyros mutters something about dwarves and dragons, and pretends that nothing happened.

The next day, they arrive at Triboar. They survey the town from above, trying to memorize its basic layout. Mirri looks for a temple, hopefully one to Tempus. Zephyros gives Teir a notebook he has, this one a reasonable size, filled with History and Arcana facts in the common language.

Spells cast:

Mirri:

Abilities:

Cantrips:

Spells:

Rysiel:

Cantrips:

Spells: Cure Wounds (1st), Ice Knife (1st)

Teir:

Cleric abilities:

Cantrips: Shocking Grasp

Spells: Cure Wounds

Rituals: Detect Magic

Treasure looted:

Zastu continued making the rest of her minor healing potions (she has 4 now)

Everyone decided to exchange their misc loot for gold

Magic "floating" rod (Teir?)

Magic (faerie?) dust (9 uses left, Rysiel)

Notebook filled with info on History and Magic (Teir)

[solaceoftheangels-blog]

Song of the Lost Siren

A/N: This is my first time writing for this fandom and hopefully not the last! It has a taste of Solangelo and Frazel, but it is more of a set-up for a story I may or may not continue. This was me more dipping my feet into the fandom and getting a feel for writing again.

Captain Jason Grace was not known for being the scariest or even the best captain out there. His crew was more known for their mayhem and drunken escapes across ports. Where they even got the riches to stay afloat was even a mystery to the captain himself. His ship was tiny as was his crew. The ship, Argo II, was able to run with five people minus him of course.

He had his right hand women, yes women, but don’t let that fool you though. Piper was rough and always aimed for the balls. Her navigation skills were also beyond compare. If given the opportunity she could probably sail the sea blind. The captain and she grew up together on the streets after the orphanage they lived in burned down. As they grew so did their love of the sea. Jason learned how to sail by watching and helping out on fishing boat while Piper snuck into libraries to learn about navigation. To gain firsthand experience at the helm she gained jobs disguised as a man on various boats. That way she truly gained what she needed instead of being dismissed as a women. When both their knowledge banks were where they needed they got together and bought their boat.

The two deck hands Hazel and Frank were just the right strength to man the ropes. Most of the time Frank found himself wrapped up in them with Hazel having to cut him loose. A lot of their money went towards buying new ropes. The two came as a pair since they ran across them during a robbery. Jason and Piper were at port Jupiter looking for people who would join their adventures when they heard yelling. Suddenly a couple went running by them hand in hand with bags of gold clasped in their other hands. The captain and navigator smirked at each other and stuck their legs out tripping their pursuers. They soon caught up with the robbers and before they too were tripped asked if the couple knew how to man a boat. The correct answer would have been no, but instead they both said yes and found themselves a getaway boat. After a few weeks out at sea the two learned how to truthfully answer that question with a yes.

Always found either below deck or tailing behind the two deck hands was their cook Leo. No one is sure where he came from or how he even became their cook. The four of them were sitting on the deck of their ship, their stomachs yelling at them for food. (They left without eating after once again being chased away. Who knew the vase Jason bumped into was worth that much?) When suddenly the door to below deck was kicked open and a small man stood there ringing a triangle for them to come eat. The food he made on a daily basis was only really edible to him and everyone was surprised he didn’t kill himself yet from food poisoning. Nine out of ten times Captain Jason had to man the pot and actually make something their stomachs would appreciate.

The final member of the crew was nicknamed the ghost. He was a tiny man they found among barrels of ale on the dock of Ade. Captain Jason asked what he was doing and he blatantly stated he was waiting to stowaway on a boat. With a loud laugh he was offered a job as a lookout and with a shrug he found himself aboard the Argo II ship. The crew hardly saw him and half the time forgot he was even on board. At random moments he would pop up with a witty or sarcastic responses and scare the shit out of them. Other times during fights and bickers they could hear laughs floating down from above. It may or may not have taken them a few days to realize where the laughs were coming from at first. The only other time they ran into the strange lad was during supper but even that in itself was rare. He did manage his job well, warning of ships and land when needed so he was well left to his lonely demeanor. That was what they knew of their crew mate the ghost or Nico to be official.

Like most people he had his secrets but his was probably grander than most. He was the youngest of three and born to royalty. Being the youngest meant he had no rights to the throne. However during a charity event at an orphanage both his sisters lost their lives to a blaze. It was rumored it was their fault but through the grief it was never proven. It was a cold that kept Nico alive that day but it was also the day his life got turned around. He soon was thrust into lessons galore that ranged from economics to sword fighting. People were constantly bustling him around and all he wanted was an escape. The day he was found among the ale was his attempt at freedom. It was successful but he always feared the day of being caught. Being on the Argo II allowed him the peace he dreamed of, so he was happy.

What the crew didn’t know was that Nico thrived in the middle of the night. Some of the things he learned in his lesson he still practiced because he actually enjoyed them. The sword fighting was a given. Being a prince he had to know how to fight and that in turned helped in piracy. His skills surprised the others once when he saved them all from a rival pirate crew. They never questioned him but praised him with thanks and food. To practice he loved to stand on the edge of the rails. Holding his black sword tightly he practiced his thrusts and blocks as well as his balance. Other nights he danced and sang in the moonlight. His partner was a mop but he didn’t care. He serenaded the shit out of that mop and they never once stepped on his toes. Respect.

Wanting to venture out more the crew chose to sail through the forbidden waters. Piper warned them countless times there was a reason it was off limits and why even other pirates were too afraid to sail through it. Captain Jason was a man of steel though and once he made a decision he stuck with it. What consequences came from them he dealt with like the sea itself, which was to just go with the flow. When they reached the forbidden waters for once everyone was on edge as they sailed into the mist that blanketed the area. However when nothing happened for a few days they started to relax. Nothing seemed odd or out of place until the night Nico sang.

It was a rare night since being in the new stretch of water that the stars and moon were actually visible. As usual Nico waited for the snores of his crew mates before he descended from his crow’s nest. He perched himself at the bow of the boat, up on the railing and leaned against the dragon head that decorated the front of their boat. It was an obnoxious front piece that had them stand out from the other boats that had the usual mermaids and fish as decorations. It became as much as a symbol for them as did their neon orange jolly roger with a horse with a bony cross for the eye. The wood creaked as he leaned against it for support his head tilting back to look up. His eyes shone in the moon beams as he opened his mouth and started to sing. It was a lullaby his mother taught him and his favorite to sing.

Unbeknownst to the lad his song attracted unwanted company. The reason that that part of the sea was forbidden was because of all the unexplained occurrences. Members of crews would go missing at night, or the whole crew would vanish and empty boats would be found at the border or the boats would never be seen again. The secret to all this lived deep in the dark waters. There was clan, a siren clan to be more exact. In the sea caves they lived and they hated the ships that passed through. They could sense evil and to them it was their job to vanquish it. They believed they were gifted to sing for just that cause. Their voices could attract whoever they wished and once they had the person enraptured in their tunes they led them to their end in the sea they loved so much. It was rare for them to succumb to a song as well but as one drifted to their home they couldn’t resist its call.

The boat was small and unlike any they have seen before. They sensed six auras on board but all of them were pure. It was uncommon and had only happened twice in their lifetime. With no one on board to take care of almost all the sirens turned and swam home. However it was four of them that remained entranced by unknown forces. There was something aboard the ship that was calling to their souls but none as strong as the youngest of the bunch.

His skin shimmered a dark golden color; more so on the scales upon his legs, arms, chest and neck. Around his head was hair as bright as the sun and in the light shone eyes as sapphire as the sky. The points of his ears twitched as the song continued and he smirked with teeth as pointed as piranhas. The song echoed through his chest filling it with a sense of magic that sparked feelings he couldn’t place. Through the wood of the ship glowed a red aura that could rival the color of the morning sunrise. He knew instantly that he needed to get to that human, see them with his own eyes and prove what his heart hinted at. The others watched amused as he swam to the boat even though they too felt a call to the ship, they knew they needed to wait.

The sound of splashing reached Nico’s ears but he put it off as water lapping against the boat. He focused more on the words that spilled from his lips as his eyes slid closed. The song was just picking up when a second voice joined his. He nearly fell from the railing when he registered the other voice. Not once was he ever caught at night since his crew mates were heavy sleepers as well as he knew from drunken nights that none of them could sing. The voice was deep but beautiful as the words almost seemed to swirl around him. A static energy seemed to fill the air as he slid from his resting place to move to where the music was coming from. As he reached the other side of the boat he peered over the side. In the water were rocks that he couldn’t remember seeing before from his perch. Rocks could be a danger and something he needed to be on the lookout for. However the rocks were the last thing on his mind because sprawled out across the top of them was a man. A very hot and naked man.

“You came to the sound of my voice and yet you are not entranced,” the voice spoke as the song came to a halt.

“I wouldn’t say that. Your song was alluring.”

“Yes, but usually it has a different affect. I was right you are different.”

Nico bit his lip as he looked around in confusion. “Where is your boat? Are you stranded out there? Most people call out for help, not sing.”

“I do not need a boat for this is where I live.”

“You live in the middle of the forbidden sea?”

“You are calmer than I expected.”

“If there is one thing in life I have learned that eyes do not lie. I have seen many things and frankly a man out in the middle of the sea naked is not the strangest.”

“I am no human.”

At that Nico paused and leaned more over the rail to study the one before him. In the light he could finally see the shimmering scales, pointed ears, webbed feet and hands and the predatory look within blue eyes. The man smirked, sharp teeth poking through as he too leaned in closer. Their eyes stayed locked and slowly Nico reached a hand up and pinched himself.

“Ow…not dreaming. I am awake and looking at a human fish.”

“By Poseidon’s trident how dare you call me a fish! The fish fear us! They swim from us but soon they become our meal. How could you mistaken me for something so lowly?”

“That was a little dramatic there fish boy,” water splashed across his face and he flailed as he got a mouth full of salt water. Nico gagged and spit it back out into the place it came from. His bangs now hung down over his eyes as his brown eyes sent daggers at the man. The other seemed to find it all amusing and not fazed by the glare started to chuckle. “Laugh it up wait until I come over there and give you something to really laugh over.”

“Little human, I could kill you in one second,” he said snapping his jaw toward him.

“I don’t know I really don’t fear fish too much.”

In a blink of an eye a hand was fisted into his shirt and he felt himself falling. He had one second to take a breath before he found himself submerged under water. Everything was dark and the salty water filled his senses. He tried to struggle from a tight grasp but it seemed futile. Maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea to pick on a creature he knew nothing about.

Suddenly a bright red light followed by a golden light pulsed across his eyes lighting the sea around him up. In the light he caught the shocked face of the sea creature before his vision started to darken. His skin felt like it was on fire causing him to gasp and take in gulps of un-wanted fluid. That seemed to be the last straw for his fragile body and with one last prayer he gave in to the darkness.

Nico thought he would awake trapped on Davy Jones ship and a prisoner for the rest of his afterlife. However it was his own captain who was kneeling by his side and shaking his shoulder. He was told it was the break of dawn when he was found asleep against the mast. He brushed Captain Jason’s worry off by stating he was too lazy to climb to his nest last night. The lie was accepted and he returned back up to his post. It was there in the new sunlight that he reflected back.

He knew the man or creature he encountered last night was not a dream. His lungs still ached and his mouth was dry with the after taste of salt. Why he was still alive was the mystery.

[renaroo]

Wednesday Roundup

We have a new addition to the party this week! Ghostbusters 101 -- and I’m very excited to see where all our continuing stories lead us. So let’s look into ‘em without further ado...

DC’s Batman Beyond, DC’s Detective Comics, IDW’s Ghostbusters 101, Marvel’s Moon Girl and Devil Dinosaur, DC’s Wonder Woman

DC’s Batman Beyond (2016-present) #6 Dan Jurgens, Bernard Chang, Marcelo Maiolo

Well, I will give this comic one thing: it truly understands what attracts fans like me to Batman Beyond as a franchise to begin with: everyone giving Bruce crap for his stupid, stupid ideas and the consequences he doesn’t think out all of the way in canon. And Matt and Max are easily the best parts of each issue for that reason. That and Max’s undercut. The best things.

Alright, so I was completely accurate in my assumption last issue that the fact that every batboy in the franchise got a shoutout because it’s going to turn out that Damian has now been brought into the fold of the Beyond universe. And it’s probably going to have something to do either with the AI of the new Batsuit or with the plot from the DCAU where Ra’s takes over a younger descendent’s body in order to regain his own youth -- formerly it was Talia, now it is logically Damian. 

mkay.

It still makes me angry that we don’t get shoutouts to Kate, Cass, Steph, Harper -- literally any woman in the franchise while the boys get every solitary universe but whatever.

Not really whatever, but I am willing to grant that the comic is still young and there’s an opportunity that as ‘Tec works to make the extended Batfamily’s stars rise, that they will receive some due credit in the Beyond timeline as well. Batgirls: Futures End anyone? Just food for thought.

Anyway. This was an enjoyable issue, but a rather quick read compared to everything else this week. Most, if not all, of the meat was put into that last page reveal because of course it was. But here’s hoping the pace picks up next issue now that everything’s out of the way. 

DC’s Detective Comics (2016-present) #957 James Tynion IV, Christopher Sebela, Carmen Carnero, Karl Story

A one-shot issue? A complete story that focuses on character development and world building with previous setup being paid off and future setup being presented? Are we sure this is the Detective Comics run I’ve criticized for its pacing and drawn out stories for the past year? Are we sure this isn’t a bizarro world issue I got a hand on somehow?

Okay, all joking aside, I have been harsh on this run in the past but I think this issue proves pretty much everything I have critiqued before because Tynion, with help from Sebela, focuses on his strengths -- character, voice, simple storytelling devices, and presenting a critical opinion of the genre while also very much showing a love for it.

This is honestly why I have been baffled by people who have said they hated Tynion’s characterization of Steph in this run. I didn’t like how he wrote her in Batman and Robin Eternal, but almost everything in this issue embodies the parts of Steph I have loved about her character over the years. Striding the line between insider and outsider, loving and protecting Gotham while questioning and being critical of the harm Batman’s crusade has don, not wanting glory but still wanting to be be better and to help. She’s confident, she’s resourceful and clever, and yet there is a loneliness and sacrifice to how she’s chosen her path. And even if she doesn’t mention it directly, because we’ve followed Steph as she got to this point we know there’s still a question about how she’s affording her equipment, where she’s living, who she’s in contact with, whether or not she’s going to school.

This issue gave me so many feelings and it really does reward me for having confidence in the creative team seeming to have a plan and direction for Steph as a character. Something, I should note, I don’t always feel the most confidence with when it comes to this run thus far.

More comics like this, Tynion. I’m begging you.

IDW’s Ghostbusters 101 (2017-present) #3 Erik Burnham, Dan Shoening, Luis Antonio Delgado

On the basis of my three-issue policy, I am happy to say that I am as excited as I can be on the direction of IDW’s Ghostbusters 101. The quality of the Ghostbusters franchise as it’s been handled by IDW for over a decade now has always been among the top tier of comics and probably one of the more under appreciated productions of the medium. I mean, I read them but how many of you read them?

Erik Burnham has become the defining crafter of what I consider “my” Ghostbusters as it comes to the original cast, and I have been very excited to see how he and Dan Shoening translated the recent 2016 cast into the multiverse and into their distinct styles of writing. And I’m more than happy to say that it translates beautifully.

The team ups we’ve all been waiting for since the very first announcements of the rebooted movie has finally come...

And by that I mean that, finally, in the third issue, after two issues of buildup, we finally have some interactions between the Original Crew, the Real Crew, the EXTREME Crew, and now the Answer the Call Crew. 

... See, one of the barriers for entry into these comics is you kind of have to accept that almost all the comics are written with the Big Picture in mind. Erik Burnham has always been a slow burn of a writer, and that was very much evidenced not only with my favorite of his Ghostbusters runs -- the  Ghostbusters (2013-2014) run --  but especially in the IDW crossover of Ghostbusters/Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. He takes his time, and the buildup will have payoff, but it might be a bit slow to wait issue-by-issue for for some fans who want the immediate excitement of the characters interacting. 

I mean, I’m a fan and I waited until I could read all three of the first issues together, if that tells you anything.

It is a joy, and worth picking up for fans. Just be aware of your tastes before judging too hard. 

Marvel’s Moon Girl and Devil Dinosaur (2015-present) #19 Brandon Montclare, Natacha Bustos, Tamra Bonvillain

If you care about the future of the medium and about comics attracting younger fans, or just having goo wholesome comics for all ages, I have no idea why you aren’t already reading Moon Girl and Devil Dinosaur because it is just one of the prettiest, most inventive, and most genuine all-ages books that I’ve read in a long time. 

Lunella and Devil have become such an iconic pair, and the beauty of this comic is how the effort and storytelling are treated with the authenticity and effort of “adult” aimed readers, including having Lunella’s point of view be prominent but obviously still marked by immaturity and lack of experience, while still very much at its heart being the story of a child in a world of superheroes, growing and learning and becoming herself even when she doesn’t necessarily know what that means. 

The at is gorgeous, specifically the coloring of this issue is just jaw dropping, and getting Lunella into space and having her so attached to Devil to bring him along in a ridiculous but wonderful dinosaur-sized space suit is just amazing. 

I love everything here in this comic and really hope those of you with kids in your lives or just the love of good superhero comics with unique tones and stories are picking this up already. 

DC’s Wonder Woman (2016-present) #23 Greg Rucka, Liam Sharp, HI-FI

We’re coming to the end of Rucka’s amazing run and I’m just very grateful at the moment. I’m grateful to this run and I’m grateful that the Present Day stuff finally actually caught up in quality with the Past storylines because man it was super shaky for a while there. And it really took the whole picture unifying for it to really work for me and that’s probably going to mean that on re-read, at least for me, the parts I have been critical about when it comes to this run will read better.

...

Okay the racism won’t read better. Seriously, what was the point?

But Diana won with love. Veronica will still have a reason to be antagonistic with Wondy even though she saved her daughter. Diana and Hippolyta met each other again for at least momentarily. There were so many good things -- especially good conversations. Liam Sharp’s art was pretty top notch.

Just overall this was a good Beginning of the End, so to speak, and I’m really looking forward to where we go from here. 

So the books this week were very different in tone and story overall, but it has to be said, with the maybe exception of Batman Beyond which still had a pretty prominent female characters feature, this week is really the week of Superheroines. And I love that. I love that we’re at a time and place in comics where women and girls are allowed to be so many varieties of characters and still heroic, still masters of their own stories, and still geared toward so many different tastes and audiences. 

It really shows, at least for me, what’s going right with the industry at the moment, and I hope it progresses that way.

But it’s time for the pick of the week, and as much as I really enjoyed all the comics this week, I’m going to give this week’s pick to Detective Comics. It was a great stand alone, it was very focused and character driven, and it’s just so wonderful seeing Stephanie’s independence and more individualized view of justice getting to be front and center of a ‘Tec comic. The times where she was treated with this amount of respect as Spoiler were few and far between in the previous continuity and it’s good as a fan to see that the current creative team can love and appreciate the 2000s comics and draw from them while still adjusting and moving past their flaws. 

But that’s just my opinion on today’s pull! Do you guys agree or disagree with me on any of them? Think I missed picking up something great? I’d love to hear from you! See you next week <3

[crossfitmdi]

Dad Life Blog: I could over head squat 405lbs for 10 reps! I could run a 2 minute mile! I could have the best gym in Orlando & nothing could ever compare to the joys of just being a Dad & seeing your princess running happy around with love. At the end of the day health, happiness & love is what we have. Everything else is bonus. As I get older those personal records are all extras. My Goals: 1. To be the best husband & dad. 2. To be an awesome business owner & run Gods Box aka Adult Disney aka CrossFit MDI with excellence because my community deserve it. 3. Pass on my message of health, happiness & Epic love to my students so they can help me change the world. 4. Stay healthy, train with my amazing coaches & progress day by day as a human & athlete. My goals that I pray on daily. Set goals peeps & attack. Remember to set up specific, measurable, realistic & timely goals. Then chip away daily. Aim for the moon! If you miss its ok! You will still be among the stars. What a view what a view! #proudpapa #proudhusband #liveasanexample #olivialynn #liveasanexample #preservingthesexy #metamaxworks #cfmdi #crossftmdi #crossfitkids #crossfit #justloufromunionpark (at Crossfit M.D.I "Motivation Dedication Inspiration")