#(( this is the benefit to her having nonhuman shoulders

[royalreef]

      You mind if she just...

          Loafs?

[thewhumperinwhite]

ATTD: The Monster in Will’s Pocket (2)

ATTD Masterlist

@whumpitywhumpwhump @favwhumpstuff

TW for: referenced animal death; very mild body horror elements; “it” used to refer to a sapient nonhuman creature; captivity/uneven power dynamics, though not... in the traditional sense.

Boy, I hope this is in any way coherent

----

“Wh—what in hells was that?” Jasper squawked, scrambling to his feet, squeezing his Runes very tightly, to keep one hand at least from shaking.

Will pointedly did not look at him. “I don’t think now is the right time to explain,” he said, with apparent relief.

Jasper gaped at the boy, open-mouthed, and then he saw movement out of the corner of his eye and remembered that there were still at least six full-grown wolves, out there in the dust, simply standing in a rough point formation and watching them.

Jasper tried to look at them, shielding his eyes from the dust, and then he growled in annoyance and squatted down on his heels, smacking his free hand flat on the ground, and circled his thumb around the blank side of his Runes, and with a grunt of effort pulled an eight-foot wall of dirt up out of the ground at a slight angle, between himself and the howling wind, big enough to shelter him and the boy from the worst of the swirling dust.

The boy stumbled back from the suddenly-erupting dirt, wide-eyed. Jasper remembered that Crythians did not, in general, trust magic, even at its most benign and useful.

Jasper had rather expected the show of magical skill—or at least the sudden noise and movement—to frighten the wolves away, but when he looked they were still there, just out of the shelter Jasper had made, the harsh wind tugging at their scraggly fur.

“Alright,” Jasper called in their direction. “What do you want?”

There was a long, perhaps thoughtful, pause, while all six wolves stared at him, unblinkingly. Then, to Jasper’s surprise, the largest of the wolves padded slowly forward.

The animal crouched, and twisted torturously in on itself, its front paw rising to touch its forehead, and seemed to pull itself apart, tearing the fur free from its face and revealing tender pink skin below.

The wolf gathered its fur around its new narrow shoulders like a cloak, and rose awkwardly on two long spindly legs. It turned its new pinkish face—still narrow and rather wolfish, but definitely human—toward the boy and his sword with an expression of resentful misery, and opened its too-wide mouth and said something, in what Jasper realized a second late was perfect fluent Crythian.

Jasper didn’t really know how to do anything in Crythian but swear. “What,” he snapped when Will didn’t immediately offer a translation, “What did she say?”

Will blinked at him with very wide eyes. Jasper felt a flash of reluctant sympathy. If the Firebird in the square was the first demon the boy had ever seen, he had certainly never seen one change forms before. Even Jasper hadn’t seen that more than a few times, and it was never a pleasant process to watch, especially in this direction. The boy shook his head, like a cat after a fall, and cleared his throat.

“It—she,” he croaked, his voice very rough, between the dust and his ongoing fever. “She says—that we have killed their leader. She wants to know if we are sorry.”

Jasper frowned down at the bent, emaciated form of the wolf. Its ill-health was all to visible, now that it was shaped like a human; and it was barely taller than Will, who only reached Jasper’s shoulder.

“I haven’t killed anybody,” Jasper told the wolf, on the off chance she could understand him.

Will coughed awkwardly. “Oh. No, that was me.”

Jasper turned to look at him. “You?” he said, flicking his gaze pointedly to where the boy’s hand was wrapped tightly around the hilt of his sword, “or something else?”

Will flushed blotchily, and looked away, apparently even more embarrassed at that question, whatever that might mean. The wolf-woman said something again in Crythian, her tone sharp.

“You’re a Galdrean wolf,” Jasper told her, rather sourly. “Don’t you speak any Galdrean?”

The wolf narrowed her eyes at him, and bared her teeth, which were somewhere between a wolf’s and a woman’s in sharpness.

“She wants to know what her pack is to do without a leader,” Will said, fidgeting. “She wants to know why I have taken him, and by what magic. She says—” The wolf woman barked something else and Will smiled at Jasper, nervously. “She has little patience for translation.”

“I would like to know what magic, too,” Jasper pointed out, raising an eyebrow, and the boy shook his head.

“I killed your Alpha by no magic,” he said, once in Galdrean, evidently for Jasper’s benefit, and then presumably again, in Crythian. The wolf-woman growled and gestured at his sword. The boy winced.

“Unless that second one was your leader,” he muttered, in Galdrean. “Then I—suppose there was magic involved, yes.”

“I’m sorry,” Jasper snapped. “Now you say you have killed more than one wolf. I seem to recall you running from them, rather.”

Will nodded. “I did run. I had no wish to kill.”

Jasper squared his shoulders and faced the wolf-woman. “Tell them so, then. And ask them if they make it a habit to chase down humans. Ask them if they know what humans will do to demons who do not run and hide from them.” Jasper would not cheer if the people in Atychia town gathered their torches and pitchforks and came for these wolves, but he would certainly not be surprised either.

Will obligingly babbled at the wolf in Crythian, and she spoke for a long time in reply, growing visibly more agitated, drawing her wolf-fur cloak about her shoulders so that her teeth elongated and her hands bent into half-claws.

Will blinked a few times at whatever she said, but made no move to translate.

“Well?” said Jasper, testily.

“She says…” Will hesitated. “I think she says the world is ending.”

“…Huh?” said Jasper, cleverly.

“She says the rains have not come, and they are starving. She says…” He pressed his lips together in apparent distress. “She says the human men have pushed too far into their lands, and they cannot hunt safely. That it is so all over, for too long. And… she says they’ll be sorry, that somebody will make them sorry, but—” He shook his head at Jasper. “I don’t know. When she started growing fangs it was hard to understand.”

Jasper narrowed his eyes at the wolf, who raised her chin defiantly.

“You… be… sorry,” she said in halting Galdrean, and then she worked her too-wide mouth and spat in the boy’s direction. Then she pointed a narrow bony finger in his direction and said something in Crythian, raising her voice and tone like she was laying a curse.

Most of it was sing-song gibberish to Jasper, though he could vaguely recognize the phrase “Wolf Killer” among the foreign syllables, and when she said it the boy flinched physically backward, as though slapped.

Then the wolf turned on her heel, drawing her cloak of torn-off fur back over her head, and had four legs again by the time he turned. The rest of her pack snapped their teeth half-heartedly, and turned to follow her, hunching their shoulders against the swirling dust.

As soon as they had moved what felt like a safe distance away, Jasper dropped his palm to the ground again, and pulled up two more walls of earth, to make a proper shelter against the sand-sharpened wind.

Will watched the last wolf’s tail swirl out of sight, and then sat down hard against the earthen wall with a shaky sigh.

“Oh no you don’t,” Jasper said, when he saw the boy’s eyelids fluttering. He crouched to snap his finger’s in front of Will’s face and the boy’s eyes blinked slowly back into focus. “You’re not going anywhere until you’ve explained what the hell that was.”

Will blinked at him a few times and then said airily, “What what was?”

Jasper gaped at him for a moment, and then jabbed a finger at the handle of the boy’s sword, twisted awkwardly beside his hip. “That,” Jasper said. “That thing with the teeth!”

Will looked at him with innocent blankness for a second, and then sighed, shoulders slumping, and ran a hand through his messily-cropped hair. “It was worth a try,” he muttered. Then he wrapped a hand carefully around the sword handle. “Chorus,” he said clearly. “I order you not to hurt him, but—come out and introduce yourself.”

Jasper stared, but nothing happened.

After a second, a muffled, petulant voice said faintly, “No.”

Will gave a mild little sigh, evidently not surprised, and then shrugged. “She doesn’t want to come out.”

Jasper weighed his extreme, destabilizing confusion against the pleasant idea of not seeing those teeth again. There must be a compromise between the two somewhere.

“That’s—that’s fine,” Jasper said, getting to his knees to be nearer the boy’s eye level. “How about you just—tell, instead of show.”

Will gave him a long, considering look—as if it wasn’t far too late to keep whatever monstrosity he happened to be carrying a secret. Then he reached down and pulled off his sword belt, laying the sheathed sword across his lap.

“This is—Chorus,” he said finally. The glass ball at the end of the sword’s handle glinted faintly red, even with the sun obscured by the storm.

“The sword. Is named Chorus,” Jasper said slowly.

“Yes. Well—no.” Will drew the sword from its sheath in one practiced motion, handling the weight of it easily, even in his weakened state. He held it up in front of his face, clearly comfortable with the balance. Despite the ridiculous silver curliques around the handle, the blade did in fact look very sharp.

“The sword is—a vessel, I suppose,” Will said. “And Chorus is what lives inside of it. You’ve met her, now. I imagine she’ll come out later, when it’s the most inconvenient.” He sighed, as if the idea of that monster suddenly appearing was nothing but a mild annoyance. “She’s very stubborn.”

Jasper stared at him again, trying to put any of that in order in his head.

“Who are you?” he finally said.

Will met his eyes, face very calm. “I’m no one. A farmer’s son.” He blinked once, then broke eye contact, sliding the sword easily back into its sheath. “I’ve been—tasked with finding Chorus a new home, somewhere where no one will trouble her. It’s very important—” He looked up again, catching Jasper’s eye with a very serious expression. “Listen. It’s very important that no one wields this sword but me.”

“Why?” Jasper said slowly, surprised by the clear urgency in the boy’s blue eyes.

“It just is,” Will said firmly. Then he took a deep breath and got to his feet. Jasper might have believed that he did so without too much effort, except that what little color had accumulated in his pale face immediately left it, and his hand was shaky against the rock wall from supporting too much of his weight.

“That’s why,” he said, blinking hard, probably to dispel the dizziness he was clearly feeling, “That’s why—"

Suddenly there was a flash of light and an eruption of silver from the area of his hip and he fell flat backwards with an undignified cry, very nearly banging his head against the earthen wall. A woman was now sitting on his chest.

“Ha,” the woman said in a high and taunting voice. “Got you.”

Will wheezed faintly.

Jasper, ears ringing, stared hard. The woman’s hair settled down her back in its large silver curls, and her eyes, when she turned back to give Jasper a half-hostile, half-curious stare, were a red so bright as to nearly glow against her milk-white skin. Her feet, and the good length of leg visible under her torn skirt, particularly with her knees planted on either side of the boy’s ribs, were bare.

“I’ve come out,” she said, “to tell you that you’re nosy.”

“Get off,” Will coughed, reaching up to push at the woman’s shoulder; she made no move to change locations.

“How much can you hear from inside that thing?” Jasper asked uneasily. He didn’t think he’d said anything out loud lately that he wanted left unheard, but the idea of this thing hearing his every word long before he knew it was there was making the back of his neck prickle.

“I have ears, Magician,” the woman-thing said, still looking at him over her shoulder from her position straddling the boy’s chest. Then she leaned over to look Will in the face, her nose bare inches above his. “And what was that about not giving me orders, Doorkeeper?” she snarled at him.

Will glared up at her. His arms were free at his sides, but he made no move to dislodge her. He didn’t seem to be flinching back from her touch, either. “I’d as soon you shed no more blood today, thanks,” he snapped.

The woman—Chorus—rolled her eyes and rolled off him to the side, not seeming to take much care about the insubstantiality of her skirts. “You were happy enough for me to shed blood a minute ago,” she said, rather snidely.

Will sat up, with some visible effort. “That was for—oh, never mind. Magician,” he huffed, gesturing at the woman now crouched beside him like a large scarlet-eyed cat, “this is Chorus. This is how she is, generally, so you must see why I cannot travel with you any longer.”

Jasper looked at Chorus. Chorus, curling her red lip into a sneer, looked at Jasper. Seated beside him, she looked about the same height as Will, though she was built more solidly, rounded where he was sharp and thin. Her face, though devilish in color, was almost cherubic in shape, with round cheeks, a neat button nose, and wide eyes lined with long, bluish lashes. There were strands of pale blue in her silver-white hair, too, and some that seemed fully translucent. Jasper had finished his schooling in the Wizard’s City more than a decade ago now, and spent five years with Mulciber’s Company after that, and never seen anything so entirely unnatural as this girl-creature, her lifted lip exposing a double row of packed-tight needle teeth.

Jasper sighed heavily, feeling certain, but also sort of stupid.

“No, boy,” he said firmly, “I do not see that.”

Will blinked at him. Chorus stretched her legs out in front of her and crossed them demurely at the ankles, with an expression of amused curiousity.

“What do you mean?” said Will.

“I mean, no, I don’t intend to send you traipsing back into the desert with nothing but a bleeding wound and a monster in your pocket.”

Will stared. He turned his head to look at Chorus, as though she might understand better. Chorus shrugged lazily.

Will looked back at Jasper, looking baffled. “Well—why not?”

“Come, boy, what do you take me for?” Jasper huffed. “You’ll not walk three miles in the state you’re in now, and I’ve no wish to spend the next few days wondering how long you took to die out there. No, I’m going to Limani, and you’re coming with me.”

“What?” said Will, alarmed. “No. Absolutely not. Weren’t you listening? The whole point was to get Chorus away from people. Why would we go back to the port city? That’s where we’ve come from.”

It’s where I’ve come from, too, Jasper thought, but didn’t say, since doubtless it would sound like he was going out of his way. Which he supposed he was, now, not that that mattered.

“Because otherwise,” Jasper said, as clearly as possible, “you will die, boy.”

Will blinked, a slightly odd look on his face, and then looked away. The creature Chorus’s red mouth turned down a little at the corners, too, which was interesting, though Jasper didn’t even bother guessing what it meant.

“You don’t know that,” Will said, rather hoarsely. “You said yourself that you aren’t a Healer.”

Jasper sighed, and looked from the boy to the monster. “Listen. Will,” he said, and then he nodded at Chorus, curtly. “This thing is under your control, is it?”

The creature leapt immediately to her feet, white hands balled into fists. Jasper held his breath, ready to get immediately savaged if he had read the situation wrong.

Chorus did not lunge at Jasper’s face, though she was practically vibrating with the desire to do so. Which would seem to imply that the boy’s earlier order—don’t hurt him—was one she could not choose to ignore.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, and did not fall over with relief, which felt like a victory. He looked back down at the boy, who was still seated on the ground, presumably because he could not properly stand up. “But that control only lasts as long as you are the one holding the sword, doesn’t it?”

Will looked at him with open alarm, dropping his hand protectively to the hilt of the sword. Chorus, still standing, narrowed her red eyes.

“Boy,” Jasper said, “I could knock you over with a feather. Anyone who wanted to take that sword from you wouldn’t have to do anything more than push you down. Would they?”

Will’s shoulders tightened visibly, and his face hardened; it was easy for Jasper to imagine he knew how to use that sword quite well—when he wasn’t dying of fever, anyway.

“Relax,” Jasper said, holding up empty hands (his Runes stored safely in his sleeve). “I have absolutely no interest in stealing your pet monster.”

At the sound of the word “pet,” Will frowned deeply, and might have protested. He was saved the trouble by Chorus, who gaped at Jasper in outrage, and then made a sound in her throat—more than a growl, though not quite a roar, that made Jasper stumble physically back from her, despite all efforts to the contrary, so quickly that he hit his head on his own magic-built shelter, hard enough to briefly see stars.

[dontasktheradiodemon]

Chat log - Oct 8

Somehow we got from "Valera confronts Alastor about his obvious crush on her fiancé" to "Alastor makes a bargain with the fae in exchange for time travel" and that's why RP is beautiful.

Valera

Valera walked through the front door of the hotel, a folder of newly acquired sheet music swapped between one hand and the other as she shrugged her way out of a coat that dissolved into so much sparkly vapor as it hit the floor. Ah, the smell of paper and ink, the thrill of a New Thing To Play With. Why, her tail would be wagging if she wasn't consciously trying to avoid accidentally stabbing Alastor! Speaking of, she turns back, waiting for the aforementioned deer to join her.

Alastor

Alastor, on the other hand, will be keeping his coat on. He checks to make sure Valera's entire tail is safely inside before letting the door swing shut. "And there—safely back in the hotel! Mission accomplished, and with no shots fired!" He says this as if that's a common danger when going to the music store. Everything's relative.

Valera

How generous of him! "You say that so casually, Hell must be quite a bit more exciting when you've made a name for yourself! But thank you, my dear. The escort was appreciated." She offers a shallow curtsy, fanning herself with the folder for added effect before popping back up. "Actually! Would you like to come try the new music with me?"

Alastor

"You're quite welcome, any time. It's both more exciting and less exciting! But I've been a sensation in Hell since the day I arrived, I can't truly tell you what the alternative is like."

Oh, the magic words. His grin stretches wider. "I'd be delighted to!"

Valera

Hook, line, and sinker. She grins, luring him away to his doom the piano, where she makes a dramatic show of plopping down on one end of the bench with plenty of room left for him, and setting the sheet music up. "Here, get comfortable! Fair warning, I'm better on a harpsichord than a piano, so I'm sure you'll do much better than I will."

Alastor

Oblivious to his pending doom, he takes the offered seat and glances over the sheet music. What have we got today? "I don't think I've ever played a harpsichord! But I can imagine the adjustment—I've taken a spin once or twice on an organ, and oh, what a world of difference! Isn't it amazing how many instruments have identical keyboards and yet you have to play them completely differently!"

Valera

"Oh yes! Harpsichords don't have any subtlety to them. No matter how hard or gently you hit the keys, the note is always top volume!" A wink. "Like a certain snake, come to think of it!" She'd thought of him in the music store, lucky him, and went out of her way to find a piece or two from his own time along with a few well known showtunes from Broadway. And in the back, a few pieces from Disney. Scandalous. "Figured we'd start with something simple. Are you familiar with Carroll Gibbons?"

Alastor

"Hah." And he'd been doing so WELL trying not to think about Sir Pentious; he'd lasted almost five minutes—which was pretty long when he was talking to Sir Pentious's fiancée. "All the better to ensure as many people as possible hear his grandiose proclamations, I'm sure!"

He skimmed over the sheet music. "Vaguely familiar, can't say from where." Muffled disembodied piano notes played the melody sped up as Alastor glanced over the first page—ought to be simple enough to play. "Sounds like my time."

Valera

Poor, poor Alastor. Wipe off that chalkboard, he wont be making much progress on that timer today. "I asked for something from around that era, so I certainly hope so! You were right though, it's a very fine store indeed. We're lucky you couldn't go in with me or I might have gotten more than I could carry, and we all know I'm struggling enough with that problem already." Wink!

She cracks her knuckles, trying to keep a straight face as she puts her fingers to the keys. Oh, the funny little inside jokes of friends who are obviously both in on the bit.

Alastor

He wonders whether that was a sexual euphemism or just a reference to Sir Pentious's new length. "THAT weight, I could have helped you carry!" He's gonna quietly pretend he doesn't detest the implication that Sir Pentious is too much. Probably just a reference to him being fifteen feet long, don't read into it.

It's music time now!

Valera

The answer seemed in line, no reason for Valera to hesitate, so instead she gives Alastor a smile and launches into a rendition of The Gay Imposter's medley. A simple enough piece for her to start with, and while she starts with a heavy enough hand on the keys that even she flinches at the sound, she eases off quickly into something he wouldn't have to shout to duet with.

Alastor

She adjusts fast, he'll give her that; and makes a mental note that apparently one has to play harder on a harpsichord. He doesn't know if he'll ever use this knowledge, but one never knows.

And so a duet it is—or more, once he realizes that this little medley could benefit from some strings, couldn't it, and calls up a shadow with a violin to improvise an accompaniment.

Valera

She hums and pulls her hands away from the keys, reaching for the folder for another piece to try. "Here, the next one is yours." Actually, now that she's said that.. That brings something to mind. "Do you want to go hunting on Earth, when this.." A gesture towards herself. "..Ordeal? Is over? So, sometime next month? I've seen you talk about missing venison."

Alastor

Hunting on Earth—there's a thought! Something he never imagined he'd do again!

Something he isn't sure he should. That's... something he's going to have to consider. But he doesn't need to give an immediate answer, does he?

"'Ordeal'? I hope you're not referring to your own company! I wouldn't call a stroll to the music store and a spin on the piano an 'ordeal'!"

Valera

... She blinks, brows slowly furrowing as she turns that over in her head. Did he not know? Was he playing it off? Fuck, maybe Pentious hadn't said anything yet, if he'd even planned to. Uh oh. Alright. Carefully, carefully, she turns back to the folder, browsing through sheet music to keep her hands busy.

"Apologies, dear Alastor. I thought Pentious had informed you shortly after he told Match." A polite clearing of her throat, her fins dipping down apologetically. "I'm chock full of eggs, dearie."

Alastor

Alastor blinks in amazement, gaze flicking from Valera's face down to her abdomen and then back up to her face.

For a couple of seconds of loudly buzzing static, a hurricane of thoughts storms through his mind:

Why hadn't he been told? Did Sir Pentious not want him to know? No, that's ridiculous, Sir Pentious trusts him—even though he shouldn't, it's obvious he does—so it wasn't a decision made out of secrecy but out of—what, apathy? Apathy toward what? Certainly not the eggs, certainly they weren't too uninteresting to share, not when Sir Pentious wants children so badly he collects dolls of them, he has to be brimming over with joy—then the apathy was toward Alastor himself, he didn't qualify being told the news. Why should he? They barely knew each other—sure, their friendship had moved fast—sure, the second time they'd met they'd fallen asleep together drunk and curled around each other and— But what's rushed intimacy like that worth when they hardly know each other?

All that in just a couple of seconds as his heart plummets. Then a broad smile breaks out across his face. "Are you really! Well, a thousand congratulations to you both! I'm sure you must both be completely overjoyed. And they're due sometime next month?! I suppose you'll be scheduling that wedding a little sooner, ha! My, but we rarely get news like this in Hell!"

Valera

A moment of calm as she watches him take the information in, and then he starts in with the cheer and she has to watch. The moment he's done, she practically vibrates, hands frantically waving between them as she resists the urge to grab the poor man by the shoulders and shake him. No shouting, she has to hiss whisper before the whole hotel hears their conversation. "Wh-- No, whoa whoa no!!! No you put those thoughts back in the pit they crawled out of, I could FEEL your brain breaking!!! Alastor they're completely nonfertilized. There's not going to be eels tearing through the hotel anytime this year! You're okay!"

Alastor

"I—Oh!" Give him a split second to restructure all his thoughts. "Oh, are they!" He laughs. "Goodness me, and here I was about to run off and buy baby bonnets as a gift, hah—Pity, though." And it is a pity. Does that mean Sir Pentious and Valera aren't fertile together after all? Or did they expect this?

As delicately as he can, he says, "I'm afraid I don't know enough about your people to tell if I should be offering you my deepest condolences, or if you just lay a batch every once in a while like a chicken."

Valera

Oh, now he's trying to be kind? How sweet of him. She chuckles, a bit breathless, and puts a hand to her chest. That could have gotten ugly. The questions are a bit TMI, but such things can't be avoided, sometimes. She'll try to keep it vague, for Alastor's sake.

"I'm on contraceptives! He just confused my body into thinking it was fertilized. Overachieving first timer performance, you know? Which I suppose I understand. Thirty six years of nothing, nada, and then constantly being in contact with someone who keeps sending all the right signals." It's funny, now that she thinks about it. But very nonhuman. No wonder everyone keeps being confused.

Alastor

He'd like to think he's been trying to be kind the whole time.

He blinks for a moment as he tries to wrap his mind around that medical explanation. "Well... I... can't say that I've ever met a creature that can get false pregnancies just from an enthusiastic lover. It certainly doesn't happen among humans!"

Or does it? Maybe that's what some miscarriages are? He has absolutely no idea, it's never been relevant to his life. Certainly, if it does happen to humans, that hadn't been part of the medical knowledge in his time. "Poor man must have been completely baffled by the whole thing."

(He's doing a pretty good job of not thinking about the "right signals.")

Valera

"It doesn't happen often, it threw BOTH of us for a loop. But he took it remarkably well, all things considered! Just the proof he needed that we really are compatible. He's just being a bit more possessive and touchy feely since he heard, and that's hardly a negative." Her cheeks flush. Oh yeah, not a negative at all. But best not to think about that around Alastor. He's already trying so hard not to die over her relationship.

She coughs. "Actually, that brings something else to mind, if you'll humor me."

Alastor

"A test run, then! In that case, my congratulations again—for the evidence of your compatibility." It'll make things easier later on, won't it? And that's something Alastor has worried about—whether Valera's species really would let Sir Pentious get around the natural infertility of demons. Well, there it is.

"Oh, does it?" He gives her a sly look. "Well, I didn't think we'd be having this conversation so soon, but since you brought it up: yes, if you insist, you can name the first boy after me, as long as you promise to spell my name right! You'd be amazed how many people don't spell it with an O." Laugh track, laugh track. "But really—what's on your mind?"

Valera

A wheeze, her body nearly doubling over, a fist over her mouth to muffle stifled giggles as Alastor yanks the rug out from under her feet with his bit. Dear gods, the very idea. The scandal! It's more tempting than it should be, but Pentious would murder her... Probably. Maybe not.

"Well, I mean...... No no, I could never. Veci can have multiple sires for a single pup, people would think you really were one of the fathers. But tell you what, you think of a good snake pun and I'll put it on the list." Humor aside, time to get serious. A pause while she composes herself, smooths down the front of her dress.. And she is suddenly very nervous all over again. Lovely.

"There's no graceful way to put this, I'm afraid. And let me preface this by saying. I'm not angry or judging you, I wont tell anyone without your explicit permission, and I'm willing to shake on that if it brings you peace of mind." A beat. "But I am fully aware of your feelings for Pentious, dear Alastor."

Alastor

His mind is bouncing between the medical miracle of a child with multiple fathers and the list of snake puns that as it so happens he already has, trying to decide which he wants to comment on first—and then it's his turn to have the rug pulled out from under him.

He only spends a split second silent, mouth half open from almost starting a sentence on a prior topic he's already forgotten; and then his teeth click shut like a dial turning off, and now he's all polite smiles and genial tone. "Are you?"

Valera

She nods, just once, and offers Alastor what she hopes is a comforting smile, though it may be a grimace with how her stomach is turning. "I am. And again, I have absolutely no intentions of breathing a word to even suggest it to anyone but yourself. I wont run off and tell Pentious, or writing it out on dash for anyone to see. I'm speaking to you about it because I want to make sure you know that I don't mind. You've been a good friend to him, and myself as well. You've been incredibly respectful, and I want to acknowledge that. This isn't an accusation."

Alastor

"Ah." His glowing red gaze lingers for a moment on the piano keys—no hope of getting to play for a while now, is there—and then his traveling gaze falls on the shadow he summoned up earlier. "What—Are you still here? Aren't you nosy!" He hops out of his seat, making a comical little pantomime of shooing the shadow until it hustles across the room and vanishes, taking its violin with it.

"Eavesdroppers." Alastor tisks, critically watching the spot where the shadow disappeared.

His gaze is still across the room when he says amiably, "You're wrong, though." The corner of his mouth twitches up: haha, gotcha, had you fooled. "It's not him. Just someone who looks and sounds and acts the same."

Valera

Valera turns back to the piano, playing a few barely audible notes to buy herself some time while Alastor busied himself with shooing off his shadowy minion. It was easy to go in heavy handed, get the most from your efforts. But a delicate touch made sweeter sounds, in and out of the world of music. Perhaps she needed a more delicate approach..

Wow, that was as stupid as it was fake poetic! Ugh, back to what she SHOULD be focusing on. "The Pentious of your own Hell, then. My apologies. So you're projecting your feelings for your own Pentious onto the one we both know, then?"

Alastor

"Oh, completely!" He laughs ruefully. "I've known him a mere thirty-three days! Everything I know about him amounts to thing I can assume about the one based on the other, and a list of points that differ. I don't really know him at all. How could I?"

Valera

Well now, that seems unfair to both Alastor and Pentious! She knows for a fact that the two of them have had GREAT fun together, with and without her around to witness it! "I understand what you're saying."

She stops, squints. Shakes her head. "No. I shouldn't say that. I don't understand what you're saying, I just think I can empathize with your predicament. I've spent years knowing various iterations of all sorts of people, but I've never met an alternate of a person I pined over. It sounds like torture."

Alastor

The word torture is met with studio audience laughter. "Then you should consider yourself lucky!" The chipper tone doesn't falter for a second. "I wouldn't recommend it to anyone, hah! Well, maybe my worst enemy—PROBABLY my worst enemy, truth be told, I am not and never have been gracious to my foes—but that aside, oh, no, the experience has nothing to recommend it." Prattle, prattle.

Valera

She licks her lips, raspy tongue flicking out far further than necessary as she weighs her options. She could try to end the conversation here, reel him back in with a musical number. Or dive into his emotional anguish and run the risk of either bonding with him OR making him so wildly uncomfortable he'd avoid her for weeks.

Eh, fifty fifty shot, she likes those odds. She hops off the bench, walking over to Alastor to.. Well. She wont touch him, but she'll just make her presence.. present. "Alastor. I'm going to ask a lot of you here, but tell me. In your ideal outcome, the best case scenario, what would you want out of this whole... Thing?"

Alastor

"Oh! Jumping straight to the thousand dollar question and skipping over the tens and hundreds?" He puts a hand over his heart as though the audacity has sent him into near cardiac arrest. "No no—the last time we played this little question-and-answer game, you remember, we left off on my turn. I get to ask the next one."

He turns more fully toward her—still the polite smile—to ask, "What gave me away? I am a performer, you know; I do pride myself on my ability to keep in character!"

Valera

If Alastor wanted to make a game out of it, so be it. Maybe that was simply what he felt comfortable with. Hope he can appreciate an honest answer. She makes dead eye contact and grins.

"You're touch averse to everyone but Pentious. You latch onto him given the slightest chance, jump on every excuse to be around him. Always craving any kind of touch. A bite, laying on his coils, anything you can get. You stare, you sigh, you practically swoon every time he smiles at you. I act the same way, don't get me wrong, but I'm engaged to him."

Alastor

Thank god for being dead, no blood flow means one's cheeks never burn. Alastor would point out that Valera has never seen him around anyone but Sir Pentious, how would she know whose touch he is and isn't averse to—but no, he confessed that one himself, didn't he? Slouched all over Sir Pentious at the theater while laughing about how much he hates being touched.

An uneasy pit forms in his stomach. (A second, new, additional uneasy pit, next to the gaping sinkhole that's already been forming.) That was right before Sir Pentious shoved him off and didn't address him for the rest of the show. If Valera had been able to put two and two together then...

He draws himself upright in mock offense. "I do not sigh! I won't object to the accurate accusations, but I'm quite certain I'm not a sigher!" He pauses. "And I'd protest the swooning too, except I don't know what a swoon looks like. I don't think anyone actually does that outside of novels."

Valera

She snickers, bouncing on her heels while her fins waggle. Good, something she can crack a joke about, the atmosphere in here was getting downright suffocating. "Well! I'd show you my best swoon, but I'm very heavy and I think I would break either your bones or the couch if I tried it." His skinny little arms would shatter like toothpicks trying to catch her, probably. And that was IF he caught her. No no, there will be no trust falls today.

"Now answer my question, dear fellow. What would be your ideal outcome in this terribly tricky predicament? It doesn't have to be realistic, it just has to be what would make you happiest."

Alastor

He arches an eyebrow. "No working your way up with the easy ones?" He's stalling.

Valera

She arches her own right back! "No. If I wanted to pussyfoot around difficult subjects, I'd find a cat to dance with, not a deer."

Alastor

"Why, don't you know how skittish deer are? Liable to bound off into the woods at a moment's notice!"

He's still stalling.

Valera

She leans in closer, all three eyes narrowing as she stares down at the smaller man. "Alastor, if you keep stalling I am going to start shaking you until the answers fall out, touch aversion or no."

Alastor

His polite smile turns cold. "Try it and you'll never get another word out of me again." It's gonna be all instrumentals all the time, baby. Just orchestras and sound effects.

"If you'd rather wait in silence than enjoy my delightful banter, then fine. Just—give me a moment. To think. I don't have all my dialogue prewritten, you know."

He doesn't yet have the words for something he's never, ever considered putting voice to.

Valera

She withdraws, glossing over his cold threat with a pleasantly bland smile and nod. "Fair enough. My apologies, you were starting to sound like you were about to make a break for it to avoid the discussion entirely. Take your time, Alastor."

Guess she might as well get comfortable then, the couch is looking rather inviting, and as fun as towering over people is, it does tend to make them more nervous than necessary. He's going to talk, she's going to magic up some tea.

Alastor

He plays an idle boring tune over a metronome to fill the silence as he sighs, shuts his eyes, and tilts his head back, thinking.

The problem isn't that he doesn't know what he wants. The problem is he wants so much in so many different ways. The problem is choosing one facet of it that's small enough to say out loud. The problem is putting it into a sentence that won't terrify his nosy guest. The problem is finding words that he can squeeze out before a lump forms in his throat.

Finally, opening his eyes, still staring at the ceiling, he says, "The most ideal, most unrealistic outcome would be to go back in time—fifty-four years, four months, and two days—and change one thing. In a way that doesn't cause the timeline to form a new branch, but that—erases this path completely. So it never existed." He gives Valera a tired look. "But that's beyond even you, isn't it."

Valera

Her mouth opens, but she hesitates. Then shrugs, and gestures for him to take a seat with a far more genuine smile.

"If I answered that in any kind of simple manner, we'd be here all week. Why don't you sit down and have a drink with me, and we can approach this more gently. I'd like to help you, Alastor, even if my methods are.. Overly direct at times." That's putting it mildly. After a day of politics, her capacity for subtlety was shot at the BEST of times. Poor Alastor was getting her at her finest, here.

Alastor

He studies her a moment, a spark of energy lighting his eyes with interest. "Well, if that's your way of saying 'maybe'—I've waited fifty-four years, what's another week?" He waves a nearby chair into sliding over and takes a seat. "Go on."

Valera

She slides a cup of tea across the table, mutely gesturing to the customary cream and sugar she'd not bothered to partake in herself. As an afterthought, she drags a plate of venison jerky through from her own realm. Not a customary tea snack, but it's not like she could truly enjoy anything sweet right now. Plus, gnawing on a piece of jerky was a wonderful stalling tool for both of them now.

Mm, jerky. Now.. Goodness. How can she be delicate about this? "In theory, my dear, I could attempt to put your current mind back in that exact moment you described. It would, of course, destroy this current reality and everyone in it if it worked, and force you to relive the trauma from a spectator's perspective if it didn't."

Alastor

He glances at the cup, but doesn't move to take it. "I like those odds."

Valera

"Really? Most people would hear that opener and cut the conversation there. Though I suppose you aren't most people." No, this was the Radio Demon himself, willing to sacrifice anyone and anything to get what he wanted! Allegedly!

A dry smile. "Might I remind you that I'm thirty six years old and entertaining the notion of attempting to rewrite reality itself for a man I've only started growing comfortable with calling a friend, all so you can fix whatever you broke on that fateful day, dear Alastor?"

Alastor

He blinks. "You're thirty-six?"

Valera

That's what he fixated on? Dear gods, the cackle that came out of her.

"Yes, yes I am. Thirty six years old, and already so accomplished that I've seen both Heaven and Hell. Aren't I lucky?"

Alastor

When she'd mentioned "thirty-six years" earlier—in the middle of a conversation about her sex life—he'd thought she was giving the length of her dry spell, not her life. "My, oh my! Amazing! What's that in Earth years?" He leans forward, all chipper again. "And look how lucky you are NOW. A chance to attempt rewriting a reality you have no personal attachment to, on behalf of a man you only barely consider a friend—no great loss to you! All the risk falls on me! You get to document the results and learn something new about these fantastic abilities you're wielding—even as impressive as they are, I'm sure you must have more to learn! Why, I don't see a downside for you!"

Valera

Her nose scrunches in disgust. "Ugh, you're going to ask me to do math? Some friend you are. But more seriously."

Give her a moment while she adjusts herself, shoving a pillow under her back as she lifts her legs to take up the couch in a comfortable lounge. Oh yes, that's the good stuff. "You really don't see any downside for me? How about the risk of re-traumatizing my friend if it fails? Or destroying an entire reality for one person's desires? That would mean destroying the residents of this hotel, plus the Pentious that exists right now."

Alastor

"I'm in Hell, I deserve the trauma." Absolutely no hesitation. "Destroying one reality to create another. Another with the exact same people who were erased. Another where he wins. Where he comes out on top." He scoots forward in his seat, insistent, animated. "This isn't about me, darling—the fact that I benefit is just a bonus. This is about him. He was poised to conquer. Change one detail, one decision, and he could be ruling half of Hell by now. Maybe more! My god, he was already unstoppable, what if he'd picked up the pace?!"

He reaches for one of Valera's hands to squeeze. "I'm trying to give him Heaven and Hell—I want to give him everything he's ever wanted. Wouldn't you?"

Valera

The sudden touch was jarring, but her hand curls around his reflexively, the warmth seeping through his gloves a marked contrast with the coolness of her scales. It was almost enough to make her relax into his touch, and that was dangerous. She hesitates.

"Would I do anything in my power to help Pentious? Of course I would. But.." She would. She'd make a deal with just about anyone if it meant helping her beau. And Alastor was trying to do that now, for his own object of affection. It was between helping Alastor, and.. Well. An entire reality possibly being voided.

"Are you certain it's worth it? Could you live with yourself if you tried, and failed, and came back to this current present with all those memories fresh? What did you do, Alastor, that was so unmendable that you'd turn to a coinflip to fix it?"

Alastor

"I'm damned. I don't need to live with myself." His smile thinned grimly. "I'm asking you to try to help me cheat the system. If we succeed, then he gets what he wants. If we fail, then that just means the system works, and—and I get what I deserve. Hell is a punishment. I accept that."

He holds up a finger at her last question. "We're supposed to be taking turns asking the questions. I don't see any reason why you need to know if you aren't going to help me fix it. So: are you?"

Valera

Valera looks down at the table, staring into her teacup as if it could answer the questions racing through her mind. Was it worth it? Could she willingly sacrifice the people she'd met at this hotel, in this Hell, just for a chance to help a friend fix a problem it sounded more and more like he'd caused? Was this really a deal she could make? What would she want?

She takes a breath. Lifts her gaze to meet his. "If you're certain you're willing to try this, I'll help you. I'd beg, borrow, and steal from anyone capable if I was the one in your situation, even if the odds were a hundred to one. I'll give you one chance, Alastor, to fix your wrongdoing. But I can't promise it'll go how you want it to. You know that."

Alastor

He lets out a laugh that almost sounds like a sob. "One slim chance is more than I ever dreamed I'd get! Five seconds, one word, that's all it'll take, and the universe changes!" He seizes both her hands as he jumps to his feet, beaming broadly. Behind him three different songs are trying to play simultaneously. "A water spirit from a place without a Hell—I should have known, the moment I met you!"

Valera

Oh, dear gods, what has she signed up for? What is she doing? She couldn't even regret the decision, the sheer ecstasy on Alastor's face was near heartbreaking in its sincerity. The absurdity of it all forces a chuckle out of her, hands squeezing his as she indulgently clambers off the couch.

Great! Two idiots holding hands in the middle of the room while the invisible orchestra goes buckwild! This is great! It's fine! Her chuckle is more of a wheeze, but she smiles indulgently. "Known what, my dear?"

Alastor

"That—never mind, Earth things—that you can help! That's all!" Get ready, it's dancing time, Alastor is pulling Valera into a waltz. An extremely enthusiastic waltz. "So how's it done—what's it going to take?!"

Valera

Let it be said that Valera always enjoys a good waltz, and especially when it distracts her from the gut feeling that she's just agreed to do something awfully selfish that nobody would approve of. Now THERE'S something she hasn't felt in a while! But no, she's falling into step with Alastor for their merry The King and I moment, a genuine smile breaking out across her face at his gleeful energy.

"Not as much as you may think, dear fellow! I'll need to gather materials to build the anchor and casting line, and you'll need as much hell energy as you can muster to manifest yourself strongly in the time as possible. Do you have something significant you associate with that day? A possession we could use as an antenna, more or less? It would let us focus in so I could try and take you there as precisely as possible."

Alastor

His dancing slows as he thinks. What does he associate with that day? A quilt. A robe. A pipe organ. Tea. Cold. A scent he'll never smell again. "Does it need to be a literal possession from that day? Or would a symbolical representative be close enough? I didn't keep souvenirs." He has nothing from that day but the clothes on his back; a coat he'd been wearing since 1933 would make for a poor antenna.

Valera

She purrs, pursing her lips as she considers the question. She shouldn't be excited, but the idea of such a dramatic project was sounding better and better. What was this, if not a test of ability? "Anything you can use to attune yourself should work. A smell, maybe? Human memory is tied to scent pretty strongly. The important part is the emotional tie, something to take you back to that moment, essentially. As long as I know where and when we need to be, I can compensate for one or the other. Ideally not both, that'd be a strain."

Alastor

He stops dancing completely; he's gotta focus. After a moment of thought, he says slowly, "There is a scent. But, there's... no good way to acquire it again. Besides, that moment is... still a couple of seconds before taking action, but after the decision's been made. It might be too late." Not that, then. "Would weather work? Cold?"

Valera

Great! They can just stand there, frozen mid waltz. She'll just sway them back and forth, a nervous tic of her own. "Yes, if that would take you to the moment again, cold would be one of the sensations that would suffice. Would a combination work? Cold, and a sound we could mimic? Something like that?"

Alastor

A sound, what sound? The exact moment he needs to reach—the organ wasn't playing right then, Alastor was by himself. Pacing the hallways.

"Maybe the... the airship. While it's flying." He hasn't been aboard one since then; but he remembers how the sound of the engine underscored everything. "I don't want him—yours—to... to have to hear about this."

Valera

"If you don't want him to, he wont. I promised confidentiality on your terms." She looks around as she gives Alastor's hand a comforting squeeze, glancing from the piano to Alastor and back.

Sound, sound.. "So it was on the airship. I'm familiar with the sound of the mechanics going, the engines humming away. A constant undercurrent. Relaxing, once you get used to it." Thinking about it made her feel at ease, but Alastor seemed to have a very different emotional association with the sound. "Maybe you could reproduce it on your microphone cane?"

Alastor

A nod—yes, yes, yes that's the sound. "One of the airships," Alastor corrects. "Back then, he—" hrmph. He's not getting that sentence out. "My mic doesn't make the sound effects, I do. And it would just be... remembering out loud. I don't know if that would be close enough." A jerky shrug. "I'd say get a recording out of his ship, but... different airship model. The engine might sound different. I'll know when it's flying again."

Valera

She keeps rocking them back and forth, tail slowly curling one way, then the other. "I see! So, what would you like to do, then? I hope you aren't going to ask me to slip my way onto your Pentious' airship circa the time period and try to grab a recording. I don't much fancy the idea of trying to pass myself off as an egg."

Alastor

"No, absolutely not. It's unthinkable." The only, only reason Alastor would even consider going back there would be this one time, to fix what he'd broken. Not for any other reason. Even sending someone as his proxy was too much. "We can wait until yours has finished his repairs. If it sounds the same, wonderful. If not... we'll figure out a plan B then."

Valera

"Sounds like a plan! You focus on getting hell energy, and I'll get the materials. We'll see how Penny's ship shapes up." Another squeeze to his hand, and she leans in to bump against him, trying to get him to look her in the eyes. "I promise, Alastor, as friend and fae. I'll do everything we decide I should to make this work in your favor. You're my friend, and I do genuinely want you to be happy." Okay Val just say that I guess.

Alastor

Oh. He grimaces and endures the bump. Well he was making eye contact, maybe he will again once he gets his personal space back.

"Then consider my happiness optional. I had my chance and I blew it. I don't need another chance." Not in Hell. Not even with fae help. "But he had his chance taken from him. That's what I plan to fix."

Valera

The message got across, no need to stay in his personal bubble. Being close to people who were viscerally uncomfortable always made her scales crawl, it was downright nauseating after long enough.

"Good gods, you're head over heels for him, aren't you my dear fellow? But very well. If those are the terms you want met, I will put his own happiness as my priority for this venture." Ooh, that's a little ominous. Maybe she should reword that? A glance at Alastor.. No, she'll leave it. "Well, our game plan is set. Now, I believe you owe me a story, dear fellow."

Alastor

He endures the vicious accusation without a flinch. He has no argument against it, anyway, except for his perpetual simmering indignation over the fact that it's true.

"Not a story; just an explanation." Might as well step back. They're not dancing anymore and he can use the added space. "At a point, I had to choose whether to stay forever or go forever. I chose to go." He's whittled away at what's a massive tree of a tale until it's a toothpick, small enough to squeeze out of his throat. "Of course, he's—stubborn. You know him. If I'd simply left, he would have pursued. I had to convince him I wasn't worth following." He huffs. "So I told him he bored me and blew up his fleet."

He spreads his hands as a little fanfare sound effect plays. Tadaaa.

https://youtu.be/bjxf-eQWKoo

YouTube

baniger3711

SOUND EFFECT TADA

Valera

Alastor may have gone out of his way to make the explanation as unimpressive as possible, but the look Valera gives him is one of pure horror. She backs away, gracelessly flopping back onto the couch and very deliberately taking up her tea to give herself something to do.

Her mind runs through the idea of wounding her own fiancé like that, betraying him so completely at the peak of his game. The damage that would cause would be... Dear gods. Would he even recover from that? No, no. She can't assume Alastor and his own Pentious had a bond like that. But they'd been close. Allies. And he'd clearly been in love, who knew how his Pentious had felt about someone so important. It's hard not to feel a tinge of malice for her friend, but. No, he was many things. Unrepentant wasn't one of them. He knew what he did was wrong. She said she'd help him fix things. By gods, was she going to fix things if it killed him. He might even like that.

"So you lied, and you ran, because.. You were afraid? Of what, your own feelings? The idea of being with him forever?" She snaps a hand up, a barrier between them, and shakes her head. "No, you don't have to answer that. You told me what you did, you answered my question. I've got no business pressing." Her cup is shaking in her grasp. When did that happen?

"I'm going to help you fix this. But I see now why you place his happiness at a higher priority than your own."

Alastor

She's horrified. He's vaguely glad of that. She should be. He knows what he's done, knows it's so monstrous that he can't even feel the monstrosity of it anymore. It's been over half a century. She's reacting the way he ought to every day when he sees himself in a mirror; but it hurts and he's gone numb.

He hopes he's dropped in her estimation.

He nods when she gives him permission not to answer—good, he doesn't want to answer. He doesn't think the answer's relevant. No possible motive short of I'd discovered he'd killed my mother would justify what Alastor had done; and if the motive doen't justify it, then the motive is irrelevant. "Good." His wan smile widens. "So we're on the same page now. Got all our priorities in order."

Valera

She takes a moment before she forces herself to look at him again, eyes sharp and lips set into a thin line. He wanted to fix his mistake. He was desperate to. He was willing to jump through any hoop it took, and she had to remember that. Chant it over and over in her head as she made herself nod. "We are." A slow breath in, a hold, and a slower exhale.

"What you did was.. I don't need to tell you. But I think you've beat yourself bloody over it without my help, there's no need for me to salt the wound. You want to make it right. That's the important part." Another breath. She isn't going to lash out. She's better than that, and it wouldn't help anyone. "You are my friend. I want to help you fix this horrible, awful mistake. Because it was a mistake. You chose wrong, and you've had to live with that ever since. When Pentious' airship is flying, we will review this. Shake my hand."

There are no pyrotechnics. No magical flair of lights or ominous humming, nothing to mark the moment binding as she extends a hand towards Alastor. Only the look in her eyes, and the unnatural stillness of her frame.

Alastor

He has fallen. Good. He should. And it means if things start to go wrong, she'll have a higher chance of trying to make sure things fall apart in a way that benefits who it's supposed to rather than in a way that benefits her "friend."

He'll be the one to mark it as binding, then. The lights around his hand are subdued compared to his usual glow; just a few little green threads coiling around and between his fingers.

He shakes without hesitation. He doesn't know what's put on the line in a bargain with a Veci—but this is the one, the only thing he'd sell his soul for.

Valera

The smile she forces is sickly sweet. The grip on his hand curling in until her claws are digging marks into his glove. But she releases before any damage is caused. Even now, she wouldn't hurt him unnecessarily. Anger isn't enough.

"Good. Until we review our terms, the only thing I ask is that you remain a good friend to my love. He thinks highly of you, and the bond you share is good for both of you. Rest assured, after I leave this room, I will treat you as I always have. He will hear nothing about this from me."

Alastor

Oh, he's plummeted. He takes a long, slow breath in. Okay. He understands. This isn't a friendship he deserves.

At her request, his breath catches. His eyes widen. Even after, she'd still trust him with...? "I..." His voice is thick with distortion; he tries to clear his throat with a staticky noise. "I—would do nothing less." He examines the marks on the back of his glove; then clasps his trembling hands behind his back and stands straighter. "I'd do anything I can, for him." Borderline unintelligible beneath the static. Shameful. His station would have been inundated with angry letters if they'd ever broadcast such a poor signal.

Valera

There it is. What she'd been waiting for. The disbelief, the raw emotion. A genuine show of weakness, intentional or no, at the barest trace of kindness he knew from the bottom of his miserable heart that he didn't deserve. Just what she needed. Somewhere, a balance tips.

Her smile turns, as soft and warm as ever, and she raises those same claws to cover her mouth as she chuckles. "I know, Alastor. I've made mistakes too. Nothing exactly like yours, but.." A shrug. "Mistakes that cost me dearly. Don't worry. I'm angry, and I'll need time to really absorb what you've told me here, but you're always welcome in my home. We'll fix this."

Alastor

The switch is too fast. He can't trust it. Suddenly it's only "mistakes." Suddenly it's merely "angry." Suddenly it's "welcome." Either it's a performance worthy of the Academy, or it's true—and of the two possibilities, the latter is infinitely worse. He's afraid that one's true.

He opens his mouth to speak, but he thinks if he tries it will just come out as static. He turns away sharply, and nods without showing Valera his face.

Valera

Oh, this poor man has no idea what to do with himself! She should at least put on a better face about it, but.. No. He'll have to realize at some point, that her emotions are purely her own to process, act on, or shove down into a tiny box and stomp on as she sees fit. Oh, if Pentious could see her he'd be shaking her by the shoulders by now.

She sighs, moving back to the piano to reorganize her sheet music. A polite disengagement, a chance to collect himself while she's busy. "I believe it's your turn now, Alastor. Though I can't imagine you coming up with a question in your current state."

Alastor

In your current state. That's galling enough that now he has to take his turn. "Wh—What—" pardon the interference, "—will it be like—on my end? Do I teleport back? Do I—ride my younger self?"

Valera

She cannot believe that worked. But it's a fine question, and the answer may distract him.

"If I were creating a branching reality, which would be the easy route, I'd take you back on a physical level and you'd simply march up to your younger self and tell him what for. Or kill him and attempt to take his place, I suppose, but that tends to work out very poorly."

A scoff. Oh, to be a being who had more than one version of themselves to worry about. "With what we're attempting, I'd essentially be melding your mind into that of your younger self. Like overlaying old film. Your time appropriate memories would be the most vivid, but you'd keep your current knowledge as reference, including our deal to send you back in the first place. A bit recursive, perhaps, but I'm not a temporal being."

Alastor

A pause. "Melding" sounds a little permanent. "And—at the end—how do we... get old me out of young me's head?"

Valera

"Well my dear, I'm surprised you'd even want to, when it would be so easy to crush you into one being, but the answer is simple!" She glances over her shoulder, grinning with all of her teeth. "I pull him out like a worm from the mud!"

Alastor

"Of course I want to. I don't get to stay there." Still turned away, he roughly wipes his face with the back of his sleeve. "Not after what I've done. But, the me as I was then—his conscience is clean. Let him reap the benefits alone."

Like a worm from the mud. How fitting.

Valera

She twitches, then reaches into her pocket for a handkerchief. Was this one of the ones she stole from Pentious? Yes. But she'll float it over to him anyway, like a tiny ghost. She'll even use it as a prop, dancing it around as she speaks. "And what am I to do with your current self, my dear Alastor? Keep you around like a leashed trophy, a wisp tied to no reality for my own amusement? That seems heartless, and I'll have you know that I've got four hearts."

Alastor

That's definitely one of Sir Pentious's. He snatches it out of the air. Valera's never getting it back.

"Toss me in the trash when I'm done." He laughs bitterly. "By all logic, I ought to disappear with my reality, oughtn't I? As far as things are concerned from your point of view, I'll just suddenly be upgraded to a better version of myself—less baggage, fewer regrets, and consort to the new king of Hell, hah."

He finally turns back around. Still smiling. Pay no mind to the slight redness around his eyes. Have you seen his eyelids?—that redness was probably always there maybe.

Valera

That's fine, she can steal more. Besides, better than using his sleeves. "Were it that easy, dear fellow! But I am not part of this reality, I'm a guest. I'll remember all of our dealings, like I've remembered every dealing I've had. I could toss you out, but why would I? The you that I know is the you that is a friend to my beau. The new you would be unpredictable. Is there any insurance, any reason for me to believe you would still be so kind?"

Alastor

Alastor considers that a moment. "Tell me you're a water spirit, the same way you did the first time we met, and tell me you sent the messenger who kept me from making a stupid mistake. There's your insurance."

It won't guarantee he'll be kind. But unless he changes beyond recognition, it will at least guarantee he'll be respectful enough not to be an enemy.

Valera

Valera mulls it over, turning it round and round in her mind as she approaches Alastor once more. This was too serious for playful distractions. And finally, she nods.

"Very well, Alastor. If you're so willing to sign your existence over to me for destruction, I'll try to play my part." Or something close enough, anyway. "For now, I suggest you do your best to get used to my company. We'll be seeing quite a bit of each other in the coming weeks."

Alastor

That's what he's doing, isn't it? Destruction. Hah. At least he's taking down a whole universe with him, that's something.

No, not destruction; replacement. With a better version of himself. The worst decades of his life scrubbed off like they'd never happened—like he'd never caused them. Cheating the game on a cosmic order. He is going to survive this, and he's going to get everything he wants.

"You say that like it's going to be a chore." He scoffs. "I have no reason to resent your company. I suggest you do your best to get used to mine."

Valera

Now it's HER turn to scoff. "Alastor, my good man, every day I wake up and you didn't sneak into my bed to try and cozy up to Pentious is a day I wake up surprised. We are from very different cultures with very different standards."

Alastor

"Well." Rueful laugh. "If he'd ever invited me to, you'd never get rid of me."

Just saying that out loud sends a shock of alarm through his system; even though there's hardly anything left to hide now, even though he's not saying anything that she doesn't already know.

Valera

Who knew all it took to get direct responses from Alastor was offering him his deepest desires and making him cry? It was so simple all along, how hadn't anyone else thought of it?

"Well! I'll be sure to keep that in mind. Now, I think we've had more than enough excitement for one day, don't you? Unless you've got any other questions you feel are pressing at this current time."

Alastor

Admittedly, the crying was optional.

And make no mistake—the only reason he's offering a direct response now is because he remembers full well that her encouragement is why Sir Pentious offered friendship in the first place. If there's the slightest chance that Sir Pentious would like a second guest in his bed and he conveys that info to Valera, she'll remember this conversation.

He racks his brain. "Poor interviewer that I am, I think I've run out of questions for my interviewee! Although I admit you've been less an interviewee and more an interrogator." Modest studio audience laugh; Alastor's getting back in character. "No queries, but one humble request: the next time you plan to rub my nose in my dirty laundry, let me take the first turn on the piano, would you?"

Valera

She snickers, but makes a show out of curtsying deeply in a grand show of apology. Yes, this is more comfortable. An emotional barrier by virtue of theatrics, something they both knew well. This was good. "I'll do my best, dear Alastor, but is it required after every piano recital, or can I enjoy your talents without the dramatics and emotional anguish?"

Popping back up, she tips her fins forward, then back, quirking one side of her mouth up until the dimple showed. "Oh, I should probably give you some form of resistance to my toxins, hm? I doubt we'll be touching each other often of our own free will, but being in close quarters to Penny means being close to me."

Alastor

Dramatics? The nerve. "The more recitals that conclude without my sins being flung back in my face, the better! I'm a comic actor—I'm just not suited to star in tragedies!"

Exactly how close are the quarters she's expecting to be in? He shrugs. "I'll never say no to a spare antidote. Or whatever it is you're offering...?"

Valera

"I could offer an injectable antitoxin in emergencies, but in your case, I think an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure." And now Alastor gets the pleasure of watching Valera go back to her own cup of tea, slam back the liquid like a shot, and then crush the cup in her fist. Then she turns back and he has a tiny bottle of pills shoved at him, Valera's emblem emblazoned on the lid.

"You get seven. Take one of these each time you anticipate being at risk of my toxins. They're take ten minutes to set in, they're effective for twelve hours, and they wont save you from ALL the symptoms, but they'll stop the worst of it. Don't expose them to high heat, it'll melt the casing off and then the magic will explode out violently."

Alastor

She's basically guaranteed that he's going to drop one of these in a cooking pot on a campfire and then watch from a hill with binoculars.

He examines the bottle curiously. "You simply must teach me how you make these."

Valera

He should. She did, and it was incredible.

The pills inside are the size of a pinkie nail, white and round with a pearlescent.. Actually, they just look like pearls. Did she give him a bottle of pearls? She might have. "You want to learn how to make an antitoxin? Or the magic behind it?" She'd be willing either way, she's VERY proud of her accomplishment.

Alastor

"Both, obviously! A form of magic I haven't played with yet and the ability to brew up my own antitoxin so I don't have to pester you for more after every few visits? Why would I pass up on either?"

Valera

"Hah! Fair enough. Alright. Next time we visit, your place or mine, I'll teach you. I'd love to see if you could master it, I had to create the technique myself and it is quite the hodgepodge." Alastor's going to have to learn to extract toxins from a fish, oh boy.

Alastor

"Everything I know is a hodgepodge! I look forward to the challenge." And he's going to love doing it.

Valera

Well, that's all she can think of-- Oh wait. "Alastor, while we're on the subject, did you want a sampling of Veci flesh to try? Not mine, unfortunately, but the fellow that Pentious disposed of. I saved a sample for you, but never thought to offer it up."

Alastor

"I'd be delighted to! I hope the sample comes with a recommended recipe or two?"

Valera

A dainty gasp, mock offense painted on her face. "As if I'd ever neglect you so terribly! I transcribed a few of my favorites over into English, just for you." She claps her hands, and presents Alastor with a torso sized chunk of tail, chopped straight from the bastard himself and neatly wrapped in cheesecloth and cooking twine. Craving seafood, Alastor?

Alastor

Always.

He accepts the bundle with a gracious half-bow. "As always, a pleasure to deal with you." And one of Sir Pentious's kills, no less. My, my. He looks forward to finally hearing that story.

Valera

A pleasure to deal with her? Of course it was. "Of course! Now. Recipes are on the table, help yourself to the venison. I'd best be off, Penny's sure to get lost in his own mind if I don't check in and harass him to rest. I'll be seeing you, my dear."

Alastor

He glances at the table, almost says something, then just nods. "Until next time."

Valera

And she's off, gone in the blink of an eye back to.. Wherever she was going.

Alastor

And Alastor goes to pick up the recipes and venison from the table... then instead sets down the chunk of tail meat, sinks onto the couch, and stares at nothing.

[monkeyandelf]

Global elitists are not human

by Brandon Smith It is often said that separating people as "others" in general can be dangerous, and separating your enemies as "others" in particular can be tactically detrimental. For example, it can lead to a false sense of superiority over these people by displaying an imaginary genetic advantage. This can also lead to dangerous generalizations to large groups of people, categorizing and filing millions as being exactly alike, while it is not reasonably possible. However, separating as "others" is probably the only option when facing a very special type of person embracing a certain brand of ideology - separating as "others" can become a matter of survival. Of course, I'm talking about the globalists. Not for the low-level buddies and useful idiots in the globalization tense or "movement", since many of them simply represent a hidden gullibility or stupidity among people drawn from the hereditary academic world. Instead, I'm talking about the people behind the veil - self-proclaimed "globalists" or internationalists who have positioned themselves in strategic centers of power. I'm talking about people who influence or openly control government policies that stand over the shoulders of supposedly elected officials. I am talking about people who influence economic security or insecurity through non-liable central banking conglomerates. I am talking about men and women who want to dictate the fates of billions. These people are difficult to identify by any means other than their rhetoric and actions. They are made up of many ethnic groups. They announce from all over the planet. They do not belong to any spiritual doctrine, but are publicly devoted to a variety of religions as a means of "fitting in" with ordinary citizens. Globalism is their religion. And their god? Well, they see themselves as gods. To be a globalist, however, one must do more than accept the principles of globalism; these are character traits and actions that need to be considered. After much study of the behavior of globalists and their organizations, I have noticed that their psychological models tend to coincide with a narrow group of people who are best described as "criminally insane." More specifically, globalists behave like highly functional narcissistic sociopaths and psychopaths. But what are the characteristic features of such people? Let's take a look at some of them ... False sense of superiority - Self-exaltation Everyone wants to be perceived as important and unique. But narcissistic sociopaths believe they are entitled to a special attitude and see themselves as above the laws and subtle differences of a normal society. Sometimes they try to support this attitude through "achievements", scratching for positions of power and influence to reinforce the notion that they are more special than others. Of course, power is usually an artificial construction, because the only power we have over others is the power they give us, consciously or not. Power does not make a person special. The narcissistic sociopath does not distinguish these things, however. He / she differentiates only between the people who strive for domination and everyone else. In their minds, people who crave power are the highest subspecies, while people who do not crave power are considered nothing. Honestly, I see no reason not to make the same absolute claim, only the other way around. Narcissistic sociopaths and psychopaths are fascinated by visions of seeming grandeur. They do not view the content of their achievements as necessarily important. That is, they think they are born great, therefore, what is it like for them to achieve something that serves the benefit of others or develops the knowledge of humanity. They do not care to prove their greatness through good achievements - they just care that people BELIEVE that they are special, that they are anointed. Manipulation and coercion The narcissistic sociopath usually prefers to get what he wants easily. He expects people to automatically worship and obey him. But if he does not get what he wants, as he is accustomed to, he will use all the means at his disposal. This usually involves threatening with force or use of force, torture, gossip and intrigue to squeeze the victim into a corner (to make her behave in a certain way), use of psychological conditioning (shaping behavior, usually through fear reactions) , as well as "burning the wick" (accusing the victim of being "crazy" if she does not accept the distorted narcissist's outlook). Of course, such a confused person is never really satisfied, even when he gets what he wants. He always wants more, there is always something else he needs to fill the endless void within himself. Lack of sympathy for others Not all daffodils are sociopaths, but most sociopaths are daffodils. When it comes to narcissus, it is important to remember that there are varying degrees of this psychological cancer. When I refer to globalists in particular as "daffodils," I mean their tendency to act as high-functioning narcissists with sociopathic leanings. In other words, they are daffodils who not only have an inflated sense of self worth, but also lack compassion and conscience. They are willing to hurt others to any degree to get what they want right now, as long as they think they can avoid the consequences of their actions. There is also the question of the difference between sociopaths and psychopaths. This is a bit difficult to describe as they are very similar in many ways. Let me put it this way - as sociopaths pursue a goal and are willing to trample on people to achieve it, psychopaths trample on people, even when they have not set a goal. That is, the psychopath enjoys the art of destruction; what he wants most is to hurt other people. Both sociopaths and psychopaths seem to have seeped into the ranks of global institutions. Some of them want to raise their idol and do not care who they injure in the process. Some enjoy the pleasure of hurting as many people as possible. Desperate need for adoration The narcissistic sociopath lacks the ability to achieve a level of respect through coercion. After all, what he wants is for the lower masses to voluntarily accept his greatness as absolute, as an obvious and irrefutable fact of life. What he wants is honor and devotion. As mentioned earlier, they want to be treated like gods by people around them, and if they are particularly ambitious, from around the world. This is indeed a strange pursuit, as it requires skillful intrigue and manipulation. If one is not a great person, let alone a godlike person, the amount of psychological conditioning needed to convince people of the opposite is essential. This makes the narcissistic sociopath a potential slave to his own continually set up conspiracies; lies pile upon each other and intrigue after intrigue in search of something they will never truly achieve. Globalists are psychologically damaged nonhumans In the world of alternative analysis and investigative journalism, it is not uncommon to come across people who attribute a non-terrestrial rank to globalists. Some people see them as a symbol of the biblical Apocalypse - servants of the depths of hell. Others see them literally as alien, interdimensional beings posing as human beings. And while many will laugh at such people as conspiratorial freaks, I think it's important to understand why they see the globalists this way. When confronted with real and organized evil, emptied of all care or remorse, one may be tempted to seek supernatural explanations. I'm not sure if I'm against this idea. Globalists show most, not to mention all the treacherous signs of narcissistic sociopaths, including lack of conscience and moral compass. Although there are many definitions of what makes us human, there is something like a universal requirement, regardless of culture, namely, a requirement for something like a soul. What is the soul? How about a basic desire to be truthful with others, even if it means that we will not receive everything we want all the time? It's a good starting point, but there's more to it than that. Psychologists and scientists have for many decades found a pattern of innate traits embedded in the human psyche - traits found in humans from birth that remain outside the influence of the social environment. Carl Jung is the first expert in this field of "archetypal traits" with a comprehensive catalog of case studies from around the world, including tribal Africa. An important part of archetypal or innate knowledge and traits is the notion of good and evil - we are born with the understanding that some behaviors are constructive, while others are destructive and contrary. This is probably the source of what we call 'conscience'. Unfortunately, not all people are born with a conscience. For some people, the difference between good and evil or constructive and destructive behavior is blurred or insignificant. Jung and other psychologists refer to this subclass of our species as "latent" sociopaths and psychopaths. Together they make up about 10% of each crop or group. Many of them go "latent" and are less or less harmless throughout their lives, unless certain unstable environmental conditions provide fuel for their malfunction. About 1% are born as complete sociopaths and psychopaths. These are what I would call "inhuman". This is because high levels of narcissism and sociopathy are traditional "mental illnesses" and rooted in character traits. A narcissistic sociopath cannot be "cured" of his illness because it is not a disease - they are just that. If you deprive them of narcissism and sociopathy, there will be nothing left of their personality. When a normal person comes in contact with someone who has no innate conscience, he immediately recoils; he feels like he has run into a monster. This is not an exaggeration, it is just that. Narcissists and high-class sociopaths are physically human, of course, but if we have to look visually into their psyche, we will find a wasteland - a place where ghouls lurk. They do not dream like normal people. They do not enjoy the way normal people rejoice. They are not satisfied with the things that usually excite the rest of us. They are incapable of loving others. They are unable to regret their actions and only feel sorry for when they fail to get what they want. They don't see other people as personalities - they see them as tools to use. Being a sociopath does not mean that we are not aware of how the rest of us function. On the contrary, sociopaths are very good at identifying the personal desires and aspirations of others and in imitating people in a way that makes them look "human." They are parasites by nature and thus need to be able to approach their victims victims if they are to survive. The dynamic of the globalist is interesting in that it is an example of organized narcissistic sociopathy. Globalists have led many wars, economic collapses and tyrannies over the years - all ending with great suffering for the masses. Contrary to popular belief, sociopaths and psychopaths WORK together toward a common goal, as long as there is a sense of mutual benefit. In fact, these people seem to gravitate to each other in strange ways. It is my belief that the hierarchies of globalists are actually looking for people with narcissistic and sociopathic personalities; that they do it deliberately when they want to expand their ranks. These seem to be the only aspects that are common to all of them. That's a pretty "conspiracy theory," I know. But look at it this way - how else can we explain their inclinations and behaviors? If organized destruction were the innate value of humanity, we would have died long ago. Globalists are not human, however. They are something contrary to this and if you do not understand this basic truth, they can be confusing and horrifying. Read the full article

[neen-writes]

Silver for Monsters -- Chapter 3

Series: Witcher/Fairy Tail

Pairing: Gajevy

Summary: In a world ravaged by monsters where magic is becoming outlawed and nonhumans are hunted, the Witcher known as Black Steel Gajeel takes up a contract. He expects to find a simple old herbalist, terrorized by a beast in the woods. But in his many years he has learned to never trust what he expects.

Notes: I’m a terrible person because I was literally so excited to post that I FORGOT TO TAG/THANK @spikerr for beta-reading this for me!! And sticking through my streams as I hunted for inspiration.

Ch. 1 Ch. 2

Gajeel coughed in surprise as he fell, face first, into the grass.  His hands searched quickly, frantically, for… well he didn’t know what he was reaching for.  One moment he had been in the refugee camp and the next he was swallowed up into a black malestrom. The tug of the sorceress on his chest had disappeared at some point, and he found his stomach in his throat, all senses caught in a headspin with nothing to hold onto.

Then he was on solid ground, somewhere completely different.  He could count on one hand how many times he had gone through portals in the past, and as he rolled over, gasping for air, he remembered why he had sworn to never do it again the last time.  If he could help it.

“Lily!” Gajeel called out gruffly as he pushed himself upright and sheathed his steel blade on his back.  There was no reply at first, then he heard branches snapping and another loud thud… followed by very familiar groaning.

“Bloody… sorceresses!” he heard his friend curse from somewhere in the nearby wood, and moments later the older Witcher stumbled out, trying to get his bearings back.  He staggered and fell sideways against a tree, swallowing hard.  “What… the hell, happened back there?” Lily growled at his friend, who remained on the ground.  Far more affected by the portal than he.

Gajeel shook his head, just as baffled.  He opened his mouth to reply, but sounds elsewhere drew his attention.

“I’m sorry,” the blue-haired mage emerged, her only dishevelment being that which had already been given to her at the camp, but exhaustion was clear on her face.  The Witchers could barely see her sides moving--heaving--under the slightly baggy tunic.  She pushed some hair from her face and leaned forward to pat some dust from her soft leather trousers, which comfortably hugged her legs.  “It would have been a smoother ride but I was in a hurry, and I’m not used to teleporting others with me…”  The mage trailed off, something else bothering her.  It shouldn’t have been that hard for her, but her last ditch attack and teleport had taken a substantial amount of stamina from her.

“We would have rathered you didn’t,” Lily remarked, and Gajeel was halfway inclined to agree with him.

Levy shot him a look, “Oh I’m sorry, I generally assume that people would rather not be stuck in the situation you were.  I recall you being quite vocal about leaving it.”

“It seems we were only in it because of you,” Lily replied, “Either Radovid has gotten bolder or he just wants you so badly that he’d send troops into Nilfgaardian territory for you.  With no promise the Black Ones would even let them back out.”

The mage was quiet for a moment, averting her gaze.  That thought had come to her the moment she heard they were coming for her.  And while she wanted to believe the Redanians were reckless, she wasn’t foolish enough to settle on that answer.  There were parties on both sides of the war that sought to benefit from capturing the remaining members of the Lodge, and the only logical answer was that there had to have been some kind of deal struck, with her as a prize or bargaining chip.

“You’re in the Lodge, aren’t you?” Lily pressed, scrutinizing her.  Gajeel’s gaze flicked between the two; he had come to the same conclusion after he met her the first time, but it was on a hunch.  Lily had been given much more evidence. “There’s no other reason why the troops would bother with a mage so far south.”

“There is no Lodge anymore,” Levy replied, tight lipped and even-toned.  And there won’t be anyone left of it at this rate.  If they know where I am… that I’m still alive…  

The older witcher huffed and crossed his arms, but Gajeel took a hard step forward.  “Back down, Lil,” Gajeel finally found his words, pulling himself to his feet and dusting off his dark armor as he glanced around them.  “The real question right now is, where are we?”

Levy, lifted out of her thoughts, looked to Gajeel now.  “Somewhere near Mulbrydale.  I tried to get us as far north as possible but, you two are heavy,” she smiled, a tiny offering to the tension between the three.  It did little.

The two Witchers glanced to each other, incredulously, and the first thing Lily could think to say was, “My horse.”

There was a beat of silence before the sorceress rolled her eyes, “That’s your concern?”  By the look on Gajeel’s face, he agreed.  

“A good horse is hard to come by.  And ours are the best,” Gajeel replied, “Mine can outrun a pack of wolves easy.”  Lily nodded quickly, knowing his own horse had equal talents.  Both were thoroughbred and they had acquired them as rewards from different contracts years past.

Levy crinkled her nose and stood back from the two.  She didn’t know what she had expected after bothering to help the them, but she was more than used to the scrutiny against sorceresses.  She had hoped with the equal discrimination and ghost stories about Witchers that they might have been more open to her.  However, none of that mattered in the end, because she had managed to escape the threat for now, but was faced with a new challenge.  “So you will go back for them?”

“I will,” Lily responded, glancing to Gajeel as though he expected him to answer differently.  “We failed quite miserably at the camp, I would prefer to not have lost everything today.”  What he didn’t say was that he wished to see if anyone had survived, and if the area could be rebuilt in any way.  The older Witcher studied the small mage for a moment, before finally sighing.  “Thank you.  For pulling us out of there.”  It was a reluctant offering, but he couldn’t in good conscience not thank her.  But it was clear to him that she was far more trouble than it was worth, and with that he turned to leave, and beckoned Gajeel to follow him.  The black-haired Witcher did not move immediately, still studying the mage.  

He wanted to say more to her, to stay, to ask if she was alright, but he had no reason to.  He had every reason to leave with Lily.  And after a moment, he loosed a breath and started to turn.

“Wait,” Levy said, before realizing.  I can’t go back.  I knew I would only be able to stay there for a short time but… now it’s different.  They know it was me.  They know I didn’t die that day.  She looked to them both, knowing which one would be more agreeable already.  “Another contract.”

Both paused, lifting their brows.  Gajeel glanced to Lily, then back to her.  There might be the reason.  

“You’re not gonna go back to Midcopse after what happened; so what’ve you got to pay with?” Gajeel asked.

The woman sighed, knowing secrecy did her little good at this point.  “Midcopse was not my only home, and it was not where I kept all my belongings.  I brought some of my books with me, but I have kept the rest of my property hidden elsewhere, with a friend.  Along with the rest of my money.  I can pay more than I did for the Fiend.”

Gajeel looked to Lily, who still looked skeptical.  But, with their last venture failing so spectacularly, it might not hurt.  “What is the contract?” Gajeel asked, looking more interested than he might have intended.

“I need to get to my friend in Novigrad,” she said simply. “And I need an escort.”

“Why not teleport then?  You’re quite good with that,” Lily queried, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

Levy sighed, “Because I don’t have the strength.  Getting us out here drained a lot from me and I need to save my energy,” she paused, neglecting to mention that her magic felt very different.  Did they feed me something?  As a backup plan?  “Especially if I am going to try to get into the city,” she finished.  She could figure out the ‘what’ later, but she needed to get to the city first.

“And your friend is…?” Lily asked, his tone loaded.  He already had an idea: another member of the Lodge.  Levy did not answer him, which gave him the confirmation he needed.  “I’d rather not get--”

“I’ll do it.”

Both Levy and Lily looked to Gajeel quickly, who looked completely resolved to his decision.  Levy smiled, an air of relief on her face, but Lily quickly stepped up to his friend and took him by the shoulder.  “Are you sure?” he whispered, “Gajeel, you do not want to be between the Lodge and this war.”

The black-haired Witcher met his gaze, yellow eyes glimmering, “I’m sick of not sleepin’,” he replied, tone equally low.  Lily lifted his bows, understanding what he meant.  

Those dreams had plagued him for weeks, and in every one it seemed like she was calling out to him.  Trying to reach him.  And then he finds her trapped in that camp?  He hated the idea of fate, or anything of that nature, but there was something that had brought him to her; twice.  The least he could do was see this contract through.

“Then it is yours.  I’ll return for our horses, and to see what’s left of the camp.  I’ll meet up with you eventually,” Lily said, before looking to the mage, “Best of luck to you.”  She couldn’t tell if he was being sincere, but he shot a look of ‘be careful’ to his friend, before turning from them both.

Levy watching him leave, then looked to Gajeel, “Thank you.  I know it is not a small request, nor is it… what you usually do.”

“It’s a contract,” Gajeel shrugged.  It was more than that, he could feel that it was more than that.  But he had only met her twice, and he was now bound by his word to provide her safe passage.

Levy raised her hand in front of her face, before sweeping it downward.  The filth of her imprisonment disappeared from her clothing, but she didn’t bother to heal her minor injuries.  Over her shoulders a large, navy blue cloak appeared, fastened over the neckline of her yellow tunic with a wing-shaped broach.  She wavered slightly, loosing a breath, I could feel even that...when it should be nothing.  She reached up and pulled the hood of her cloak over her head; she needed to at least try to hide her identity on the way and she wasn’t exactly inconspicuous.  

“We should be able to secure a horse in Mulbrydale,” Gajeel remarked, trying not to stare, “Novigrad is a long way on foot.”

She didn’t love the idea, knowing how much the poor village already struggled, but nodded slowly.  “I’ll leave that to you.”

“Did you at least pay for it?”

“I’m a Witcher not a degenerate.  I don’t actually like stealing from the poor; of course I paid for it,” Gajeel replied from behind her.  The village was slowly fading from view behind them as the horse ambled down the dirt path.  The Witcher did the best he could to ignore how close they were, with the small sorceress somehow fitting into the saddle in front of him.  He could still smell the lavender on her.

Levy sighed, keeping her spine stiff to avoid touching him as much as possible, but it wasn’t entirely avoidable, as their thighs brushed against one another.  “Was there… not a second horse?”

“It was their last one.  They wouldn’t sell it.”  He understood what she implied with the question, and he too would have preferred a second mount, if not for propriety then at least for comfort.  Sitting so stiffly for the both of them was not an ideal way to spend a trip of any length.

Levy didn’t answer him, and kept her eyes ahead.  The road was empty except for the occasional traveller, who barely deigned them with a glance.  Too many of their own troubles to deal with.  There had been no signs of her pursuers.  But she knew the farther North they got, the less that would ring true.  She was headed into the enemy territory for the sake of a friend.  Hopefully more than one.  If she had kept her megascope, she could have tried to reach them that way, but it was ultimately too risky to have something like that in Midcopse.  The books were a danger enough; she would lament the loss of those, but at least the most valuable of her grimoires were in Novigrad.  

At least, she hoped so.  She hadn’t heard from any of the Lodge since Levy had left Novigrad behind.  Some even long before then; there were those who refused to speak to them to avoid drawing any more attention, and then those who just… disappeared entirely.  The witch hunts had gained such traction with Radovid’s underhanded encouragement and the Church of the Eternal Fire had surged to power and reverence that kept everyone of their kind in hiding.  The mages were a dying race.  

Though Levy had some illusions under her belt, she did not have the skill for polymorphy that her friend had; it made sense for her to at least try to stay behind in Novigrad, but not Levy.  She felt she could do more good in the swamps, where people suffered out of sight.

“What’s the real reason ya can’t get yourself to the city?  Did well enough back in the camp,” the Witcher broke the tense silence again. He could see her shoulders slump a little, but when she brushed against his chest, she sat straight again.

“What I did at the camp was all I had left, and it should have been more.  Dimeritium shackles alone don’t have such lasting effects; I suspect they were feeding me something to keep me weak,” she paused, “It should be temporary, I don’t know of anything that will last more than a few days.”

They were poisoning her then.  In case she was strong enough to get out of the shackles.  He’d heard of it before, mages who were powerful enough to bypass the effects of dimeritium.  Did they think she could have been that powerful?  Time would have to show, but they had a different objective to focus on.  “Do you have a plan for getting into Novigrad?  Or across the bridge?  The border station is not far off,” Gajeel broke her from her thoughts.

Levy shifted uncomfortably in her seat, “I had not planned to head back so soon.  I don’t have it all worked out, but I do know that there are always those we can secure passes from ahead of the bridge.  And just hope that word of my escape hasn’t spread this far yet.”  The Redanians had taken over the most accessible crossing over the Pontar, and she already knew the border post would be their first hurdle.  The Redanians vetted everyone that crossed through, and these days you needed passes to get across the river.  Once they got that far, getting to her friend’s residence in Novigrad would be the easy part. Hopefully.

Gajeel sighed, wondering now why he had agreed to this.  “Ya know, if this is the kind of contract that involves me fighting tooth and nail all the way t’ Novigrad, that’s extra.”

Levy laughed a little then, turning her head to peek over her shoulder from beneath the hood.  “While I appreciate the implication that you would, I don’t expect that of you.  Rest assured.  Just because I don’t have a full plan does not mean I am incapable.”  She was talking away her doubts as much as she was his.  “I will get us across the border, and into the city.  If we run into any complications, that is where you come in.”

Gajeel hummed the affirmative after a moment, and heeled the sides of the grey mare to urge her forward.  “Why would your friend choose Novigrad of all places?  Why not Kovir?  Or anywhere but the heart of the witch hunts.”

The mage was quiet for a moment, her words stalled by long practiced secret guarding.  “I thought Witchers were supposed to be the quiet type,” she elected to tease first.

“Rumor,” he quipped with a small smirk.

She smiled slightly, “She wanted to help people.  In defiance of the now infamous Pyres of Novigrad--” she gestured in front of her to try and mime them, ”--she was convinced she could smuggle people out.  Doing that and keeping hold of all our effects, despite the danger, is a smack in the face to the witch hunters.”  The sorceress paused for a moment, and sighed heavily, “A life of hiding can very quickly lose all its meaning unless you do something about it.”

Gajeel had no reply for that, and instead took note of the fact that the landscape had started to change.  He had been through this way before multiple times, but had since lost his previous passes.  Still, he recognized the change; the closer they got to the Redanian station, the fewer trees were left standing.  Many had been cut down for their wood, and primarily cleared out for sentries to see all who came long before they reached the bridge.  For him, trying to smuggle a sorceress across the border, it was non-ideal.  

But as she had predicted, there were already many people mulling about the road leading up to the bridge.  A small line of travellers ahead of them waited to get through, and the people on the side of the road were clearly trying to talk to them.  The Redanians never seemed to notice or, if they did, care that the passes were being traded.  Bigger fish to fry, he thought, scooting back from her a little.  She glanced back at him as he placed his palms on the saddle in the space he had made, and with perfect ease swung one leg back over the rear of the horse to dismount.

He grabbed the reins and walked the horse the rest of the way, taking his time and looking to each individual in front of of him.  

“Witcher,” Levy piped up, quietly.

Gajeel glanced up to her, seeing now that the hair beneath her hood was a dull brown.  Smart, he thought, before following the inclination of her head to a lanky man standing to the side of the road. His garb was simple enough, worn cotton with some red trim that fit fairly loosely over a thin, but sinewy frame.  A leather belt slung over his hips held a square pouch to his side, over which he kept a hand rested as casually as possible.  Russet eyes watched the passersby more attentively than others, passing over those who looked like they already had the papers they needed.  

The Witcher nodded, keeping his eyes on the man while continuing to proceed forward.  Soon enough, his eyes met Gajeel’s, and a satisfied smile tugged at the thin corners of his mouth.  

“Bound for Novigrad?” he asked, tilting his head ever so slightly.  “You look like you’ve traveled far, you may have a look at my wares if you are in need of supplies.”

Posing as a merchant.  That’s one way to do it, the Witcher remarked to himself.  He had opened his mouth to reply, but a small vibration around his neck stole his words.  The Witcher did not move as his muscles coiled beneath his armor.  He did not reach for his humming medallion, but instead watched the man in front of him with an ounce more of attentiveness.  He could not look him over without being obvious, therefore just kept his gaze on the merchant’s seemingly human face, the only abnormality being the dark skin lining his eyes.

“Yes, we have run low on what we need to make it the rest of the way,” Levy had spoken up in his silence, taking hold of the conversation.

“Excellent,” the merchant replied, opening his pouch and pulling two slips of parchment from it.  “You’ll not find better quality anywhere else.”

He’s good.  The facade comes easy, Gajeel thought.  Medallion wouldn’t hum for a doppler, means it might be a charm or illusion.  Could just be in hiding.  Could also be something else.  Whatever he was, he was intelligent, and his illusion, polymorphy, or charm was solid.  But not solid enough in the way a doppler or even high vampire might escape the sensitivities of his pendant.

As though picking up on his train of thought, the merchant flicked his eyes to the Witcher, and ever so slowly trailed his gaze down to the wolf medallion. “Exquisite work, that is,” he commented, his words conspicuously loaded, “Only ever seen one other like it,” he added, visibly fighting his own smirk.  Gajeel had started to prickle, fingers oh-so-tempted to reach for his silver, when Levy bounced a little in her saddle.

“How much,” Levy interrupted, anxious to secure their passage and move on.  She did not know the origin of the tension but with Redanians so close, it was not something she wanted to stall with.  “For the supplies?” she clarified.

“Nothing,” he answered quickly, looking up to her.

“Horseshit,” Gajeel growled, already on edge.  “If they’re free we don’t want ‘em.”

“Wait,” Levy interjected, trying to keep her voice down, “Don’t mind my brutish friend.  Surely there is something that can be used as payment.”

“My apologies.  It seems I don’t speak quickly enough.  Nothing at this time.  But in this profession… you never forget a face.  And I frequent Novigrad for my own supplies.  I am sure I will see you again, you may repay me another day.”  The merchant held out the papers to Gajeel, who sniffed and scrutinized them.  “Call me an advocate for the unorthodox. We need to stick together,” he winked devilishly, ”so for now I only request you two continue as you have, together.  Defiance is the best resistance.”

The Witcher may have been entirely distrusting of this, but Levy leaned over in the saddle and took the papers from him.  “Deepest thanks,” she offered pleasantly, “and we will.”

Something unreadable flickered across his eyes and then was gone just as quickly as it had appeared. “Safe travels to you both, and mind the Pyres,” the merchant offered a bow of his head, flicking his gaze between the two of them before ambling back the way they had come, seeking out other ‘customers.’

Gajeel tensely led the horse forward, tracking how much distance he put between them, and waited for his medallion to calm before speaking.  “It was stupid to take those,” he finally growled, low enough for only her to hear.  

“It would have been worse not to,” Levy replied with equal seriousness in her tone.  She wasn’t dense, she saw what he saw in the man’s demeanor.  “A problem for another day.  And as I was the one who agreed, a problem for me.  You only need to mind your current contract.”

“Lots of beings in this world that can strike deals without you knowin’.  Tie themselves to ya,” he pressed.

Levy was quiet for a beat, intentionally keeping her eyes away from him.  “I’ve seen him before.”

The Witcher swung his gaze up to her, his expression demanding an explanation he did not dare to say out loud.

“I wasn’t sure until we got closer, but he has been to Midcopse before. Came through about a year ago.  He sells magical artifacts and paraphernalia, and he does business in his own way while facing his own risks,” she replied. “Making friends with non-humans and magic-users is good business.”

“And he looked like that?”

“Yes now hush, and take the passes,” Levy shoved them down towards him to quiet him as they approached the bridge, and automatically two soldiers arranged themselves to stop them.  

“Your papers,” one of them ordered.  He sounded like he’d already been doing it for hours, and took the offered slips from Gajeel.  He looked them over, and Levy watched his expression for anything out of the ordinary.  Anything that would set them off.  “What’s your business?”

“Contract,” Gajeel replied calmly.

The guard looked to him now, studying him, and lifted his brows when he caught sight of the yellow eyes.  There was a glimmer of disapproval, but he seemed to understand.  A Witcher needed no other excuse, least of all one so well known.  He glanced to Levy next.  “And the girl?”

“Part of the contract,” he replied as the guard quirked a brow, “Retrieving a wealthy merchant’s daughter.”  The Redanians stared at them both, taking note of the hooded woman’s split lip, the bruise that had blossomed on her jawline.  It was plausible, but a glance between the two of them still held doubt.

There was a heavy moment before the guard finally spoke up again, and in that moment Gajeel’s medallion pulsed again.  Only once, and then it went silent.  “All appears in order,” the guard said, his tone clipped.  The second guard’s face had gone blank.  Gajeel blinked as they stepped aside, opening the way for them to head across the bridge.  

The Witcher only nodded and tugged the horse forward with him.  It looked like they were actually going to get through the post without setting off the whole camp, and he wasn’t going to second guess that.  Not until they were in the clear.  

The first bridge connected to a small islet in the middle of the Pontar where more of the soldiers had gathered.  But thankfully, they were occupied with their own business, with the guards at the head of the bridge taking care of any of the through traffic.  Still, Levy sat stiff in the saddle, focused on the travellers that were in front of them.  Follow them, we are travellers just the same, she told herself.  Eyes forward.

It felt like an eternity of passing by the red cloaks and flags,  The white eagle spread across the banner threatened her; watched her.  She felt like she held her breath the whole time, and she might have, because her lungs were burning by the time they crossed the second bridge and left the station behind.

Levy released her tension in one breath and slumped her shoulders.  “That went smoother than expected,” she remarked, breathlessly.

“It might not have if ya hadn’t cast that charm,” Gajeel replied.  The guard had looked ready to interrogate her moments before his medallion responded to the magic presence, and he let them through.

Levy looked to him, a blue curl peeking out from the hood again as she removed the small illusion. She assumed he meant her hair.  “A simple trick.  But effective,” she replied, looking forward.  In the haze over the horizon, she could see the towers of Novigrad, as plumes of black smoke swirled their way into the sky above, and she swallowed down her nerves.

Every gate leading into Novigrad was always full of activity.  And it was where the first witch hunters could be seen, milling about, watching the people who came in and out.  Today was no different, and she felt a wave of deja vu crash over her.  It had been so long since she had been to the city, but somehow here she was again.  And everything had changed.

Levy was glad to not be heading through them, and Gajeel had been confused when she directed them elsewhere.  She reached out and placed her hand over his, pulling the reins to their left.  It took everything in him to dismiss the flutter in his chest as she did so, and he instead turned his attention to the district they now headed for.

Farcorners was the largest district in Novigrad, sprawling across green farmland outside the walls of the city itself.  Ah, that makes far more sense, he thought.  It was safer here for non-humans, and he’d known of mages to hide here as well.  The witch hunters, for now, focused their activity inside the city, and there was a small chance to keep a low profile in this area.

Levy took charge of directing them through the paths between houses, before finally stopping in front of a two story home near the center of the district.  “This is it,” she muttered, and Gajeel dismounted the horse as he had before.  He extended a hand to her and she looked at it a moment, before finally taking it to help herself down.

The mage took steady steps to the door and knocked quickly.  It took several moments before the door opened, revealing a taller man with glasses, and wild, orange hair.  He looked first to Gajeel, who admittedly stood out a little more than the small woman at his side.  “Can I he--” the words cut off when he looked finally to Levy, who had lifted her hand to pull back her hood just slightly.  She said nothing, but looked expectantly to the man.  She hadn’t seen this one before, and needed to be sure before she fully gave herself away.

Like a ripple over still water, the image of the red-head flickered and nearly lost it’s form for a split second as his eyes went wide, mouth hanging open.  “Levy?!” he gasped, his voice taking on a suddenly more female pitch.  Levy answered with a tiny smile.  He looked around quickly and beckoned both of them inside.  “Get in here…!” he urged, closing the door behind them.  The second it clicked shut, the image of the man melted away… and instead reformed into a very surprised blonde woman, looking like she had a million questions on the tip of her tongue.

“Oh Lucy, you have no idea how happy I am to see you.”

[jumpingjaxx13]

Fluffy proposal/Wedding planning for Thrawn/Eli if you're still taking prompts!?

((But of course! I hope this is alright!))

“I’ve been thinking. We’ve been together a while now, and with your new promotion and whatnot, I reckon…  Maybe we should get hitched?”

The two of them had been lounging in the comfort of the Grand Admiral’s suite, basking in that sweet, rare moment of calm. Eli’s legs were slung over Thrawn’s lap, his head resting on the arm of the sofa as his lover used his shins to prop up his datapad. It was the little, quiet moments like these where words weren’t necessary- where he could just watch and admire the man he loved without the pressures of imperial propriety weighing down on them both. Here, they didn’t need to be the Chiss grand admiral and the backwater hick from Wild Space; they were simply Mitth’raw’nuruodo and Eli Vanto, two men in love and enjoying each other’s company.

And it was beautiful- no, Thrawn was beautiful, composed of elegant angles and an aura of cool intelligence that he couldn’t help but resonate. While stoicism appeared to be his favored face, Eli had long since picked apart the microexpressions; a curve of the lips, a bow of the head, a shift of weight, a glint in his eyes, and infinitely more ways to read his true feelings. When he’d first pointed this out, Thrawn had been so proud…

Of course, he always preferred the macroexpressions. When he smiled- when he really smiled- his entire essence lit up, and Eli swore that the room grew warmer tenfold. He didn’t frown when sad- no, he deflated, his confidence and pride leaking out of him like air from a depressed balloon until he collapsed. These moments were saved for when they were alone and he could sink into Eli’s arms, where he knew he couldn’t be reprimanded for such a vulnerable display. Raw anger frightened him more than any blaster could, for the room shrank into darkness around him, those vibrant red eyes the menacing source of Thrawn’s unhinged passions. To this very day, Eli would insist that a truly angry Thrawn was the most dangerous beast he’d ever encountered, though he refused to tell the tale. But nothing endeared him quite as much as when he pondered something, his brow furrowed and his lips pouted into a little, concentrating dip, such as he had been when he let that fateful statement slip.

Thrawn turned his head to look at Eli, a glaze of puzzlement on his face. “Get hitched?”

“You know… Tie the knot? Buy the bantha? Jump the blaster..?” Greeted by nothing but that same blank expression, Eli sighed, swinging his legs off from Thrawn’s lap and sitting up. His tongue swiped over dry lips as he tried to ignore the nervous skip in his heart. There was nothing to worry about. At the very least, he would suffer a moment of embarrassment and the pair would move on. Thrawn wasn’t the kind of person to hold a harmless social blunder over his head… was he? “Get married, Thrawn. I wanna know if you’d like to get married. To me.”

“Oh.” Thrawn blinked, regarding him for an eternity-ridden second before turning back to the puzzle on his datapad, cheeks taking on a faint purple hue. “I don’t see any reason to refuse. There would be no garish ceremony, of course, but I believe that I would… rather enjoy that.”

Despite himself, Eli gaped. Was that… A blush? He didn’t even realize it was possible for him to blush like that, as if the necessary gene had been wiped from his DNA. His throbbing heart sped up tenfold, a beam brighter than a thousand suns stretching across his face. Shifting so he was propped on his knees, he rested his hand on Thrawn’s shoulder and pulled himself up to plant a chaste kiss on the tinted cheek. When the color darkened, a surge of affectionate pride swelled through him. “I think I’d enjoy that, too.”

Clearing his throat, Thrawn offered a slight smile, hardly greater than a twitch of the lips, but Eli knew better than to take it at face value. If he was overwhelmed by this, then one could only imagine what the Chiss was thinking… Unable to bite back a bout of laughter, Eli rested his head on Thrawn’s shoulder and pulled him into a tight embrace, careful not to interrupt his puzzle.

Later that night, when the full gravity of their arrangement finally pierced the haze of excitement, they made good work of leaving the mark of their engagement on one another for anyone to see.

Needless to say, there were only two types of reactions to their announcement; those of disgust and those of elation. They were much akin to how people behaved when the pair became an official partnership, but these.. These reactions were much more fervent. It appeared to Eli that being a human (even one from Wild Space) dating a nonhuman was one thing, but marrying one was another problem entirely. The wild differences between reactions gave Eli whiplash- tossed back and forth between Colonel Yularen’s enthusiastic congratulations and venomous criticism from the likes of Captain Slavin and Admiral Konstantine. One benefit of dating the Grand Admiral was that it made him virtually untouchable, but it definitely didn’t make him deaf. All things considered, he could let them talk- it wasn’t as if he was new to the xenophobic attitudes of the Empire, and the pair of them were just about as xeno as they could be. His parents, however, were another story.

To give them credit, they tried their damnedest to be polite. Regardless of the origin of the guest, it was Wild Space custom to be as gracious a host as imaginable, but when this alien guest was pledged to steal away your pride and joy..? The rules could bend.

“So,” his mother started, staring intently at her son. She’d only spared his fiance a few quick glances, if only to remind herself that he was still there. “How is this… How is this going to work? Are you taking his name? Is he taking ours?”

“He doesn’t have a surname. At least, not like we do,” Eli clarified, looking over at his fiance- oh, how he adored associating that term with Thrawn- and taking his hand. On his ring finger shone a simple band of gold to symbolize their engagement- easy, yet elegant, just like the man himself. “We just figured it’d be best to keep what we already got instead of complicating things between cultures and whatnot.”

The beginnings of a frown tugged on his mother’s lips, and Eli couldn’t help the little pang of guilt. Ever since he was little, she’d been anxiously awaiting her dashing son’s beautiful, traditional wedding. Now, not only was he marrying a nonhuman, but he was marrying a nonhuman whose language wouldn’t allow for a union of names. Not to mention that, as she would soon find out, the pair had no plans for a ceremony, either- as much as he wanted one, it would take far too much time away from Thrawn’s duties as Grand Admiral.

As if sensing his distress, Thrawn gave his hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

“W-Well, what of a wedding, then?” she prompted, sparing Thrawn a pointed glance that reeked on unjustified blame as if he had corrupted her boy. “I see the rings. When is the ceremony?”

Inwardly, Eli sighed, the protective walls he’d built up around his conscience beginning to weaken. He knew he wasn’t a disappointment- how could he be? He’d risen above his backwater upbringing to become a respected, ranking officer in the Imperial Navy and seen more miracles in the galaxy than he could count- hells, he was engaged to one! No, he wasn’t a disappointment, but he couldn’t help but feel as if he was disappointing.

“Actually, we-”

“We haven’t decided on a venue yet.” Eli jumped, not bothering to hide his shock as he turned to his fiance. His expression was unreadable, hovering somewhere between intrigued and coy, making his stomach twist. Thrawn had planned something. “Seeing as you are much more familiar with such things than I am, we thought it best to solicit your advice in selecting a time and place for the ceremony. If it’s not too much trouble, that is.”

For their parts, Eli and his mother were the human manifestation of dumbfoundedness, but for two hilariously different reasons. This was the first time in the entire meeting that she’d heard the Chiss man speak, save for a polite greeting. As for Eli, his awe originated more from the fact that he’d been explicitly told that such a trivial ceremony would only hurt them both- only give the bitter masses an excuse to claim that Thrawn was slacking off. Could this, perhaps, be a ploy to satisfy his mother? Or had Thrawn truly had a change of heart? Butterflies fluttered in his stomach as a surge of hope tinged his cheeks. He would definitely need to ask about that later.

“Is… Is that so..?” his mother chimed, her voice holding a caution she tried so valiantly not to physically express. Folding her hands in her lap, she regarded Thrawn fully for the first time, and Eli watched with complete amazement as her tight posture slowly began to relax- not enough to suggest that she was comfortable, but just eased enough to show the beginnings of acceptance. At the very least, she was finally making eye contact with him.

“Well, then. If that’s the case, then you’d best come with me,” she insisted, rising to her feet and breaking away from that hypnotic red gaze to nod in another direction. “I’ve got plenty of holos from a whole bunch of places. I’m sure there’ll be a couple you could consider. You don’t need cold, do you? My husband and I hate the cold.”

A slight smile tugged on Thrawn’s lips as he let his hand slip from Eli’s grasp, rising to his feet with the intent to follow. “Neither is your son,” he mused, sparing his fiance a teasing glance. “I do not mind either way. I shall be comfortable regardless.” This, of course, was a grand lie, for as much as the senior Vantos disliked the cold, Thrawn was already feeling the effects of Lysatra’s grueling heat on his system. Hopefully, his cooperation would lead to the selection of a more temperate climate that would easily satisfy them both.

“Come now, Eli,” he said, holding his hand out in offering. “Unless you’d rather I make the call alone..?” The speed with which Eli took his hand and pulled himself to his feet said enough about his dissent in that matter.

“So… What made you decide to do that?”

Eli’s question broke the silence that had washed over them. The pair had long since returned to their suite on Chimaera to settle in for the night. His legs swung lazily off the edge of the bed, inquisitive gaze following his fiance- the term still not having lost its heart-fluttering appeal- as he undressed. A white suit gave way to a soft, cotton undershirt that exposed his well-toned arms for Eli to admire. He liked seeing that strong, gentle blue almost as much as the sharp angles and professionalism of his military attire, and often found himself sitting to the side as Thrawn trained with his droids. Sure, it was a touch self-indulgent, but Thrawn definitely put on a marvellous show.

Folding up his shirt alongside equally sharp, white trousers, red eyes glanced over at Eli from over his shoulder. “Decide on Naboo? You were there with us. It's an imperial territory renowned for its historical and aesthetic significance, and its climate is a satisfactory compromise between the needs of both parties. Not to mention the artwork that originates from there-”

“-That's not what I mean,” Eli interrupted, feeling only slightly guilty about truncating Thrawn’s musings. Once the Chiss started his encomium of the arts, there remained very little which could stop his flow of passion, and, as much as Eli adored seeing that extra sparkle in his eyes, they had things to discuss. Shifting on the bed, he propped himself up on his knees and leaned on his hands. “You said we couldn't do a ceremony. I've been talking myself up from disappointment for weeks because I didn't want to push something that you didn't wanna do, and then you pull this? I think someone owes me an explanation.”

“Ah.” Thrawn stilled, and Eli didn't need to see his face to know that his expression had contorted in thought. As if this was some sort of strategy that needed to have every nook and cranny cleaned out before implementation… Not bothering to hide his feelings on the matter, he sighed heavily and leaned more heavily on his hands, patiently awaiting the anticipated conclusion to this unnecessary brainstorm.

“I hadn't realized that it would be this much of an issue to you,” Thrawn confessed eventually, turning to face his counterpart. “It is true that I originally had no intention of investing myself in a ceremony due to the rigor we both undergo. My commentary was meant to be a way in which to placate your mother- to find common ground and find a baseline from which she could learn to trust and accept me.”

Eli’s stomach bottomed out, the blood rushing from his face and leaving him rather pale as a shroud of disappointment washed over him. Typically warm eyes narrowed dangerously, a haze of red covering his vision as he regarded him. Teeth gritted, Eli spoke with overt caution so as not to lose his temper.

“So… What you're sayin’.... is that you just tricked my mother- tricked me- into believing that there will be a wedding that you never intended to follow through on..?” Despite his best efforts, he couldn't mask the wounded frustration in his voice. This, of course, did not go unnoticed by Thrawn judging by the way his eyes widened and his lips drew in a soft gasp.

“No, of course not. I only said that I originally had no desire to participate. After conversing with your mother, actually viewing the potential settings, and seeing how excited you became, my perspective on the matter changed entirely,” he clarified, obviously perturbed by the venom Eli was subjecting him to. For the first time since they first got engaged, a hint of purple kissed his cheeks as he stepped toward the bed and brushed his fingers over Eli’s heated cheek. “I decided that to deprive you of something you were so obviously enchanted by would be cruel. Besides, I've found that I'm not completely abhorred by the idea of taking some time off to go to Naboo…”

Eli blinked, skin tingling in a traitorously pleasant manner where Thrawn’s hand lay on his cheek. “Hold on,” he stated, brow furrowing in confused concentration. “Don't get me wrong- I really want this, but you deciding you think Naboo is ‘aesthetically significant’ or a ‘sufficient compromise’ or that you like seeing me happy isn't gonna change the initial problem. Unless you tricked me about that, too.”

Frowning, Thrawn took a seat beside Eli and enveloped his hand in his own. If Eli didn't know any better, he would've sworn that Thrawn was… ashamed, of all things. He followed that ruby gaze down to his hand, noticing that the Chiss had taken to admiring their matching rings rather than answer his question. Pursing his lips, Eli, shook his head.

“You did, didn't you?” Thrawn’s lips parted with the intent to reply, only to find himself robbed of voice and instead simply continued to entertain himself with Eli’s hand. Eli would have needed to be insensitive not to feel how his grip tightened, as if desperate to hold on but unwilling to keep him against his will. “Thrawn.?”

“On Csilla, we go where we are meant to go,” he stated. “There's none of this superfluous celebration of union or necessary ceremony to attend. At most, there is a recognition between families of the legal partnership, but all this talk of love is typically kept between those closest to you. Needless to say, I was a touch… surprised when this whole ordeal began to fan out. I fear I embarrassed you on more than one occasion because of my romantic ineptitude, and I certainly didn't want to implement it again in such a momentous occasion. It was never my intention to upset you.”

For the shortest eternity, Eli simply stared, searching his fiance’s form for any sign of falsehood. Finding none, a strange flutter of amusement rose in him, drawing a soft chuckle to his lips. “You mean that you, the great Grand Admiral Mitth’raw’nuruodo, fearless warrior and master tactician of the Empire, have been avoiding a fancy ceremony because you’re insecure..?”

At that, Thrawn stiffened. “Now, I wouldn’t say insecure, exactly…”

“Krayt spit,” Eli interjected, though his tone was much lighter than the words typically implied. Twisting his hand so that his fingers intertwined with their cerulean counterparts, he laughed openly and shook his head. “You know, for such a brilliant man, you can be a plain imbecile sometimes. You could’ve just said something and it would’ve been fine- I’m the last person who would judge you for nontraditional customs, you know?”

Finally, Thrawn looked up, and Eli was relieved to find that the inkling of shame that had been present just moments before had begun to dissipate into a familiar, confident contemplation, but not yet completely. “Yes. I realize now that I was being foolish.”

“Yes, you were,” Eli confirmed, knowing that such an affirmation would blow no bruise to Thrawn’s ego. Granted, he wasn’t about to stroke it, either. Shifting closer, he let their joined hands drop back down to the mattress and planted his free one on his lover’s hip. “Now, what was this about you being romantically inept, hm?”

A flash of something shone in Thrawn’s scarlet gaze that made Eli’s stomach twist pleasantly. “I believe that you intend to call ‘krayt spit’ on that claim as well..?” he prompted, subconsciously leaning closer to the human.

Eli smiled with a teasing wink. “Like I said. Brilliant.”

If there had been anything left to say, it got lost in the tides of time. Eli, having the advantage, closed the miniscule gap between them to join their lips together. Thrawn tasted like how he imagined the cold would- a blast of mint, a fragile sweetness, a frigid heat, a kiss from a gust of arctic wind. A larger hand laced through his hair, making him shiver as he was pulled impossibly closer, his body being maneuvered into straddling Thrawn’s thighs. The only warning the Chiss got that Eli had other plans was the impression of a devious smirk into the kiss before he was pushed down onto the mattress entirely, his lover collapsing atop him. Breaking the kiss, Eli rested his face in the crook of Thrawn’s neck, breathing in the essence of him.

“I love you,” he muttered against his skin, arms slung over Thrawn’s chest and legs tangling into a complex knot. “Even if you do drive me up the wall.”

Thrawn pursed his lips. “That one means that I frustrate you, yes?”

“You learn fast,” he praised, kissing the joint of his jaw affectionately.

Humming in satisfaction, Thrawn took the initiative to move the two of them further back onto the bed until his head hit the pillow, careful not to disturb the (quietly snickering) human that clung to him. Turning the lights off, he wrapped one arm around a narrow waist as the other took to carding soothingly through impossibly soft hair. He watched as Eli’s breathing slowed, his eyelids fluttering in a peaceful sleep and his body limp against his own. Smiling into the night, Thrawn planted a kiss on his fiance’s forehead before letting his own eyes fall victim to the allure of the dreaming night.

“Ch'ah ch'acah vah”

((I hope this is what you wanted!))

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[yourfaveswouldloveyou]

A New Direction

Zeta Company was gathered in the mess when the news came in.

Because they had just gotten in from an exercise, the hall was otherwise empty.  That was just the way they liked it.  Squeezed around their usual tables but without the crowds filling up the rest, the company of troopers was eating together instead of by themselves.  It was only too easy to be an outcast in an environment where uniformity was prioritized, and the First Order was particularly unforgiving on that front. Zeta Company did what they could to make up for it.  Leven let Tenzie prop against him while Static spun a story for everyone, his exaggerations drawing laughter from some and indignant corrections from others.

All of that ground to a halt when Captain Phasma entered, fully armored and all business.  At one end of the table, Zeta Company’s sergeant came to her feet.

“We found her,” the captain announced grimly.

An uncertain dread descended on the group.  The sergeant wasn’t frowning, not yet, but there was a tightness around her eyes. As an outsider, she hadn’t been raised with the constant lesson that attachment should be, if not discarded, then at least hidden from your superiors.  "And?“ she prompted.  "What’s the verdict, Captain?”

Phasma faced the company squarely.  "She’s Zeta’s deserter,“ she said, "so this is Zeta’s responsibility. You have orders to recapture FN-1041 if possible and execute her if necessary.  This is a job for a squad of four at most.”

“I’ll go after her myself.”

Phasma turned coolly to the sergeant.  "Sergeant Alerri?“

Alerri stood firm. "Why waste resources?  The company doesn’t need me to lead their more important assignments.”  Her tone was slow and even, her words perfectly enunciated—a clear enough sign to Leven and the others that she was a breath away from fulfilling the wildest Mandalorian stereotypes of rage and bloodlust.  "I trained her, Captain.  Perhaps I can talk her back into reconditioning.  If not, I can get the job done.“

For a handful of long seconds, the officers locked gazes in silence above the heads of breathless troopers. Finally, Captain Phasma said, "Is that the only reason?”

Alerri’s chin dropped slightly.  "Honestly, ma'am?  I don’t want the troopers to have to go after one of their own.“

That seemed to shake Phasma’s doubts.  "Agreed. Depart at oh six hundred and report back when it’s done.”

“Yes, Captain,” Alerri replied.

Phasma exited the mess, leaving silence in her wake.  Beth Alerri stared at the door and exhaled loudly.

“Sarge,” Race said after a moment, “I can’t believe you lied to Captain Phasma.”

Beth shot him a tight smile even as several other troopers turned to her in horror.  FN-4011 straightened up, pale face reddening. “She didn’t lie,” he hissed at Race.  "You are going to find Kill, aren’t you, Sarge?“

"Of course I am.” Beth folded her arms.  "But I’m not bringing her back.“

Tenzie settled back against Leven with a hard frown.  Leven shifted to make room for her and watched the sergeant thoughtfully. "Isn’t that better than the alternative?” he asked.

Beth’s eyebrows shot up. “I’m not going to execute her, either!”

“But Sergeant—” FN-4011 tried.

“I choose the third option,” she interrupted.  FN-4011’s mouth snapped shut.  Beth normally heard out his objections, going so far as to forbid the rest of the company from naming him against his will.  Leven couldn’t remember the last time she’d interrupted any trooper. There was no hint of patience about her right now.  "Letting Kill make her own decisions.“

"She’s a deserter, ma'am,” Tenzie pointed out sharply.

Beth shook her head. “Fighting is a choice.  She would be a true deserter if she had chosen this cause and then gone back on her word, but that’s not what happened.  To any of you.”

“You’re going to let her go?” Race asked, quieter than Leven had ever heard him.

“If that’s what she wants, I’ll make sure she gets it.”  The sergeant sat down, demeanor softening for the first time since Phasma had shown up. “It’s Kill’s life.”

FN-4011’s jaw worked. “Troopers stick together,” he bit out at last.  He’d been the slowest to accept that message, but he’d taken it to heart.

Beth winced slightly. Gently, she returned, “Troopers back each other up.  Just because Kill decided that she can’t stand for the Order’s cause anymore doesn’t mean we ignore that rule.”  She rapped on the table hesitantly.  "Besides, I won’t keep anyone who doesn’t want to be here.  I don’t see why any officer would want to chase down an unwilling soldier.“

Leven tried to see it the way she did, without the slap of abandonment, but he couldn’t quite do it. And based on the expressions and sets of shoulders around him, he wasn’t the only one having trouble.  The sergeant sighed.  "I know you don’t agree with it.  The upper ranks certainly don’t.”  She stood.  "But Kill doesn’t deserve to die—or be reconditioned—just for that.“  She strode away in silence.

"This is defiance of orders, Sergeant,” FN-4011 called after her.

Beth stopped. “If reporting me is what you have to do, do it,” she told him.  Her gaze swept around the handful of tables that Zeta Company took up. “I understand.  The potential discipline is part of why I wanted to keep you out of it.  But this is what I have to do.”

FN-4011 stared at his hands. The rest of the troopers watched the sergeant as she turned, back straight and chin high, and left the mess.

*

Beth rose early the next morning.  Even so, the corridors were full of troopers as she made her way to the hangar.  She was clad in full Mandalorian armor except for the helmet tucked under her arm.  Its blue-painted plates couldn’t be mistaken for trooper armor, which made it all the better for traveling outside the limited reaches of the Order.

Zeta Company hadn’t told anyone about her intentions; otherwise she would have been stopped by now. But word of her orders must have gotten around, because some of the people passing her in the hall gave her wary stares or a wide berth.  Even the deck officer was short with her, though Beth didn’t know for certain whether that was just his disposition.

Waiting in the hangar was perhaps the smallest, sleekest freighter she had ever seen.  The Order had few enough resources, but whatever it did have was the best of the best.  Kill’s last known location was already programmed into the nav computer, and she had all she needed in her belt pack.

In her hesitation, a voice broke the relative quiet of the hangar.  "A moment, Sergeant.“

Beth knew who it was before she turned around.  "Admiral Thrawn,” she said, caught between surprise at his presence and wonder at how he managed to become the center of even a room this size.

Anyone not raised within the First Order stood out on principle, and more than that, Thrawn with his light blue skin was the only nonhuman in the entire operation.  But there was something more.  It wasn’t the brassy anchor of Captain Phasma’s presence, or the spring-tight nervous energy of General Hux, or even the dark, silent threat that came with Kylo Ren.  He wasn’t physically intimidating unless one was thrown off by his glowing red eyes, which she wasn’t, and he didn’t raise his voice.  But somehow he drew gazes, attention, and respect.

The grand admiral’s hands were folded behind his back.  The pose looked much more relaxed on him than on Hux.  "Walk with me,“ Thrawn told her cordially.

Beth wasn’t pressed for time, and it wasn’t an unusual request, so she fell into step beside him. "Certainly.”

They made their way around the edge of the hangar, a journey that took them toward the less used end—a considerable portion of the room.  Despite all pretenses, the Order was a small force.  "I heard that your missing soldier was located,“ Thrawn began.

Beth nodded.

Thrawn watched her as if he could read her thoughts.  In contrast, she couldn’t tell anything from his thoughtful expression.  "And you requested the assignment yourself?”

“Yes.”  She tilted her head at him, but it didn’t make a dent in his scrutiny.  "I’ll find her.“

"I have no doubt that you will.”

Beth warmed unexpectedly. She had no doubt, either, but there too much matter-of-fact sincerity in his tone for her to take it in strode.

Just as easily, Thrawn continued, “I have something that may help you on your assignment.”

“Ah.”  Her growing smile turned sickly.  Thrawn’s competence was legendary, and the last thing she needed was to actually carry out her orders.  Just her luck for him to offer assistance the one time she didn’t want to succeed.  "Vor'e, no.  I mean, thank you.  But I think I can manage.“

"I insist,” he said, making the words an indisputable command without using a tone any less pleasant. He produced a small disposable holopad.

“Thank you, Admiral,” Beth recited hollowly.  She took it. And when she had read enough to understand what the holopad contained, her eyes widened.  "You—"

“You and I both know how useful it is to have contacts outside the First Order,” he explained. “Despite the act you sometimes adopt, you’re no bounty hunter.  I’d be surprised if you had criminal contacts at all.”

Beth glanced discreetly over her shoulder.  Finally, in quiet shock, she asked, “Is this a slicer contact?”

Thrawn raised his eyebrows. “It would be difficult for your trooper to escape into a new life without an identicard.”

She gaped at the holopad. This was all she needed—the only thing she couldn’t guarantee Kill by taking the mission.  If Zeta Company hadn’t said anything….  "How did you know to do this?“

A smirk touched his features.  "You’re not a difficult woman to predict, Sergeant Alerri.”

The corners of her eyes crinkled in a smile.  "I guess not,“ she admitted.

"Besides,” he continued, voice lowering gravely, “I agree with your position.” He folded his hands behind his back again and frowned forward.  "The First Order leadership doesn’t understand what they’re sacrificing for obedience.  Forcing beings into service has never been worth the supposed benefits.“

Beth was silent for a long moment, amazed by how well she understood the particular anger that Thrawn exuded.  "No, it’s not,” she agreed.  She looked down at the holopad.  "So you do what you can.“

"As do you.”

She skimmed the holopad one last time before shutting it off.  "Thank you,“ she said, wholeheartedly this time.  She looked up to see him regarding her.  She swallowed, mind going oddly blank on responses.

"Good luck,” said Thrawn.

She caught herself before she could thank him again, nodded, and headed back toward the ship, helmet tucked under one arm and holopad in her other hand.  Giddiness radiated in waves from somewhere in her chest.  With this, she had more than a duty; she had a real chance.

I’m coming, Kill.

*

Dantooine was perhaps the worst place for a trooper to hide.

Beth could have told Kill that, if she had asked.  That she hadn’t was understandable: desertion was a reviled topic in the Order, and it was likely the troopers didn’t trust anyone, Order-born or not, to react with sympathy.  But that very culture was part of the problem.  The troopers were such an exclusive group that they didn’t understand anonymity came in cities, with numbers and bustle.  A Dantooine farming community was just as skilled at spotting outsiders as any trooper company.

That said, the farmers weren’t overly eager to share what they had noticed—at least not under direct questioning.  Beth had to wheedle it out of them.  In this case, wheedling involved mostly removing her helmet to demonstrate that she was a flesh-and-blood being with no interest in attacking them.  The other portion of it was listening patiently to unrelated gossip about the neighbors and half-remembered stories about the family that had once lived in the abandoned farmstead.

It was that ruined farmstead that Beth eventually got directions to.  She approached slowly, keeping her hands in sight at all times. “Kill?” she called.  She picked her way down the remains of a stone walkway.  A kath hound bayed somewhere to the south.  "Kill!“

She made it to the door without any response.  So when she got to the doorway, she knocked.

If it had been Click who had run away, Beth might have been warier, ready for weapons fire.  But this was Kill, and Kill was, ironically enough, one of the gentler troopers.  She was strong enough but never abused that strength; she could be wild but not without drawing her comrades into her discoveries.  Beth frowned at the shadowy, dusty doorway.  But then again, there were always exceptions.

At last, a miserable voice said, "I’m here.”

“It’s just me,” Beth assured her.  She stepped inside.

One corner of the main room was arranged artfully, supplies and various odds and ends stacked around each other.  It was in that corner that Kill sat, head bowed slightly.  Sometime during the two weeks she’d been missing, she had managed to dye her hair pink.  Beth grinned broadly at the sight of it.  "Are you all right?“

"Don’t take me back,” Kill pleaded solemnly.

Beth sat down on a rusty crate opposite the trooper—former trooper.  She exhaled. “Are you sure this is what you want?” she asked.  "To leave the First Order?“

"I thought about it,” Kill told her.  She looked drawn, but her voice was clear.  "At first, I thought I had to stay because that was my family.  But then…“

Beth set her helmet down and rested her elbows on her knees.  "But then you realized it wasn’t an obligation you had chosen?”

“Sort of.” Kill ran her fingers through her hair as if to comfort herself.  "I want to support the others, but the Order isn’t right.  I can’t help Zeta without the Order owning me. Sometimes…“  She looked up.  "I can’t follow anyone into something that destructive.  Not even family.  I’m sorry.”

Beth smiled.  Kill had always been bright.  She pulled out a card and portable imprinter.  "Then I guess you’re going to need this.“

Kill took it without hesitation.  "What is it?”

“It’s an identicard. Or it will be, once you enter the information.  It’s how citizens identify themselves, and you’re going to need it to live somewhere with people.”

Kill held it up in wonder. “Like a civilian?”

“With that, it’ll be as if you’ve been a civilian all along.”

“I can go?” Kill asked softly.

“If that’s what you want.”  With a shrug, Beth added, “I think you should.  Just…”

Kill’s expression said that she already knew what the Mandalorian meant to say, but she asked anyway. “Just what?”

“Just be careful, Kill.”

Kill took a deep breath. “I don’t like that name,” she admitted.

Beth shook her head. “I’m not surprised.” Kill had never fit her name.  The story was that she had gotten the name from pondering the meaning of the word aloud in shared quarters, where her bunkmates had gotten tired of her semantic examination.

“I need a real name. A name for me.”

Beth stayed silent. Some instinct told her that it wasn’t her place to choose a new name.  Troopers were always being named by other people.  Kill had to do this herself.

The former trooper said, “I’m Kelly.  That’s who I am.”

So she was.  "It suits you,“ Beth decided.  Her smile tilted sadly.  "Be careful, Kelly.”  Almost as one they rose and met in the middle for a fierce hug.

“I like the hair,” Beth said.

Kelly laughed into her shoulder.  "Me, too.“  And then, shakily, she said, "Goodbye, Sergeant.”

With a final squeeze, Beth released her.  "I’ll catch up with you again someday,“ she announced.  "Then you can call me Beth and tell me all about real life.”

Kelly smiled. “All right.”

“You’ll want to leave before I get back and make my report.”

“I will.” Kelly stood in the house in her ratty borrowed tunic and pink hair, and there was no doubt that she was going to be all right.

Beth left Dantooine with one less trooper.  But she had one more friend, safe outside the Order’s reach and free to make her own way, and that was a successful mission if she’d ever heard of one.

*

As a hired trainer and a non-Force user besides, Beth would never warrant the attention of the Supreme Leader, no matter her blunder.  For that she was grateful.  Even so, her reception was oddly full of rank.  What should have been a report to Captain Phasma included both General Hux and Grand Admiral Thrawn, who discussed whether to commit further resources to tracking down the deserter again.  Fortunately for Beth, Phasma let her off with a stern, unnerving warning and a declaration that she was banned from solo missions until further notice. Fortunately for Kelly, all three officers agreed that initiating a wider search would take more troops and time than they could spare.  Beth was dismissed with a spring in her step.

Despite the good news, one matter addressed in the debriefing had thrown her off.  She couldn’t make sense of it no matter how she examined it.  She was still mulling it over when she arrived.

She found Zeta Company in their quarters.  They were all there, which she doubted was a coincidence; she had seen Lean rushing to get there just ahead of her.  Their heads snapped up with a synchrony that it had taken her a year to get used to.

“Sarge, did you hear the news?” Race piped up.  "How we got reassigned?“

Beth nodded slowly. "To the grand admiral, yeah. They told me during my report. How do we feel about that?”

There were shrugs and exchanged glances.  "Same old, same old,“ Static drawled.  Something about his accent made her suspect he was making fun of her.

"What about you, Sarge?” Click asked pointedly.

“I don’t know.” She narrowed her eyes.  "I think I’ll go talk to him about it.“

The room lapsed into uneasy silence.  The troopers shot each other sidelong glances.  Beth was just about to ask what was wrong when FN-4011 stepped forward jerkily. "Sergeant Alerri?  I was thinking while you were gone.  I don’t think Kill should have left.  But… I’m glad she’s not dead.”

She gaped for a moment before she caught herself.  "That’s… good,“ she said quietly.

"That’s how we all feel,” Tenzie put in.

Beth allowed herself a slow, proud smile.  "You’re a good company,“ she told them.  "The best.”  She smirked lightly.  "Now I just have to make sure Grand Admiral Thrawn deserves you.“

*

The grand admiral had his own command room.  It wasn’t used for briefings as far as Beth could tell, and all the officers’ quarters were elsewhere.  She had only occasionally heard of him giving orders from it.  Her private theory was that the room was for the express purpose of housing Thrawn’s tactical genius.

As such, Beth hadn’t been there much.

She buzzed at the door, hoping the same was true of everyone else.  She didn’t necessarily want to have this conversation in front of Hux. "Admiral?  It’s Sergeant Alerri.”

“Come in,” came the prompt reply.

She did so and was immediately struck by how sparse it was.  The only decoration was a couple of statues in a corner, proof that the admiral’s reputation as an appreciator of art was earned.  The rest of the room was space and holoprojectors—and a chair approximately in the center, where Thrawn was sitting.  He was seated casually, fingers laced in front of him.  "You want to talk about the decision to put Zeta Company under my personal command,“ he guessed.

"Yessir.” Beth’s tone took on a wry twist. “I was only gone for a few days.”

“And if I had thought Snoke would be so quick to grant my request, I would have waited to make it until you could be consulted.”  He turned his hands over in a shrug.  "It was my mistake.  I apologize.“

"I don’t mind the results,” Beth admitted.

Thrawn’s eyes shone softly against the dimness of the room.  "Excellent.“

"But I do want to know why you want them.”

If the admiral was taken aback by her directness, he didn’t show it.  He rose smoothly to his feet and turned on a holoprojector.  "I’d like to show you something.“

She stepped over to his side.  When the holoprojector flickered to life, it showed something familiar, though it took her a moment to place it.  It was an image of blaster scoring heavily scratched with white lines.  "This has to be Ela’s,” she realized aloud.

“Indeed.” Thrawn seemed fascinated by it. “Does she draw often?”

“Sometimes.  When she has the materials.  But the Order replaces damaged wall panels and armor plates pretty quickly.”  Beth remembered this one, a rendering of a hill on Ryloth.  She was supposedly in the picture somewhere, though she’d never managed to pin down which figure she was.  "But why do you have this?  It’s not exactly a culturally enlightening piece, is it?“

"On the contrary.” Thrawn gestured to the image, shifting closer.  "This is the future of the Order.“

Beth raked over the drawing for some hidden meaning but came up blank.  She turned to face Thrawn’s slight smile with a furrowed brow.  "How so?”

“This,” he explained lowly, “is the only example of art ever created by a First Order stormtrooper.”

Beth blinked and turned back to the holo.  She would have to remember to congratulate Ela.  "Oh.“

His smile widened. "Precisely.  Snoke believes he has created the perfect soldiers, but in fact his Order has created little more than droids.”  He held up a hand when Beth’s jaw jutted forward angrily. “In theory.  What he thinks of as the goal is not an army of beings but an unthinking extension of his will.”  His eyes glittered.  "This is proof that his methods didn’t succeed.  And Zeta Company can be proof that he was wrong to try at all.“

Beth’s heartbeat sped up. "Because you’re going to command them differently.”

“Because I’m going to command them to their full potential, yes.”  Whatever it was about Thrawn that drew others’ attention was in full force right now.  "If the First Order is going to achieve anything, it needs creative minds and enthusiastic, willing forces.  It needs adaptability.  No argument I can make in a strategic discussion will sway them. But the success of Zeta Company might.“

She was almost breathless from picturing it—a complete overhaul of the way the Order ran its army, one that made way for the freedoms and individuality the troopers were currently denied.  "I appreciate being told about this,” she said slowly.

The corners of Thrawn’s eyes crinkled.  "Not without purpose.  I will still need a combat trainer, especially since Zeta Company will have to learn to think on their feet.“

"Of course,” Beth replied at once, smiling without meaning to.  "I’d be more than glad to.“

He regarded her seriously. "We are going to change the First Order for the better.”

Something about we made her momentarily heady.  Even when she came back to herself, her heart was hammering and Thrawn was closer than she remembered.  She tried to steady herself but it only resulted in her leaning toward him.

When they kissed somewhere in the middle, Beth’s mind was buzzing, wondering about everything from the internal body temperature of Thrawn’s species (he was terribly warm) to the technicalities of romantic behavior between an officer and a consultant to whether this wasn’t in fact the best purpose of a command room.  Then he tilted his head, hand sliding back from her jaw to her neck, and her thoughts fell pleasantly silent.

For all that Thrawn’s proximity normally managed to throw her off, when they separated, she felt light as air.  "I hope,“ she intoned, eyes sparkling, "that this doesn’t run counter to your grand plans.”

Thrawn smiled fiercely.  "Not at all.“

[bornfromscarletcords]

Las Cordones De Nuestros Corazones (The Cords Of Our Hearts)

The following Is a werewolf production. It’s focus is a general observation of social sexiness, general naughtiness, the peculiarities of misusing one’s power especially in the workplace and especially-especially (twice for emphasis) in what some could consider erotic circumstances. As a disclaimer offense is not intended though most certainly imminent; werewolves are not cuddly pets, though when given some release from their restrictions, have a way knocking things off their feet, turning them this way and that, going up and down with them, then in then out, then in again until they can’t tell whether the difference between their insides and outsides. Again, your questioning and reproaching glances are entirely expected, you have been warned. Some names and circumstances have been flubbed (mildly altered), in short, we may or may not be lying; the world may never know.

Enter Alejandro Cariño, our protagonist, in a sense, though most of this story will probably revolve around the nature of antiheroes/antiheroines and or people who just sort keep skirting around the heavy hammer of justice, though with much style and passionate fire. Mr. Cariño, or as his female students, his boss the school president, and that weird janitor liked to call him “Señor Guapo” was a professor at a somewhat peculiar university. You see in this era, humans had gotten a little smarter than usual, and the members of the supernatural or preternatural, or just weird other than human categories were getting a little...well a lot dumber. Even if you’re battling a lemming carelessness can be your downfall, as so many would learn in this time. Anyway as a sort of preparation for what would be a rough transition from the shadows of mortal vigilance to potential “center stage” attention if you will, a series of insurance were pushed into motion. The most relevant, for the sake of this story, being the existence of multiple facilities of education dealing, primarily with the nurturing of weird ol’ nonhumans so that they wouldn’t hurt themselves every time they had to go buy milk from the grocery store or something. Was that not enough information, well tough nipples? This world ain’t fair. Well, anyway Alejandro sable melted in hot sexiness, melted in almond glazed muscles, dribbled on a redwood forest (for strong foundation) and then bound in debonair wolf wildness. He had flame, he had machismo, he had great curly hair he often kept pulled back in a wolf tail, no not a pony tail, you heard correctly. He was also on the slightly below average height side, but for some reason that just made woman see him as sensitive for some strange reason, like he’d be good at snuggling. Oh he was sensitive, sensitive to those choice and caressable fleshy regions of theirs. Alejandro taught some engineering, some botany, and some poetry, though he tried to limit his lyrical nature to the strumming of his guitar which always seemed to draw the ear of one pretty thing or another. He was every square inch of modern suaveness and though he didn’t look a day over twenty four, he listed himself as being something like forty-two, though Alejandro’s limitations had a way of escaping one’s attention when too inconvenient. In actuality he was probably something like a 1240, but who’s counting. How did he stay so mobile? Well he might say it was all his cardio, and his occasional enjoyment of veganism, if only for irony’s sake, though the attentive gaze would not have to look far to understand that old wolves had many tricks up their sleeves. The benefit and consequence of surviving so long when others did not.

Although much of a werewolf’s daily existence operated like a madman’s death indulging set of magical misdirection, like if a magician was giving his own eulogy while his corpse was still in the coffin; a degree of normalcy was not unattainable. In a world of miracles the impossible was eroded to nothing, though normalcy served as a shield or cloak more often than not. A bit of red smeared on your mouth around nosy neighbors? Don’t want to tell them about that annoying squirrel he was very much no longer amongst the living? Well then perhaps that red is just a lipstick malfunction and that strange odor the result of a new diet you’ve been trying. The latter being not exactly a lie.

There were many strange creatures at the university in which Alejandro served, known to the public as Cupid’s Eclipse University, in bold letters. In slightly smaller letters, almost imperceivable to most it read, School For Those Oddly Talented Few. As to where it was located, well you could say it moved around and, being honest, you were unlikely to find it anywhere near the surface. So artificial sky’s and cubed pseudo-dimensions aside, it was the picture of contemporary normalness...with magic…and an unusual amount of sexiness.

Alejandro’s students, the girls in particular, were precocious to say the least. There was a rather convoluted grading system that he still only knew in theory, and it wasn’t the strongest theory, so he could get anyone aged from 14 to 2000, though it typically capped at around 21 (as far as anyone admitted at least). He had a particular way of scooting most people below sixteen towards others professors, as he, quote “had endured enough trials in his day” unquote. You should note that he was from a different time, a very different time...though his questionable sanity aside, he seemed to meld into the modern world relatively well, at least well enough to receive a paycheck and charm sweet ladies. He got all manner of creatures whose minds he was allowed to shape, though it was their hearts and souls of which he was most passionate. From vampires to elves, gargoyles, succubi, you name it. Though to be honest, much of his attention was devoted to minding after what you might call his fan club. He did not particularly want a fan club, mind you, as too much organized attention on his activities could make simple indulgences evermore complicated. Still, with all their bouncing, growling, and maturation, he couldn’t exactly say he minded the heat that always seemed to be sparking his way. This fan club was almost entirely formed of wolf girls, which wasn’t to say he didn’t have admirers of other magical persuasions, it’s just that few creatures could band together in such an odd mixture of rivalry and friendship like a couple of werewolves.

Considering this fondness with which his students showed him, the president of the university had almost cornered him into serving as a representative for the werewolf identity group on campus. Being the wily wolf he was however he managed to escape such shackling responsibilities with a couple of flowers, candies and the sacrifice of serving as her personal chef for the evening. Few could escape a devastating blow to freedom like that one, perhaps it was because of all that time he spent with ghosts.

The regulars, so to speak comprised of Johanna, Camila, Olivia, Skylar, and Maddison. Johanna was more or less busting and blooming, her uniform barely able to contain that that soft yet supple and curvy personality of hers. Her heart beat to the rhythm of hot blooded awesome mounds of girl flesh. They were like melons Allah, forgive. She had hair falling about her frame like desert wind with a darkness to her skin which made it seem as if it too had been choicely baked with its arid heat. She was the most vocal, or at least the most physically expressive of the group, not afraid to shout down a crowd or  tackle Alejandro in the most compromising of times and places.

Camila was more reserved though no less resourceful, she had a tendency to bait him into their exchanges or wait till he was cornered and foolishly mistook himself as being alone and capable of relaxation, then she’d pounce, occasionally trying to capture him with rope or stun him with a glimpse of her half naked body bound in swimsuits, or leather and such. Her hair was frizzy and had a brownish red tint. There was a little scar just along the bridge of her nose which only made her look more charming, in a sort of well humored librarian sort of way.  She was all politeness and respectability until you let your guard down and you were bound to a chair with a now fully naked pseudo-adult covering you with all manner of moistness and steaming emotions. And her scent, oh, how she smelled so...consumable. Alejandro often prepared himself with a hand-towel to keep his manly sweat from overtaking him.

Olivia was on the short side with pleasing hips and a special sway or jiggle when she walked that always made Alejandro a little extra pleased when he dismissed her. She was prone to nervousness, a general aura of day-dreaming distractedness, and a folky sort of straightforward manner of speech which Alejandro could find endearing at the worst of times. Her hair was typically closely cropped with the occasional bang overtaking a side of her face. She comprised the majority of his least taxing interactions with his “club”. She was not one to make things particularly difficult, and though she often professed her love for him, the idea of touching him seemed to send her into a spin of heated hysterics that she often needed to sit down. This meant Alejandro’s usual gymnastics of lawsuit defying counter stalker techniques could rest a little easy as well, though he did make the pointed effort of forgetting her “dilemma” of touch with some harmless head petting or shoulder squeezing. She nearly melted, each and every time.

Although Alejandro was not unfamiliar to most werewolves, he was something of a mild legend, and had his share of horror stories, most of which involved him as the villain in question, the mysterious man, the clever old bastard, or the compromised yet fatedly risen...well hero is a bit of a stretch, but you could say ace in the hole. The last one had everything to do with the world’s unconscious need for underdogs, and few could be so thoroughly pushed under strange circumstances than Alejandro  Cariño, be it a mob of deranged humans, a castle of monsters, a pack of feral wolves, silly vampires, not so silly vampires, or ounce upon ounce of hot girl flesh. More relevantly, although many werewolves would have heard a story or two about the man, Olivia had actually been from one of the packs he could recently claim. In fact, he was almost sure she had followed him to the University just to give him grief. She had wild messy hair cut short “like a boys” as her mother used to tell her. Her reasoning for her fascination with him was shaped as if she wished to be his apprentice in all things wolf and battle. As if he were some general and not her botany teacher. Well, he had been a general a time or two in the past, but those were lifetimes ago, and he had no interest in half killing some child wolfling because she was foolish enough to request “training” from him. He was a dangerous man, which is a humorous thing to say, though it was true. He was not from the time of such pleasantries as “harmless sparring” not really, the best fighters he’d ever known acquired their skills by being tossed onto a battlefield and being able to move a couple of days later. Nothing says eye of the tiger like getting shot in the ass with an arrow and still being to able to kill your way back to base camp. She expected regimens, and diets, and push ups or something, or some hidden technique or whatever. He could have given her these things, if only to amuse himself a little, but in truth he doubted how much they’d benefit her, and such a complicated spirit such as her needn’t be prodded too much in the wrong directions, lest she make an enemy loss to the ways of forgiveness. He did not want her senseless brutalization on his hands. Still this did not stop her from trying to all but assassinate him every time he was late for class, or made the mistake of leaving the room just a tad too slovenly. He had to admit it was entertaining to move around with her a little, she was fun to spin, and flip, or pin down here or there, and she was good at grappling, but then she’d get just a little too serious, and his wolf would break out of him a little and he would scare her just a little too bad and then she’d avoid him for a couple of days. He did not like scareing her but it was better than him accidentally snapping her neck because she felt he cheated in some confrontation he’d wanted no part in anyway. Still that sad puppy dog look nearly twisted his mean ol’ heart. She was built like an athlete and looked as if she was touched by iron.

Skylar, was not a werewolf, not precisely, though she was a young woman who could become a wolf. Her mother had named her Harmony, but she preferred the middle name which had been her father’s choice. Not because she disliked her mother, mostly because she figured she’d get mocked enough for the conventional parts of being a citizen of the world without her name sounding like a new brand of body-wash. Skylar was native american, her hair was shaggy, full, and fell down to her back though she wasn’t shy to putting it into interesting braids. Instead of taking about a quarter of an hour of pain and somewhat grotesque shifting of flesh which was the price of the change for most werewolves, Harmony...I mean Skylar could become a wolf from one second to the next. She had something of a shaman’s magic, medicine woman stuff, though that had more to do with why she was so savvy with balancing spirits or interpreting dreams than it did with the speed or ease of her shift. It may have had something to do with why she found it so simple to banish or recall her clothing when turning from woman to she-wolf and back, but it was not Alejandro’s culture or expertise. She was his responsibility however. Skylar did not have as many classes with him as some of the other girls, but she was his Advisee, and he her Advisor. If they were a spy network it be more or less as if he were her handler, doling out information of importance, and steering her down paths best suited to her skillset and interest. As it was they got along relatively well, she had a bit of a sternness to her which kept most idiots from getting in her way, though she was not against congenial, yet cautious conversation. She had the aura of someone who knew there were things to be feared, and did her best to avoid interacting with them, which didn’t mean she was a coward, more like peculiarly experienced. Yes, Alejandro sensed something like an old soul within her, as well as a steady, yet intense fire in her heart. She considered him to be interesting as well, which she let him know every now and then, usually before inviting him to some private property of her parents or some restaurant out in the middle of nowhere which would undoubtedly require stopping at a hotel for the night. Somehow he didn’t doubt that she could sabotage a vehicle without so much as blinking an eye, she had top marks in his engineering classes.

Maddison was not so much his daughter, but her father, a close friend and in many ways a brother, had more or less entrusted her to him with punishment of torment, to the grave and beyond should any permanent harm befall her. Alejandro tried not to entertain the man’s nonsense too much but he knew how to make a, not so much a threat, but a spooky promise, and Alejandro was already terrified enough of airplanes, he’d been in too many aerial crashes to ever feel safe off the ground, so he didn’t want to worry about his strange friend blowing up his space heater or blaming him for some crime against some national government in which there was a good chance he was not responsible for. Like a twenty-eighty ratio, maybe forty-sixty if it got too close to rome, or the dutch. Maddison had a mane of golden locks so much that he often contented himself by buying bear themed paraphernalia for her so that she might resemble the fairy tail just a little more. She had freckles, and a cute way of scrunching up her nose when she was angry. She was also a mean little fighter like if Camilla's disturbing sense for positioning her prey met Olivia’s brutish grit. When he wasn’t proud he was scared she might try to kill him in his sleep. She had her own dorm, but she seemed to find a degree of comfort in sleeping at the spare room in Alejandro’s apartment. It was a little tense given how dominant she was but he had to admit he didn’t hate when the lil’ tike was around. It was like having a partner in crime, or a deadly teddy bear. She was only about fifteen but of the five she may have been the most dangerous. His friend had the misfortune of sexing up a witch, and so the girl inherited a bit of her mother’s magic, and witch magic was a triple edged sword on the best of days. More like a bomb of corrosives than the skeleton key many tried to pretend it to be. Her wolf seemed to balance it well, but it could only be expected to do so much; balancing her regular tides of emotions would take a swat team. Alejandro was not fool enough to ignore the tinge of possessiveness that seemed to linger in most of their interactions. She did not like the attention other women payed him and seemed to like to make it clear to the other members of the “club” that she more or less got VIP access to his more private moments. Alejandro didn’t mind this exactly as it usually distracted them from whatever plan they were making on assaulting his person instead focusing on battling each other.

Oh how beautiful they were, so radiant and dark and divine, well, Maddison was more creamy than dark but still, she held his heart just the same. They were his joys, his prides, his candles in the night, and he was sure that by the end of this they’d be his deaths.

Fariha, a vampire and one of his fellow faculty members seemed to find it particularly humorous to watch him dance around campus, avoiding one compromising collision or another. She was a vampire, and she owed her deep warm colors, pleasing voice, simple yet fashionable clothing, diversely balanced disposition to India, where she’d been born and raised. She wore her hair in long braids when her head went uncovered, though if Alejandro had to say, she looked more like a shaolin monk than a delicate wallflower, though she’d have been just as sexy either way. So many of his fantasies involved stripping her down, physically, emotionally, maybe both if his wolf was burning just right. The two had settled into something of a veiled rivalry with each trying to tempt the other with as little overt effort as possible. On hot nights he’d wear a red v-neck which all but sent her blood boiling as she crossed and uncrossed her legs trying to get some letter typed while trying not to stare in his direction, looking both pleased and pouty. She would often counter by using him as a place marker in the meal hall, claiming that he’d been saving his place in line, but before he could object or even dream about being aggravated, she’d press her curves all along the shape of his body talking about “what a crowded line” or how she “just needed to warm up a little”. For all his strength he considered forcing her then and there. Oh how he pleaded with Allah to smite whoever had made jeans such painfully restrictive clothing. He walked with a bit of an awkward hunch many of those nights.       

[neen-writes]

Silver for Monsters -- Chapter 2

Series: Witcher/Fairy Tail

Pairing: Gajevy

Summary: In a world ravaged by monsters where magic is becoming outlawed and nonhumans are hunted, the Witcher known as Black Steel Gajeel takes up a contract. He expects to find a simple old herbalist, terrorized by a beast in the woods. But in his many years he has learned to never trust what he expects.

Ch. 1

The fire crept through, licking at the edges of his consciousness and weaving trails he tried to follow.  They were the light in the dark, and the Witcher stumbled through to keep up with them.  Farther and farther the fire got away from him, while his empty hands gripped at the thickened dark.  The deeper he got into the black, the more a collection of embers started to blossom in front of him.  He picked up his pace, racing now towards the light that beckoned him.

Then the light took form, and he stopped running.  Waves on fire.  Gold, blue running into one another, the locks brushed over her shoulders, drawing him into that current in a way he could imagine drowning in it.  She wore something different than when he first saw her, but he couldn’t make out the details of it, as she started to turn to face him.  Her eyes burned brighter than any flame, lit by the movements of her delicate fingers.  From them the threads of flame originated, and she weaved them expertly in front of her.  To bring him to her.

Slowly, the woman lifted her eyes to meet his, and in them he saw immeasurable intensity.  And a dose of fear.  Her mouth moved with silent words, words he couldn’t understand.  He tried to get closer to her, but the distance between them didn’t change.  Slowly she smiled at him, and flicked the flames off her hands.  Her lips moved again, and he finally heard her voice, clear as day.

“Gajeel.”

--

The Witcher sputtered awake, sitting up quickly.  His yellow eyes darted around him, reminding himself where he was.  The now-dead campfire, two horses grazing nearby, a large tree overhead, the sun just starting to rise over the horizon.

“How many of those dreams do you have to shoot up from before you go talk to the witch again?”

The deep, gravelly voice drew Gajeel’s attention to his left.  The umber-skinned man lounged against the trunk of the tree, his bare arms crossed over his chest.  He regarded Gajeel with one golden eye, while a thick, old scar ran over his milky left one.  A taunting smile played across his face, knowing what had ripped his close friend from sleep.

Gajeel hissed, narrowing his eye at his companion before looking away.  “Shut up, Lil,” he grumbled, rubbing his face to erase the images from his head.

“You haven’t had a solid sleep since you ran off to Midcopse on your own,” the other Witcher pressed.  “Sorceresses are dangerous, Gajeel.”

“They’re just dreams,” Gajeel fired back, “Drop it, Lily.”  His friend wasn’t far off the mark.  It had been weeks since he killed the Fiend, but he could not get the image of the little mage out of his head.  He tried his best to tell himself it was the shock of her reveal that stuck with him, but so many nights he had the same dream.  And he couldn’t help feeling like she was calling out to him.

Lily raised his hands in surrender, “Fine, fine.  But the lack of sleep better not slow you down.  I’d rather not have to patch you up again after a monster uses you as a distracted chewtoy.”

“I recall havin’ to save your ass after many a Griffin so I don’t wanna hear it,” he snapped, rolling his shoulders.  “Now, what’s the contract again?”

“Do you ever listen to me?” Lily grumbled, running a palm over his buzzed scalp with a sigh.

“Not my fault ya decided to tell me about it after my fifth Kaedweni,” Gajeel shrugged, still able to taste the dark stout.  They’d been kicked out of the tavern after his eighth, when he decided it was a good idea to get into a brawl over cards.  It seemed worth it at the time but in retrospect he would have rather passed out in a bed that night.  And though Lily wasn’t saying anything, he could feel the bitterness hanging around him.  Gajeel was not an easy drunk to take care of.

His friend merely rolled his eye, sparing Gajeel a lecture he had heard many times before.  “As I told you last night, it’s not a formal contract.  I just heard some men talking at the tavern.  There’s a refugee camp, a half day’s ride south, but it’s been taken over by bandits that’re holding them hostage.  It would be of great benefit to the area to have the camp freed up again.”

“What bandits do usually ain’t our concern,” Gajeel remarked, crossing his arms.  “We hunt monsters, not men.”

“No, but should we free them, that’ll be a lot of very greatful civilians.  There’s like to be a reward in it,” Lily explained, “Plus--”

“Plus you’re a bleedin’ heart?”

“You know very well I hate this damn war, Gajeel.  Both sides of it.  If there’s a mutually beneficial opportunity to help, I’m going to take it,” Lily explained, tight-lipped; like he had more he wanted to say but held back.  Gajeel, knowingly, did not push.  Lily started to get up onto his feet, picking up his swords to strap both over his back, fastening the buckle over the chest of his sleeveless armor.  Though Witchers aged significantly slower than humans thanks to their mutations, Lily looked at least ten years Gajeel’s senior.  Grey started to pepper the black stubble on his face and fine wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes and around his mouth, the only indicators that he was aging at all.  But the sinewy muscle that flexed on his exposed arms, just as toned as Gajeel, showed age had done nothing to dull his finesse.

“Alright, calm down.  Damn,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes,  “Guess it’ll be nice to use some steel for a change,” Gajeel grinned, a dark mirth flashing across his face as he rose as well, grabbing his swords.  He didn’t often delight in killing humans, but he had no qualms with gutting bandits.  And it had been a long while since he’d had the chance to remind people why they called him Black Steel.

“Oh, by the way,” Lily started, not bothering to look at his friend as he grabbed the saddle of his horse, “The ride will conveniently swing us fairly close to Midcopse on the way.”  He swore he heard Gajeel choke, and he had to stuff down the laugh that threatened to break out.

“One of these days, Panther, one of these days, I’m going to let the next Griffin just have you,” Gajeel growled.

“Don’t call me that, you know I hate it,” Lily warned as he hauled himself into the saddle.  Lily was far more understated than Gajeel had ever been, and had a style far more geared towards stealth and calculation.  He preferred the quiet, calculated kill, and he gradually garnered the nickname.  It was a style he had tried to teach to Gajeel, but the boy had a wild mind and a raw talent that would not be guided towards the calm and collected route.  

“Why the hell do ya think I call you it,” Gajeel pulled up onto his own horse and dug his heels into its side.

--

“I’m not going in, Lil,” Gajeel grumbled, staring at the village down the road.  “We got places to be.”  He didn’t even know what he would do if he did go back.  What would he say?  What reason had he to really go?  He couldn’t tell her she’d plagued his dreams for weeks, so he just decided to ‘check in.’  “What the hell you want me to say to her?”

“Oh, just suck it up, boy.  I’m sick of listening to you whine in your sleep,” Lily groaned at him.

But the other Witcher growled a curse under his breath and yanked on the reins of his horse, turning them in the other direction.  “No.”  His voice was harsh, final, and Lily knew there was no changing his mind.  The older Witcher sighed deeply, but wordlessly moved his horse to follow Gajeel, away from Midcopse.  He would try again on their way back.

They smelled the smoke and death before they saw any signs of the camp.  Both Witchers quietly dismounted from their horses and left them to graze near a tree.  Carefully, they moved off into the brush, weaving around trees to remain under cover.  

“We should get a good look of the layout.  See where they’re thinnest and get an idea of how many versus civilians,” Lily suggested, keeping his tone low.  There was a fluid, very feline nature to his movements now, with intense focus on the path in front of him.  His namesake became very apparent the moment he decided to get serious, whether he wanted it or not.  

Gajeel grunted in response, and came to a crouch at the edge of the treeline, at the top of the hill.  Down the slope, nestled in the large clearing were several tents that were once used by the refugees.  Beyond the camp, onwards to the south, lay open grassland.  The camp now bustled with the movement of several large, armed men, with clubs and axes slung over their shoulders.  Something in their appearance looked different from the usual road-rabble, and the two of them glanced at each other curiously. The Witchers steadied their breathing and focused, listening to what they could below.  They could hear the bandits’ conversations, hear women and children crying, and hear the voices of others trying to comfort them.  

“At least twenty, likely more,” Lily whispered, narrowing his eyes, his good one slowly scanning over the settlement.  “More civilians than that, hard to know how many.  Hear the chains?”

“Mm,” Gajeel nodded, “Have them trapped inside.”  He drew a deep breath and grimaced, “Haven’t bothered to take out the dead.  In a while.”  Monsters.  Men loved so much to think they were somehow above the beasts that came out of the cataclysm, that those were the true monsters.  When really, they were just reflections of themselves from another realm.  They were no better, but the existence of monsters allowed them to separate their own depravity from it and somehow sleep at night.  “Suggestions?”

“We split up.  I’ll hit the east, you the west.  Kill as many of them as you can, I’ll release as many hostages as I can, to get them out of the way.  Take away their leverage,” the older Witcher looked to Gajeel, “Slice first, figure out who they are after.”  With that, Lily stalked away from Gajeel, melting into the shadows.

He shifted his weight from one side to the other and sniffed again, something not quite right.  He couldn’t figure out what it was, but his instincts told him to move carefully.  Still, a thrill surged through his blood, quieting his doubts as he headed off in the opposite direction of his mentor.  He regarded the camp with the eyes of a predator, keeping to the edge of the underbrush to keep his cover as he descended down the hill.  His side seemed more active than Lily’s, but considering his friend had intended to focus on the hostages, and their potential pay, it made sense.  Gajeel’s focus was entirely on the bandits.  

Gajeel took one more deep, calming breath, honing all his senses on the first bandits he saw several yards in front of him, milling between the tents.  They were laughing about something, and one of them entered a tent where he heard sounds of fear from a child.  The Witcher narrowed his yellow eyes and reached back, grabbing the hilt of his steel blade: Kurogane.  It whispered on its way out of the sheath, the black steel glinting dangerously in what light reached him.  Rivulets and waves of varying shades of black and deep gray formed infinite patterns along its face, and the edges were sharpened to deadly perfection.  This blade was his pride, and he took better care of it than he did himself.

With that, the Witcher rose, striding calmly from his hiding place into the fray.  It took until he was just nearing the first tent for one of the men to realize he did not belong.  The first bandit growled out a warning curse, gripping his axe and swinging it up in front of him.  But in a blur, Gajeel was upon him, swinging his black blade upwards from his side.  The bandit did not have time to react before it split him, gut to chin, and he dropped in a shower of red.  All attention swung to Gajeel now, and every bandit went tense, regarding the Witcher with the black blade, and blood splattered across his grinning face.

“Black Steel!”

--

Nothing.  Not so much as a spark, a fizzle.  Nothing at all.  The dimeritium shackles completely blocked any magic that would have otherwise been flowing, and every time she tried to muster anything, she felt a shred of the familiar warmth and then nothing.  It cut off abruptly before she could manage anything tangible, and a spear of pain shot through her skull each time she tried.  She watched her skin begin to discolor where the metal touched it, and a dull ache pulsed from it.

Her warm eyes looked to the area around her, to anything she could hope to use, but they had been meticulous.  She knew they had been looking for her the second they revealed the dimeritium; why else bring it unless they had expected to find a sorceress?  A sorceress on the run no less.  She knew it was too high profile to come here, to a place with so much traffic.  She had not established loyalty to these people liek she had in her village, even if she had helped them.  They were frightened, unstable fold who had escaped war, and were looking for anything that could help them recover in the world.  

But she had known about the camp near Midcopse for some time, and knew there would be people who needed her.  It was a massive risk, but to help people displaced by and running from the war, she felt it worth it.  She’d been tending to the wounded for weeks, travelling back and forth between here and her home long before she’d been stymied by the Fiend.

But then they came.  Only two at first, they really did seem like more refugees; they had gone as far as to injure one another to be convincing.  She had started to tend to them, to heal them, and faster than she could react the shackles were on her wrists.  Then the rest came: men better equipped than any normal bandit.  No, they sought bounties, and what better than Radovid’s bounty on the head of every Lodge sorceress still alive?  It was the only reason she was left alive, and not in worse shape.  

But the rest of the camp was not so lucky.  Though the majority of the camp was made up of displaced humans, some nonhumans had found their way into the mix, fleeing the hunters.  Hoping there might be better luck for an elf or halfling here than anywhere else.  How poorly that had failed; they were the first to die.  They’d gotten away from the witch hunters, and instead fell to different humans with hatred in their hearts.  The rest were used for labor.

Levy could hear them talking about her outside the tent; they used her name, first and last.  A Redanian unit was already well on their way to retrieve the sorceress Levy McGarden, and with these shackles and her size, there was nothing she could do about it.  No way she could fight other than trying to talk to whomever came for her next to offer her stale bread and a sip of water.  To keep the prize alive.  But her words usually earned her a curse, or a strike if she was unlucky.  This day had been long coming, she knew that, but she had still expected to be better prepared for it.  

So she waited, chained in the tent alone, the middle of her shackles attached to a pike in the earth.  For days that she had nearly lost track of, she waited in that spot.  They hadn’t come in to see her that day, and she wondered if that was the day the regiment was set to arrive.

Waited, until the shouting began.  Levy went straight, trying to peer out the front of her tent, but unable to see anything but the men running in two different directions.  Had the Redanians arrived?  No, the shouting wasn’t right.  The screams, rather; they were agonized.

The little mage’s heart started to pound and she yanked on her chains, but the pike didn’t budge.  Her fingers moved and she furrowed her brow, trying to make a spark, but her magic died in her veins.  Still, Levy refused to be still, and resolved to at least try.  She would not be taken without a struggle, futile or not.  She refused to meet the same fate as some of the others.

--

Clang!

Their swords sung with the collision, as Gajeel held the man back with both hands gripped to the hilt of his blade, arms trembling from the effort.  His opponent pushed, trying to gain some purchase against the Witcher, and Gajeel held firm for a second longer before his elbows buckled and he stepped to the right.  Surprised, the bandit felt forward as Gajeel slid his sword up and away from the other.  In one fluid motion, he arced the blade up and over the man, bringing it down with thunderous strength onto his back.  The black steel sliced through the man’s leather armor like butter, and the body dropped limp to the earth.  

He yanked his weapon free and spun it once in his grip, flinging droplets of blood in a circle from it.  Several locks of black hair had drawn loose from his ponytail and hung in his face, sticking to the blood on his cheeks.  He’d made it almost to the center of the settlement at this point, a trail of men littered behind him.  Across the camp, he could see Lily making equally swift work of the bandits, stopping only to step briefly into the tents he passed, as frantic people fled from them soon after.

Three more armed men gathered, intentionally in front of the opening to another tent near him and faced Gajeel with a new urgency that piqued his interest.  His eyes flicked to the tent they had come between, and he smirked.  “Got somethin’ nice in there?” he finally spoke up.  With his luck, there would be a heavy chest inside and they wouldn’t need anyone to pay them after.  After all, bandits loved to hoard their loot.

One of the three men cast a cautious glance at the others and stepped back a little, placing a not-so-subtle hand on his pocket.  “Well?  You lot gonna fuckin’ kill the whoreson or not?!”  The other two finally snapped to attention, lifting their weapons.

Gajeel got into a stance, waiting for them with his sword in his right hand and his left poised on front of him.  “Try it…” he mumbled, his yellow eyes flickering.

The men charged, and Gajeel’s gaze flicked over each one of them, and the tent.  Three targets, one shot.  I can make this quick, he thought, counting their steps until…

He made a sign with his free hand and punched it forwards as a surge of unseen power flew from him.  The Ard slammed into the two men in front of him, into the third, and flew by the tent.  The force of it ripped away the front of the tent, pulling the tattered cloth down in one sheet to expose what was inside, but Gajeel was already moving.  He lurched forward at the same moment the blast left him, all his focus on the three bandits, who had been thrown to the ground.  His black sword plunged into the first man he reached, as his hand flew out to the man trying to recover right next to him.  He formed another sign, and the same blast slammed into him, but this time straight down into the ground.  The bandit screamed as bones broke, and Gajeel yanked the blade out of the first body, already heading for the third.  

The thug was barely trying to regain his breath, coughing for air, but Gajeel was already on him.  “Y-you don’t know what yer fuckin’ with…” he coughed, trying to slide away from him.  “Fuckin’ freak…!”

“Ohh… ya don’t want to call me that…” Gajeel growled, swinging his blade.  “Ya should have picked up a different profession, now let’s see what ya got in that pocket.”  Before the man could spit more insults, Gajeel plunged his blade into the bandit’s gut.  He could hear Lily close now, drawing attention away from him, enough that he had a chance to kneel down and empty the pocket of the man.  Hnn… a key.  There had to be something really good in that chest then.

The Witcher stood and turned to face the tent again, and froze, his heart suddenly running at a gallop.

The blue-haired mage sat in the center of the ruined structure, her sides heaving from just as much shock as Gajeel felt himself. Her hair was in complete disarray, her yellow tunic covered now in dust.  She blinked once, honey eyes looking him over.  “Gajeel…” she breathed, stunned that the Witcher stood before her yet again.  Immediately her heart and mind went into double time, and she looked to the key in his hand, eyes going wide with the realization.  She threw her hands up, catching on the chains as she winced.  “H-hurry!  You must get me out of these, now!  There’s no time!” she pleaded, her voice cracking.

Gajeel snapped out of his stupor when she spoke, and he stumbled towards her.  His large hands fumbled with the shackles, Dimeritium…? he thought, looking to her quickly. This just got much more complicated if these men had access to dimeritium, and had specifically taken her hostage.  “What have ya gotten into now?” he asked, finally managing to unlock the cuffs.  

Levy shook her hands free and stood, shaky on her feet.  Her knees buckled and she almost sunk back to the ground had it not been for Gajeel hooking his arm around her back for support.  She steadied herself quickly and stepped away from him, brushing the dust off herself with a wary glance in his direction.  “We need to leave, we--”

“Gajeel!  We got company!” Lily cried out, drawing the attention of the two of them to the edge of the camp, out towards the fields.  They saw the banners first: red, with the white eagle emblazoned across it.  A company of at least fifteen heavily armored Redanian soldiers rode from the south at a pace that could only mean they knew what they were coming for.  And within a matter of minutes they would reach them for it.

Levy backed away farther from Gajeel, her eyes looking around her quickly, trying to form a plan, but the Witcher reached out and put his hand on her shoulder, forcing her to look at him.  “What the hell are ya doing here?!” he demanded, towering over her.

“That’s not important!” Levy shouted as she shrugged away from his touch and lifted her hands up in front of her.  Sparks sputtered in front of her fingers, but she still felt the effects of the shackles as she tried to flick magic from her hands.  A string of curses fell from her lips as she glanced at the approaching soldiers.  Her captors.

“Gajeel!  Are we standing or backing down?” Lily called again, making his way to them, clutching his steel blade.  He was equally splattered in blood and dirt, sides heaving from the effort.  “I freed as many as I could find but the rest of the bandits have backed off to the Redanians.”  He looked to Levy now, raising his brows at the magic she tried to cast.  He shot a questioning stare to Gajeel, who merely shook his head.  

“We stand.  We can’t outrun them and they are coming for us.  For her.” Gajeel replied, studying the woman.  She had a blossoming bruise around her right eye, and a cut on her lip.  They’d not been gentle with her, even though she’d been completely disarmed, and for whatever reason this fact grew seeds of anger in his chest.  As though oblivious to him, she shook her hands again, and small bolts of blue shot off of them at last.  “O-Oi!” Gajeel exclaimed, taking a step away from her instinctively.

Levy shot him a look that stilled him, gold flickering through her irises.  She looked determined, steady, and he could see her thoughts racing, while blue electricity danced from her fingertips. “If you want to escape them--this--I need you to trust me like you know me, for five minutes.  Just five minutes.”

“Gajeel, we should leave, now.  This is not our fight, and it’s more than we came here for,” his friend urged, taking a tight hold on his arm. There was nothing but wariness with regards to the sorceress.  He had already pieced together that this was the one that plagued Gajeel, but that certainly didn’t mean he trusted her.  

Still, Gajeel hesitated, watching her turn away from him, noticing the ever so subtle shaking in her hands as she held them out to her sides.  She was afraid, and she did not wait for an answer.  Gajeel wasn’t stupid, he knew why Redanian soldiers would be here.  If she was ever involved with the Lodge, then she had a price on her head.  Radovid would stop at nothing to round all of them back up, and it looked like they had come damn close to getting her.

“I need to buy some time.  I can’t make one, just yet…” she muttered to herself, rolling her shoulders, then her head.  Her neck popped and she exhaled, trying to center herself.  To focus.

The company had just entered the southern border of the camp as Levy stopped in place and lifted her hands high.  She muttered unintelligible words under her breath, the sparks growing in intensity.  Her hair whipped about her face, the electricity raising the locks and ruffling her tunic.  She stared, unwavering, at the wall of horses that raced towards them, blades already unsheathed and at the ready.

Levy took in a sharp breath, feeling her magic once more course through her in burning waves.  Her hands closed into fists as she swung her arms down in front of her.  

A deafening crack cut through the air as a massive bolt of lightning fired down from the blue heavens at the head of the charge, exploding into the earth.  Horses and men screamed as they went flying, and the attack cleared out half the company with a single strike.  Lily and Gajeel leaned back, awed by the display, and already she was working on her next move, having halted the attack with a gaping crater and spooked horses that the soldiers now struggled to rein back in.  

“Now can we get out of here?” Lily urged, just as Levy turned to face them.  

“Yes,” she answered for them breathlessly, earning raised, skeptical brows.

Her gazed flicked between the two, like she was trying to work something out, before she walked confidently towards Gajeel.  Her right hand pivoted in circles, like trying to spin an invisible wheel.  The Witcher stood rooted, unsure what the mage intended to do, ignoring the words of his friend.  A shock of a different kind coursed through him as she reached out and laid her hand, the one not twirling, on his chest.  “Didn't think we'd meet again so soon, Black Steel,” she offered him a slow smile. Her eyes met his, that blazing gold still burning at the center of her irises, and he found himself unable to move.  Immeasurable intensity, with a dose of fear.

Words failed Gajeel still, but he tore his gaze away from her to look beyond her as the remaining soldiers rounded up to continue their advance around their fallen comrades.

When he looked away, when he was distracted as she had hoped for, Levy extended her spinning hand to the side, swinging it round in a large circle.  At that moment, a gaping, orange portal opened directly next to her, and an invisible force drew her in.  She smirked up at the Witcher, now tightly gripping the sword strap over his chest.  Gajeel’s attention flew to her, eyes wide.  “W-wait, hold on!” Instinctively he reached for her, as Lily reflexively held firm to his friend’s arm, and all three flew through the mouth of the portal, disappearing from the camp entirely.