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brandyllyn · 4 years ago

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To sell your love for peace (01)

Javier Peña x f!reader [no use of y/n]

Summary: You weren’t his type but he was willing to make an exception. Words: 2500

Other Chapters My Masterlist

Rated: Hella Explicit.

Warnings: language. fingering. PiV. prostitution. Javier is a normal amount of asshole.

You were pretty. That was the first thing Javier noticed after you threw open your apartment door. Not the brittle beauty of the girls that he usually preferred, but a basic almost wholesome kind of pretty that he knew a lot of men paid good money for. Javier stepped inside, carefully scanning the street behind him and then guiding you back into your apartment with one hand on the base of your spine. He closed the door behind him, being sure to lock it.

You introduced yourself and he nodded. "Javi," he offered, holding a hand out and taking note of the calluses on your fingertips when you took it. He scanned the small living room, taking in the quilt hung on the wall and the small painting of flowers near the kitchen.

"Can I get you a drink?" You asked, hands nervously running down your thighs. He nodded and you disappeared into the kitchen, the skirt of your dress skimming across your thighs. He took in your assets almost dispassionately. You had a cute, girl-next-door vibe. Someone a man could pretend to be in love with for the night.

You probably had more work than you knew what to do with.

The whiskey bottle you held up was exactly what he was hoping for and he nodded at your questioning look. You met him in the living room with two glasses, walking around the threadbare couch and settling onto one end. He sank into the other, shrugging his jacket off.

"Vanessa says you know each other-"

"From work," you finished for him, glancing at him from the corner of your eye before looking away. He was used to this. A lot of men were harsh with the girls, and as a result there could be a hesitancy in women in your profession around unknown strangers. It was important that he made himself as non-threatening as possible.

"From work," he echoed, taking a drink from his glass but not probing on that subject further. "How long have you lived here?"

Glancing around the apartment you shrugged, "A few months? I moved her from Medellín last fall."

Javier made a note of that, sipping his whiskey. "The place is nice, I like the quilt."

You smiled, finally, seeming to relax a bit. "My grandmother made it."

He smiled back, "I have a blanket my great-grandmother crocheted. Ugliest thing you’ll ever see. Old bat was colorblind." You gasped and choked on the whiskey and his grin grew wider. "You okay?"

"Yes," you croaked, holding a hand to your throat. "Just, went down the wrong way." Your eyes met his from under long eyelashes. "My grandmother would murder me if she heard me talking about her like that."

"Mine’s already passed," he shrugged. "I’m not worried."

"I’m sorry." You reached out and touched his knee and then jerked your hand back. He clocked that as well.

The whiskey was good, not expensive by any stretch but not cheap shit either. He watched as you fidgeted with the hem of your skirt, glass in one hand. Finally you said, "Vanessa says you’re… that you can pay. For… information."

This was what he had been waiting for. He leaned forward, dropping his glass to the table and turning his body towards yours. "That depends on the information."

You swallowed and nodded to yourself. "I know some… I heard something. About…"

He knew this dance as well. Knew why you were hesitating. "If you help me I promise to do everything I can to keep you safe."

You nodded again, still not looking at him. "If I knew something about Escobar. And his plans. That would be worth something?"

"If it turns out to be true," Javier raised an eyebrow. "If it helps us, then yeah. It’s worth something."

You nodded, silently staring into your glass.

"Do you know something?" he asked, watching your face. You stared into the distance before the words tumbled out.

"There’s a hit. On Friday. The Minister of Finance."

Javier blinked. He knew that. Six weeks of surveillance by the CIA hoping to find a connection for their own purpose had dropped the nugget of information to the DEA. It had taken a lot of wrangling and horse-trading to get the info, and even now he could admit it was more dumb luck than skill that had gotten them the notice.

Dumb luck, skill, and now you dropping it in his lap.

"How do you know that?" He asked and his eyes narrowed when you shook your head at him.

"I can’t- please don’t ask me that."

Also not uncommon. If the relationship continued he’d get it out of you eventually. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a pack of smokes, giving you a questioning look and offering one to you. He lit it after you gave permission, letting it dangle from his fingers as he watched you.

"How do I know this is good intel?"

You sighed, setting your glass down on the coffee table. "The man, the one who is going to do the hit, his name is Jackal."

Javier sat bolt upright, dropping his cigarette across his empty glass. That was a name he’d only heard a few times. A sicario that had thus far evaded any attempt to get a photo. "How the fuck do you know that name?"

Again you shook your head. "I asked you not to ask me that."

He bit off his retort. If you had a lead on Jackal, even if it was only hearing about him in passing, then he needed you to keep offering him intel. Needed you to trust him and tell him how you knew this. He pulled his wallet out with a grunt, opening it and thumbing through the contents. Javier looked at you through the cigarette smoke as he dropped a twenty onto the table.

"Until I can confirm," he paused and looked you over. You weren’t really his type. He liked his girls primped and preened, long nails and perfect makeup. But then again, there was something about the smooth skin that your dress showed, the curve of your thigh, the way he could see your nipples pebbled against the fabric. You weren’t his type but he was willing to make an exception. Slowly raising an eyebrow, he held your eye as he counted out another sixty bucks. "Yes?"

You nodded, licking your lips, the action making his cock stir. He added another twenty onto the pile, making it an even hundred, before folding the remaining cash and shoving it back into his jacket. "Drink up," he motioned at your glass, picking his cigarette up and taking a puff.

"You’re beautiful," he said conversationally and you choked again. His brow furrowed. It was just something to move the night along. To get out of the idea of you being an 'informant' and back into your day - well night - job. The girls usually liked it when he complimented them, winking at him and offering to show him all of their beautiful parts. But you seemed flustered and your chest heaved.

It was an amazing act.

"Can I kiss you?" A standard question. Every girl had a different standard for what they were willing to do - the intimacy they were comfortable with. Judging from your look and demeanor - your schtick was 'hometown sweetheart'. Javier was pretty sure the answer would be yes.

Sure enough you nodded and he carefully set his cigarette to the side, shuffling across the couch and cupping his hand behind your neck. Pulling you closer to him and gently pressing his mouth to yours. Your lips parted on a gasp and he took advantage of it, thrusting his tongue deep and licking inside of you.

You smelled sweet. Tasted it too. He was used to women who tasted like cigarettes, maybe alcohol - just like he was sure he did. But you tasted like sugar and he delved his tongue deeper into your mouth to chase it. He wondered, idly, if you would taste as sweet all over. If maybe tonight would be the night to break his general distaste on going down on a hooker. He always thought, in the back of his mind, that he would end up with a mouthful of someone else’s cum if he did.

He didn’t begrudge you your profession, but there were some aspects of it that frankly didn’t interest him.

You moaned softly and he wrapped his arms tighter around you, guiding you backwards until you spilled down onto the couch. He slipped his hand under your shirt to palm at your breast, your back arching up to him with a small gasp. Oh, he liked that. The air of inexperience rather than the usual carefully orchestrated arches and moans. He thrust his tongue into your mouth, finding your nipple with sure movements and rolling it between his fingers.

You cried out, your hands tugging at the strands of his hair and your thighs parting so he could settle more firmly between them. His lips ghosted down your neck, digging his teeth into the soft flesh and you trembled. You fucking trembled and Javier made a mental note that he had gotten a deal with the hundred he had dropped for you.

His hands pulled at your clothes and you dropped your own to help, pushing the top of your dress down. Reaching behind his neck he pulled his shirt over his head, not bothering with the buttons, and then leaned down and pressed his chest to your bare skin.

"Fuck you feel good," he groaned into your mouth, tongue darting out to taste you once again. Your fingers skimmed down his spine, slipping beneath the band of his jeans and then rising back up. He wanted your hands on him and he reached behind himself to catch one of your wrists, dragging it between your bodies and pushing it beneath the denim. Your touch was soft at first, hesitant, but a thrust of his hips pinned your fingers between his cock and your stomach and he could rock himself into your palm.

It took very little adjustment to press his mouth to your breast, to pull your nipple into his mouth and tug. Your hand clenched around his cock and you let out a soft whine that sounded almost like his name. He grinned, moving to your other breast, rubbing his cheek to your soft flesh.

"You smell like cookies," he groaned, licking underneath your breast and then up to your neck. "Fuck, how do you smell like fucking cookies?"

"It’s vanilla," you gasped and he pressed his nose to your neck, inhaling the soft scent. It reminded him of home, of lazy weekend mornings and a domesticity he had left behind in Laredo. Powdered sugar on almond dough and canned preserves pulled out for Sunday breakfast.

Fuck he definitely hadn’t paid you enough.

He shifted his weight on the couch, reaching down to stroke up your thigh. He felt you shiver and then his fingers met soft cotton. Soft, damp, cotton.

"Oh sweetheart," he pressed his lips to your cheek, pushing the fabric aside and running his hand through your slick heat. "You’re so wet. For me?"

You didn’t answer but your thighs parted further and his thumb slipped over your clit. He heard you gasp, pulled back to see you bite your lip and arch your neck.

"Can you come for me pretty thing? Come on my fingers before I fuck you?"

The hand that was in his pants shifted, fingers wrapping around his cock more fully and he dropped his forehead to your shoulder and matched your movements, slipping two fingers inside of you. Felt you squeeze around him even as your hand tightened and slid across his cock. If he wasn’t careful he was going to come in his jeans like a fucking teenager.

He sat back on his heels, using his free hand to pull your hand out of his pants. With a careless twist of his wrist he flipped your skirt back and tugged your panties to the side. "Oh that’s a pretty little pussy," he growled, "you think you can take three?" He didn’t wait for a reply, pulling your hips up so they rested on his thighs and then slipping three fingers deep inside you. You reached over your head with both arms, twisting your hands into the pillow under your head. The action lifted your breasts up higher and Javier wished he had a third hand so he could pinch your nipples while he played with you.

Three fingers in your cunt, two fingers of his other hand rubbing across your clit. He could fucking hear how wet you were for him, felt your muscles clench around him, your knees rising further to his sides. "Yeah, fuck baby that’s it."

He wouldn’t say you screamed when you came. The sound was lower than that, more of a helpless cry than anything else. Your mouth opened in a perfect 'O' - a shape made to take his cock. Maybe next time. Right now, he wanted to be inside of you.

His jacket was on the floor and he retrieved a condom while you were still recovering, slipping it on and giving himself a couple of short tugs. Leaning forward and propping one hand on the pillow next to your head, he pushed your panties to the side. Lining himself up and slowly sliding inside of you.

You had been tight on his fingers, on his cock you fit like a fucking glove. He pressed all the way, watching your face as you took every inch of him. The way your forehead crinkled and you bit your lip. Then your eyelashes fluttered open and you met his eyes.

Fuck, you smiled at him.

He fell across you, thrusting his tongue into your mouth and taking you hard and fast. He could feel your nails raking down his back, your legs lifting to wrap around his hips. He wanted to make you come again, wanted to feel you shudder and moan beneath him.

But your hands came up to cup his face and you moaned "Javi" directly into his mouth and he fucking came. Body hunching over yours as he cursed and grunted, fucking hard into you and then dropping his forehead to yours.

"Fuck I’m sorry," he mumbled, kissing you softly.

"For what?"

He groaned and pulled out of you, leaning back to the other side of the couch and stroking his hand along your calf. "I’m not usually such a fucking two-pump chump."

You pulled a blanket from the back of the couch, tucking it under your arms and covering your legs before sitting up and placing your hand over his. "Maybe… maybe we try again?"

Javier leaned his head back and shut his eyes. How the fuck did that make him feel worse? "No, I have to go. There’s something I gotta… anyway. I can’t stay."

"Oh."

He turned and looked at you, reaching out and chucking you lightly under the chin. "Maybe next time?"

Your smile was bright enough to light up the fucking city. For just a moment Javier felt like he was the only man in Bogatá.

God damn you were good at this.

Pt 2

Taglist:

@hnt-escape, @kesskirata , @supernaturalgirl , @notabotiswear , @wonderlandgabby , @pascalesque

#narcos #javier pena x reader #javier pena x you #javier peña x reader #javier peña #javier peña x you #javier pena #javier peña imagine

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imaginesandinserts · 4 years ago

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Irreverent Pt. 47 - Seven Devils

Title: Irreverent Pt. 47 - Seven Devils

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Reader Rating: M Words: ~11K

Irreverent Series Masterlist

You'd just arrived at the airport when you got the call from Clyde informing you that there was a terror alert across the EU and flights were being grounded. He'd coordinate agents on the ground but there wasn't much you could do from the States, so you were off the hook until things got figured out.

Great, now what? *------------* Aaron walked towards the plane with the rest of the team, with Reid already spouting facts around unsubs who preferred to shoot their victims from a distance rather than up close. He climbs up the steps and turning, is greeted by you, seated in your usual chair. "Hey, what're you doing here?" He walks up towards you, the rest of the team following close behind, equally surprised to see you. "EU terror alert," you explain while he stashes his luggage away, nodding hello to everyone else. "Clyde said I'm free for the time being and I was already at the airport. Garcia read me in." "Well, it'll be good to have you, kid." Rossi takes a seat in the aisle across from you guys. "Seems like an all hands on deck sort of situation." Everyone settles in and you can't help but notice the small smile that seems to linger on Aaron ever since he saw you. The two of you had only had the past three days together and throughout that, you'd had a soccer match for Jack, a birthday party for one of his friends, and you'd spent Saturday night with the girls; needless to say, it had been tough to get time together for just the two of you. "Was Jack okay?" you ask, turning to Aaron after everyone had finished talking through some of the case details and started to build a preliminary profile on the Unsub. Aaron nods, but your question catches JJ's attention, who looks to you with her eyebrows raised, the puzzled expression on her face imploring you to explain. You're unable to help the smirk that plays at your lips as you do. "We had a - um - staff meeting this morning that Jack wasn't invited to. He wasn't too happy that the door was locked," you explain, biting your lip and barely stifling your giggles. "A staff meeting?" Emily raises her eyebrows at you and you can just imagine the dirty thoughts running through her mind along with the Wow Y/N only soccer moms call getting railed a staff meeting. You meet Aaron's eye and you can see the soft blush to his cheeks that only you would notice. "I simultaneously regret and appreciate my choice of words there," you murmur to him as he shakes his head in amused disapproval. Derek barks out a laugh in reaction to Emily. "Uh huh. Was it a successful meeting?" he asks, wagging his eyebrows at you, toeing the line at ribbing Aaron as well. "I think both parties were pleased with the outcome. At least according to my notes." You turned to look at Aaron, mirth flitting into your gaze. "Would you concur?" He has a small smirk on his face mirroring yours, no doubt thinking back to the fifteen minutes the two of you had caught together before you had to get ready to leave for the airport - once against the aforementioned locked bedroom door and a second in the shower, before you begged him to relent, otherwise you'd be late. He'd been intent on a third. "Some good points were made. However, we might have to do a follow up to ensure we're still aligned," he drawls, getting far too much enjoyment out of the effect his words and low voice would have on you. You lose it at that, unable to keep a straight face. Follow up indeed. "Gross. I feel like I just watched my parents flirting." JJ groans, pushing up from her seat to go rummage around for snacks in the back. She was due anytime now and would be gone on maternity leave starting the following week. She was already mostly out of the field, staying in the precinct and managing the team from there. You knew, that as a result of that, Aaron was actually out in the field a lot more because he trusted JJ to handle the emotions and politics of local officials far better than anyone else. "Morgan, could you check if we're stocked on the M4 ammunition?" Aaron switches gears towards preparing for the landing, a quick brush of his hand to your thigh in promise that there would indeed be a follow up to this morning's activities. Derek nods and gets up, checking on the rifles stock that was brought along. With an Unsub like this, the team would need to be equally equipped to handle any situations that might arise, especially in a sprawling Texas city where guns were aplenty. "Guys," Spencer pipes up, "I don't think I'm actually allowed to use those." He glances around at the rest of the team apprehensively, as Derek and Aaron share a calculated look at his admission. "You're not," they both tell him almost simultaneously, drawing a snort from both you and Emily while Rossi merely smiles and shakes his head, turning his head back to his notes. Reid looks offended and turns on you at that. "Are you certified to shoot those?" His tone implied that he highly doubted you. "I've been shooting since I was six years old," you inform him, a superior look on your face. "I actually set the Academy record for most weapons certifications earned by a trainee." Aaron presses his lips together to keep from smiling while Emily shakes her head with a laugh at you goading Reid. "I didn't know six year olds were allowed to handle guns." "If you're rich in Connecticut, you can do pretty much anything. Just look at the Kennedys." "Touché."

Spencer grumbles to himself a bit more, slouching into his chair. It was his one weak point and he was getting better at it, really. On pretty much everything else, you're sure he'd have you beat.

You turn towards the research you'd been conducting on your own case with Clyde, in your downtime. Things were starting to fit together in an unexpected manner, and you'd had to bend a few rules to start putting all the different pieces in, but you were finally making some headway. It would definitely be faster and easier if you could enlist Garcia's help or bounce ideas off of Aaron, but your hands were unfortunately tied due to the high level of clearance you'd had to obtain to work this case in the first place.

Aaron watches as your head is bent in concentration, his own focus flickering away from the case ahead. You'd only been home for three days but you'd mentioned that your assignment at last had an end in sight. He's hopeful that that means things will be calming down - the two of you would be around one another more again. While Jack had so far done a good job of keeping the secret, he also gave his father a very telling, excited look anytime he saw you, and Aaron could often see Jack's eyes going to your hand where he hoped a ring would soon sit.

*------------*

All of the bodies thus far had been found at the grounds of various places of worship around the city - a few Churches, a Temple, and a Mosque. It would appear most of the actual killings had happened at a different location and the bodies were then moved and left to be found the next morning by unsuspecting worshippers, children, and groundskeepers. The Unsub was an equal opportunity killer - no discrimination in the religious leanings of his victims.

So far the victimology was all over the board - a college student, a local politician, a priest, a housewife, and a video game developer were the five victims so far. It read like the beginnings of a bad joke. A rabbi, a priest, and a horse walk into a bar…

The Unsub had left the bodies of each victim at their chosen place of worship. That, in itself, felt highly personal so there was a chance that the Unsub personally knew each of their victims. This was supported by the methodology - killing the victims from afar was easier on this particular Unsub's constitution.

The team had been spitballing; attempting to establish a connection between the victims. Reid and JJ were working on the geographic profile. Well, Spencer was at least. JJ kept having to leave to go to the restroom every five minutes. In that moment, you definitely did not envy pregnant women. Bearing children wrecked one's body.

The obvious religious themes were all in scope. The theory at the forefront was that each of the victims was being punished for a perceived sin, and Garcia was doing a deeper dive into their finances and online history while the rest of you got to know the families and the victims personally to wrangle out the truth. This was the most difficult part usually - even if someone was an awful person whilst alive, most people became reluctant to speak ill of the dead.

Trusting JJ to handle the centralized headquarters that the team had set up, Aaron left with you to do one set of the interviews. He wanted to speak to the parishioners of the church where the priest had been found, his body jutting out of the confessional booth. You both noted that it was on the opposite side from where the priests would typically sit, symbolically speaking to the fact that the Unsub considered the priest to be a sinner.

"I mean, he's a priest in a Catholic church," you said as the two of you walked up the pathway to the entrance. "The obvious definitely comes to mind."

Aaron agrees with a grimace. Father Patrick had led a youth group and had been doing so for the past decade. There was a high chance the Unsub could be a current or prior victim of sexual assault at his hands. He could also be someone whom a potential victim had confided in, so your suspect list was pretty wide open for the time being.

As suspected, every conversation you had - with church docents and members alike - was highly complimentary to Father Patrick. He was good with the children, kind to the female staff, had a fairly middle ground interpretation of the Bible; an all-around pillar of the community.

"Hopefully Morgan and Prentiss have better luck."

You nod, buckling in your seatbelt and commandeering the music, electing to actually play the White Album for once, drawing a smile from Aaron. He pulls out of the parking space and heads back towards the precinct. You smile to yourself as Aaron's deep voice croons along to Dear Prudence, his fingers tapping along to the beat against the steering wheel while you look out the window at the twilight Texas sky.

*------------*

"So, the girl, Rachel - total know-it-all, not unlike someone else we know…"

Reid glares at Emily as she trails off with a smirk. Her and Derek had gone to do another set of the interviews at the local university and had talked to classmates and professors to learn more about the first victim.

"We all have our suspicions about Father Patrick, but nothing conclusive there. The Councilwoman was taking bribes to block the legislation around the city's free internet policy per Garcia's research. That leaves Mrs. Abad and Ryan Cohen, the designer. We can't tell what their secret might've been, besides some high balances on a credit card for Mrs. Abad."

The team nods at Hotch, confirming his summary of the case so far.

"JJ and I have narrowed down the field to three epicenters across the city." You're surprised that Spencer gave JJ any credit at all for the work they'd done together. JJ had confided in you upon your return, that she'd told Spencer she was going to the bathroom and had instead taken a twenty minute power nap in a supply closet. Her maternity leave could not start soon enough, and you're glad that she's handling this pregnancy in a much more relaxed manner than the first, allowing herself the time off properly.

"Based on the current cadence, we could have another victim in the next couple of days." Rossi looks around the room grimly. You're all well aware that the window to catch the Unsub before another victim materializes is closing quickly. It also usually tends to speed up once the team arrives on the scene. Makes Unsubs nervous. Eager to finish the job faster.

"Would you say Councilwoman Crane was guilty of the sin of greed?" Derek's brow is furrowed, the beginnings of a concrete thought evident in his question.

You nod, encouraging him to continue.

"Pride for the first victim, Rachel."

You agree again, but this time the rest of them are also following along.

"Seven Deadly Sins," Spencer surmises from Derek's trail of crumbs.

"What are all of them?" Emily asks, looking between Derek and Spencer.

Derek shifts from one foot to the other. "Pride, Greed," he lists off, counting with his thumb and index finger.

"Lust, Envy," Aaron supplies, tacking on to the end of Derek's sentence and prompting him to continue the count.

"Gluttony, Wrath, and Sloth," Spencer finishes, turning to write them all down in order on the whiteboard.

The team was finally making some headway.

You stand towards the back of the room looking at the victim board, arms crossed across your chest, leaning against the back wall. "So, let's assume its Lust for Father Patrick. The excessive shopping could be indicative of Envy from Mrs. Abad. You guys did say she lived in a posh neighborhood. Keeping Up With the Joneses lifestyle."

"That leaves Gluttony for Cohen. Kid was pudgy." Rossi had been the one to visit the Medical Examiner, so you all trusted his assessment there.

"They're all in order. Could it be that simple?" Aaron questions, leaned forward in his chair, looking at the board with each of the victims' names listed next to one of the sins.

You contemplate his question as does everyone else. Could it be that simple? An Unsub working down the list of deadly sins, picking out victims that aligned with each one. It would stand to reason, given the working profile - you'd all decided that the Unsub must have an Orthodox religious upbringing, in a militant household.

"Occam's Razor," you answer finally, meeting his eyes, a grim set to your face. This meant there were at least two more victims planned. "The simplest explanation is usually the right one."

*------------*

In the past couple of days, the team had narrowed down the scope of the case, having realized that the Unsub had met all of the victims through various volunteer activities. The working theory was that the Unsub had deemed the victims to all be hypocrites - claiming to be doing charitable works while sinning on the side.

Garcia had cross-referenced volunteer activities between the various places of worship and had come up with charities that all of them supported throughout the city. From there she'd catalogued registered volunteers across all of them, against activities each of the victims attended, however hadn't been able to narrow it down enough.

So, here you were manning the precinct late at night with Aaron, Derek, and Emily. The team was taking it in shifts to see if any missing persons calls came in, with victims fitting into either of the final two remaining sins - Wrath and Sloth. Unfortunately, there were simply far too many options for you to be able to determine who might become the unwitting victim in this Unsub's crusade.

It was calm and quiet, only the whirring of the fan and ambient sounds of the printer filling the silence. The four of you had already eaten and were all nursing hot cups of coffee in order to stay awake in the otherwise empty station. Public statements had been made and hotlines set up in case anyone could provide even a hint as to who the Unsub might be.

Emily was slouched over at the table, her arms cradling her head as another yawn escaped her. Bleary eyed, she looks at you and you weren't much better off, only barely keeping your eyes open, tilting back in your own chair in order to simulate the feeling of tipping over; effectively scaring yourself into staying awake. Derek was seated in front of the laptop, with Garcia on video. The two of them had been playing some game, however it appeared that she'd tired of it, being nearly two hours of a time difference ahead of the rest of you. So now, Derek was just watching her snooze, head bent down to her desk.

You look at Aaron, reading the notes Reid had left behind in order to try and make some sense of everything - uncover something that had slipped through the cracks. His brow is furrowed, head bent in concentration. He'd shed the jacket a while ago and despite the time of year, the Texan climate had forced him to roll up the sleeves of his shirt, exposing delicious swathes of forearm for your perusal. His hands - so large compared to your own, the veins prominent as he flips a page, muscle tensing and flexing as he does. You have to bite your lip to suppress a moan. It was the sleep deprivation. It was getting to you. Yeah, that's it. Not your big, strong boyfriend looking all serious and focused and handsome as he tries to hunt down a serial killer. Nope. Not at all…

You stand up suddenly as your chair tips forward, all four legs finally hitting the ground with a soft crash, cushioned by the carpeted flooring. Loud enough, however, to get Aaron's attention, as he turns to look up at you, the Are you alright? plain to read in his eyes.

"Need fresh air. Gonna go take a walk around the block or something," you explain, shaking your head of the cobwebs that had formed over the course of the past two hours, as the night had slipped into what could better be classified as early morning.

Aaron sets the papers down and turns to Morgan, indicating that he was going to join you. If you thought he was letting you go out alone, at this hour, with a killer on the loose, you were certifiable.

He watches as you slip on your blazer but he doesn't bother with his own. It would be quick and it wasn't too cold anymore. He follows you through the precinct and out the front doors, down the steps, matching your shorter pace easily - he's used to it by now.

"You sure you're alright?" he asks, once the two of you have reached the street. You merely hum tiredly and nod, so he grabs your hand in his, and walks in step with you, turning the corner past the precinct.

It is a little colder outside than it was inside, but his larger hand encompasses yours entirely, making you feel like a child swathed in his warm embrace. The cool air filters through your nostrils, reinvigorating your mind, giving it the jumpstart needed to function once more.

The two of you don't talk as you walk hand in hand down the sidewalk, him walking on the outside as he always does. Only the streetlamps are on, little pockets of light between stretches of darkness. Your mind is at peace. You aren't thinking about this case or your other one. You aren't thinking about any responsibilities and obligations. No worries. Just silent. It's so rare for your mind to be quiet that you relish in it. Allow yourself to bathe in the soundless symphony occupying the chasm in your brain.

As you approach the final turn that will lead you back to the entrance of the station, you find yourself watching Aaron again. He'd been so patient with the entire case with Interpol, despite it taking a toll on him. He'd been pulling double duty - doing all the things he does while also subbing in for everything you're unable to do at home. Him and Jack had sent you a cooking video of the two of them last time you'd been away, as Jack bossed Aaron around in the kitchen and helped him make your chocolate chip cookies for the bake sale at school. You'd sent Aaron detailed instructions, as he'd have to be the one to help Jack brown the butter and ensure he didn't burn himself. You knew he must have been frustrated with the extremely particular list of ingredients you'd sent him, down to the brand of salt flakes (the pièce de résistance of the entire experience) that got sprinkled on top. Yet, he'd tackled it all with aplomb, not complaining to you even once. Jack had confided in you afterwards that Aaron had had to go to three different stores because the salt flakes were a rare item and not every branch of the nicer grocery store carried them. He'd done it though, and Jack had told you they'd turned out exactly like yours. Even Emily had texted you to validate this, asking if you'd come back without telling her when Aaron had brought a batch in for the team the following day.

Aaron feels a tug on his hand right before the turn. You'd stopped and his hand was still holding yours, forcing him to stop as well. You're stood in the shadows, right between two patches of light, your face immersed in darkness, and before he can say anything, he's lightly pushed against the brick wall exterior of the police station building. He lands with a soft oomph. You lean up against him, pressing yourself along the length of him and going up on your toes - utilizing the entirety of your ballet training - your lips meeting his in a heated kiss. He groans into your mouth, hands wrapping around your hips on instinct alone, tongue tracing your bottom lip before gently nipping at it, taking advantage of your resulting gasp to make his way into your mouth, licking every part of you available to him. He lifts you up, wrapping your legs around him and turns to hold you against the wall instead, pressing into the inviting warm juncture of your thighs.

"What brought this on?" he hums, moving from your lips to your jaw, down the column of your neck, his teeth grazing your collarbone.

You shiver at his efforts, a flip in your stomach as you feel the edge of his teeth, followed by the soft bite at the bend of your neck. Unable to answer him, lost in the feeling of his lips and teeth against your skin, your hands mussing through his hair, softly pulling and drawing vibrated groans from him.

At the absence of an answer, he pauses, looking up until he has your full attention, meeting your darkened eyes contrasting against your bashful expression. Your breath hitches when his eyes meet yours. "I love you," you muster with some concentration, soft and blissful, pulling his face back down to meet your sweetly puckered lips once more, drawing him into the cacophonous sea of feeling along with you.

By the time the two of you make it back to the conference room that Derek and Emily were sat in, Emily has stood up, leaning flat against the back wall. Derek has moved as well, taking residence in your old chair, leaning backwards much the same way you had.

"What about you guys?" he asks as you and Aaron enter.

You avoid Emily's knowing look. "What about us?"

"This whole thing - case - heaven and hell. You believe in it?"

"I went the agnostic route," Emily adds, stretching and arching her back like a cat. "If it exists, great. If not, no skin off my back."

Derek looks at the two of you expectantly.

Aaron nods quickly, returning to his old seat, feeling a lot lighter than before. He'd grown up Catholic - heaven and hell were ever-present concepts in his home.

You shrug, grabbing your lukewarm cup of coffee and dropping onto the couch. Your family had been more religious for the sake of appearances and connections rather than any true faith-inspired feelings.

Derek chuckles lightly. "Okay, so if they do exist," he says, turning back to Emily who had sunk down to the floor, seated with her legs stretched out in front of her. "Where you think you're headed?"

"Let me guess, you think you're going to heaven," Emily taunts, a mocking grin on her face.

"I do good, I am good," Derek replies assuredly. "Everything else is up to God. Right, Hotch?"

Aaron breathes out half a laugh along with a raise of his brows, which was about as much agreement Derek could hope for there.

"What about you Princess?"

You look at him, slight roll of your eyes to the ceiling. "Pretty sure patricide rules me out for a ticket to heaven," you respond, your words coated with sardonic dismissal.

Heaven. Hell. What did it even matter when you're dead?

It was a good thing that you hadn't looked at Aaron at that, because if you had, you would've noticed an entirely odd expression on his face at your words - he decides to pin his thoughts for a conversation at a later time. Once the case was wrapped up.

*------------*

"Anything you know could help us identify your husband's killer. Were you able to get a good look at him?"

JJ and Derek are running the interrogation on the latest victim's wife while the rest of the team watches from the other room. The body had been found at the edges of yet another church's grounds, marking it as the sixth victim. However, this time, a witness had emerged. The Unsub had taken Dylan Rogers from his front yard at gunpoint and Ashley Rogers, his wife, had seen it all happen from the living room before calling it in to the precinct.

"She seems tense - her shoulders have been hunched this entire time. Her facial expressions have varied from somber to haunted almost." Reid shifts closer as he profiles Mrs. Rogers, studying her body language.

"Morgan said it seemed like he might have hit her. He saw some bruising when she went to the house to pick her up," Prentiss adds, her voice grave.

Aaron acknowledges both Reid and Prentiss with a nod, his eyes fixed on the interaction taking place in the other room.

"Would fit into the umbrella of Wrath." Rossi mused from beside Aaron. All of you continue to watch while JJ brings in a sketch artist to help Mrs. Rogers construct a likeness of the Unsub.

"It must be killing her - if it's true. Having to help find his killer. Imagine the number of times she must've dreamt of hurting him in the same way he hurt her." All of you turn from Emily back to Mrs. Rogers, thinking on her statement.

"She could've left," Reid reasoned distractedly, his expression casually appraising Mrs. Rogers still for any signs that she might be concealing anything.

You find yourself bristling at that, and you've spoken out before you could stop yourself. "You know, it's funny how whenever we see cases like this. Cases where a man continuously beat up his partner, that's the question on everyone's lips. Why didn't she leave? Why did she stay?"

Reid turns to you, his mouth open and ready to contradict you or apologize, you're unsure, but you continue. "We never ask, why didn't he stop?"

Emily snorts from beside you, her lips pressed tightly together as you both watch Mrs. Rogers working with the sketch artist. She turns to Spencer after a look at you. "Because we accept men as monsters. That is their natural state. Those of them that didn't give in to it - we exalt them. We call them good men. Better men. Because they didn't beat us and hurt us and watch us bleed."

There's a tense silence but this is a sentiment that none of them are unfamiliar with. Reid should've known better.

You see Spencer shift uncomfortably, obviously apologetic for his earlier statement. You shake your head slightly and offer him a small smile, reassuring him that he's alright. This kind of stuff, just hits closer to home for some of you.

Your eyes meet Aaron's and he's looking at you with the question in his eyes that you'd expected as soon as you'd opened your mouth. You shake your head at him too, before turning your gaze back to the front.

Aaron watches you for a beat more, his eyes trained to the side of your face, your unwavering eyes set upon Ashley Rogers and your words swimming in his mind. His eyes had asked the question that he already knew the answer to unfortunately. Yet another reason for him to despise Matthew van Doren's entire existence.

"You know, there was a time I thought he was the love of my life." You all can hear Mrs. Rogers talking to JJ as the sketch artist wraps up. "We had that love - that wake up Sunday morning with pancakes and lose yourself in each other under white sheets kind of love. I don't know when it all went wrong."

*------------*

With the aid of Mrs. Rogers' description, Garcia was able to run a digitally enhanced version of the sketch against all known volunteers who had been at most of the events attended by each of the victims in the weeks prior to their deaths. After that, apprehending the Unsub was just a matter of tying together the identified man to each of the victims directly.

The team was able to prevent the final murder, and while that was of little solace to everyone, there was a tiny part of you that felt happy for Ashley Rogers in all of it. Sometimes the exit route we need arrives in the most unexpected of manners, and it is on us to recognize it and seize it for ourselves. You really hoped that Ashley would claim a new and better destiny for herself.

Since it was late, Aaron was unable to get the jet to fly back the same night, so the team was huddled into a corner of the hotel lounge with drinks in hand. While you're thrilled that you were able to prevent the final victim from being taken, this wasn't the best case the team had worked. You can see it in everyone's eyes, the way they hold their drinks, the hushed whispers contemplating if there was something that would've pointed to him sooner.

You feel bad that you aren't even really thinking about this case anymore. Your mind is preoccupied by the contents of the file you've left upstairs in the hotel room. You nod along to Emily and Derek's conversation, glass of wine held languidly in hand while you mentally collate the work you'd done so far. You know you're contributing nothing to the current conversation, and mercifully both of them have left you to your thoughts. Knowing there's not much chance of you being able to distract yourself tonight, you stand and bid good night to them before walking over to Aaron and Rossi, seated over a chessboard with Reid. They were playing two against one and Reid was still the favored choice to win.

"I'm going to head upstairs." You lean in and whisper softly to Aaron so as to not disrupt the game.

He turns his head to look up, brow furrowed ever so much. It wasn't like you to turn in early when there was a chance to socialize with the team. "I can come with." He grabs his drink as though to finish it, but you stop him with a hand to his shoulder.

"It's alright. Stay." You brush a kiss against his temple before nodding good night to the rest of them, intent on making some progress once you reached the room.

By the time Aaron gets upstairs, it is much later. Reid had won but Rossi had insisted on a rematch. Rossi just wanted to see Reid beat just once, however Aaron was wise to not bring attention to the fact that you've never played him. He knows that Reid has asked you, but you've made up excuses to not play. He'd always wondered about that, and having seen the chessboard in the New York apartment had made him realize that there was actually a good chance that you could beat Reid if you wanted to. Reid was a genius. That fact couldn't be denied. He knew everything about everything. You were different from that. Reid was driven by his pure drive for knowledge - that desire to understand the world around him better. You learned with more purpose, intention - with the need to add knowledge and skills to your toolkit, ready to whip out and be unleashed upon your opponents.

He enters the room just to see you exiting the bathroom, a robe wrapped around your body. He can't help but sigh internally at the sight. His soft, fluffy, perfect little personal teddy bear. He couldn't wait to just crawl into bed, already fearing that you'd be on another flight out the following day.

You acknowledge his presence with a smile, while toweling your hair dry.

"Who won?" There's a crooked smile on your face as you watch him take off his jacket and tie. As if you didn't already know who would win.

"Reid. Rossi wants another rematch on the plane." He shakes his head, walking further into the room. Closer to you.

You laugh softly as Aaron reaches you, looking exhausted from the long week and yet, he seems alright. All in all, this case hadn't been absolutely terrible. "Hasn't he learned his lesson by now?"

"He's a glutton for punishment." He steps forward, grabbing the towel from you and prompting you to turn around as he takes over drying your hair with soft tussles, allowing the cloth to absorb water all the way from root to end.

You hum at his actions, letting yourself to be lulled into the peaceful, floaty state that you always enter whenever he plays with your hair. It just felt too good.

"You should just give in and play him sometime." He knows he's pulling at that little thread there, curious as to how you'll react at him having deduced something you hadn't told him upfront.

You merely chuckle softly, seemingly unsurprised that he'd worked that out for himself. His profiling skills no longer surprise you much, especially when it comes to yourself. He could read you like none other. "We wouldn't want Spencer to cry, now would we?"

Aaron bites his lip, preventing a smile threatening to sneak out at that. It was nice knowing he'd been right about that. He'd have to make you play him at least. He needed to see how good you were for himself.

You turn around, halting his actions. You'd gotten a call from Clyde when you'd gotten upstairs and you were already set to fly out tomorrow on a red eye. You'd booked the ticket, making the necessary upgrades on your own dime.

"Tomorrow?" he guessed, noting the expression on your face when you looked up at him, drawing yourself up on your toes and wrapping your arms around his neck, the towel slipping from his hands and onto the floor between your feet.

You nod with a sigh, before coaxing him down, and he's quick to meet your lips with his own, knowing the two of now only have tonight. Tomorrow would be spent on the plane and then you'd have to fly out before he'd get even another hour alone with you. His hands instinctively find your waist, drawing you in flush against him. He deepens the kiss when one of your hands moves from his neck to cup his cheeks, thumb brushing over the peaking stubble around his jaw. You hate leaving like this. You can't wait for it to be over. For there to be no more goodbyes layering his touch and yours.

Aaron hugs you closer, wrapping his arms around you fully, the plush robe giving him far more to grab on to. Your lips against his, moving softly, insistently. You break away, struggling to be on your toes for much longer, so he moves, pushing you up onto the desk and coming to stand between your legs as your lips find their place once more against his, this time hands working at the buttons to his shirt as well.

"Wanted to talk to you about something." He breaks away, allowing you to pepper kisses down his jaw and the column of his neck. If the two of you only had today, he didn't want to risk forgetting and having the issue go stale before bringing it up again. He can feel your mouth, sucking, teeth lightly grazing the skin at his collarbone, undoubtedly leaving marks for him to admire afterwards when you were gone. At your hum, he continues relying on your ability to multitask. "Did you mean it, when you said you aren't going to heaven?"

You pause, looking up at him curiously and being reminded of the question Derek had asked. You hadn't realized it had affected Aaron, and yet thinking back on it, of course it had. Your answer had been entirely flippant. He was so serious when it came to things like this. "Yes. I did." Your voice is measured as you answer him, eyeing him carefully to watch his reaction. Even still, his hands have managed past the tie on your robe and his hands are caressing the bare skin of your sides, drawing a soft sigh from your mouth at the sensation. "By any definition of heaven and God and the Bible, murder isn't exactly condoned."

Had this been a few months ago, Aaron knew that this would have been an entirely different conversation. He could appreciate how entirely blunt you're able to be about how you've framed this for yourself. He might not agree with it, but he can appreciate the honesty. "Bible also says an eye for an eye." He raises an eyebrow at you, indicating that he wasn't about to let this go. Not when it came to the matter of your immortal soul. This mattered to him.

A gasp escapes you as his hands travel up your sides more deliberately, causing shivers against your sensitive skin at the feel of his roughly calloused fingers skimming, exploring, claiming. That's what his touch always felt like. A claim.

You try to focus as you think of a response, hands resuming unbuttoning his shirt and undoing the buckle to his belt. You can see he's already hard and as your fingers ghost over the bulge, he exhales sharply, eyes focused on your hands.

Realizing he wasn't getting an answer from you immediately, he helps you out by undoing the button and lowering the zipper on his pants, taking them off as you watch. You're a little confused by the conversation taking place, but you also knew this going into a relationship with Aaron. Like it or not, he was religious. Your family simply hadn't been much. It wasn't the same religious orthodoxy that Aaron had grown up with, at the very least. He wasn't by any means stringent about it, but some beliefs were innate. Good people go to heaven. Bad people go to hell. As far as he was concerned, you were a good person.

"Heaven and hell - I didn't grow up with that. But that whole eye for an eye thing, I don't think that really applies when it comes to taking a life." You help him slip the shirt off of his shoulders as you speak, the material slipping and falling to the ground as well. Aaron actually undoes the tie to your robe this time, pushing the material off of you almost roughly, eager to expose skin that he couldn't wait to taste. His hands move up to cup your breasts, kneading the flesh - the air in the room and his attentions causing your nipples to pucker, teasing him. He's unable to resist bending down and taking one into his mouth, gently sucking as his fingers tweak the other into submission as well, drawing a keening sound from deep within you, distracting you from your train of thought as you're drenched in the warmth of his touch.

You're entirely bare before him as his mouth moves to the other nipple, hands traveling down, grazing over your stomach and down your thighs, causing them to tremble. He pushes your legs apart, letting go of the nipple, his mouth returning to yours with a renewed fervor. His fingers pick up the evidence of your arousal around them, and he caresses your folds, before entering you with two fingers, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing over it as his fingers scissor inside you, locating the spot that has you arching your back, moans escaping you into his mouth.

Aaron releases your mouth so that he can watch you. Your hands scramble for purchase, bunching into the robe beneath you that soaks up your juices as he continues to work you up. Higher and higher. Your breath panting, breasts thrust up as you can feel the orgasm threatening to overtake your body. It only takes another circular motion of his thumb and the ask to Let go by him, for you to go crashing under the waves, your walls pulsing around his fingers. He watches you fall apart, your arms going up to hug against your breasts as you arch and shake and moan for him, his name falling from your lips repeatedly as he continues his machinations against your sensitive bud, intent on drawing it out. He loves to just watch you like this. Begging him to keep going, your breathy voice urging him on, your gorgeous face, mouth falling open - all for him. His beautiful little princess, entirely at his mercy.

He kisses you again as you come down, your earlier conversation entirely wiped from your mind. But not his. Never his. Aaron could focus and keep track of things in amazing order. He hated that you thought you weren't destined for heaven. It shouldn't matter - such an abstract concept and who even knew, really. But in the off chance it did, he didn't want you to think you'd be excluded. You couldn't be.

Your jelly arms and legs wrap around him and he's already worked down his boxers, revealing his thick, hard cock, eager to be buried inside you. He gathers you up in his arms, pulling you to the edge of the desk, before lifting you up and moving the two of you to the bed, managing to drop you onto it sideways, before quickly climbing on top.

You move your hands to card through his hair, watching him, his lovely brown eyes looking down at you, causing a flurry of emotion in your stomach. He leans down and slots his lips against yours once more, allowing you to get lost in the feel of him. You release him with a gasp, finding it difficult to take in air, and he allows you to breathe as he moves and presses a kiss to your shoulder, entering you in one quick thrust. "Genesis 9:5 says, for your lifeblood, I will surely demand an accounting."

What? You couldn't believe him. He was quoting the fucking Bible while buried in you to the hilt.

"Aaron - "

You're cut off as he moves out, the tip of his cock rubbing against your clit, distractingly. Perfectly. Fuck.

He enters you again, harshly, his cock finding that spot inside you as he does. His voice deep and guttural, a groan falling from his mouth as he invades you fully once more. "From each man, I will demand an accounting for the life of his fellow man."

He was still doing it. How could he even remember to quote the Bible right then?! You couldn't even remember your own name.

You don't have the words as Aaron continues, pumping into you, his hand finding your clit to help you reach your peak faster. Neither one of you would last long. You're already a trembling, shuddering mess beneath him, back arched up, feet planted against the mattress for support, your hands traveling and touching any skin of his they could reach.

You can feel his breath hot against your ear, the weight of him on top of you as he ruts his hips against yours, and you can tell he's close. So very close. His hips stutter as your hands find their way into his hair, pulling softly, just enough. "Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed." He was intent on fucking the verse into you. You release a broken cry at the feel of him. At his words. The passionate, gravely quality of his voice. He finishes with a loud groan, spilling into you, his ministrations against your clit paying off, propelling you towards the precipice as well. Your walls squeeze his cock, pulsing, clenching at the feel of his release inside you. He groans again, dropping on top of you, his hand going down and wrapping your thigh around him, pushing himself further into you still.

He lays on you for a moment longer, the only sound in the room being your breath and thudding hearts, beating in sync.

You're entirely drowned in ecstasy, even as you try to grasp onto the threads of the conversation the two of you had been having. You run your fingers through his soft hair, brushing back the sweat from his forehead, not minding the weight of him on you. He was crushing you entirely and you wouldn't exchange that for anything. No death could be better. Sweeter.

He rolls off of you after a few more moments, dropping next to you on his back, his legs dangling off the side of the bed.

You breathe deeply, before flipping over to lay on your back. You can feel the evidence of both of your releases inside you, but you can't be too bothered to care right then. Your hazy mind has managed to remember the conversation, and you turn your head, tucking your arms underneath to support it as you watch Aaron. He's laid on his back, one arm under his head, eyes closed and chest rising and falling, slowly settling into a steady state.

"If I wasn't going to hell for the patricide already, I'm definitely going to hell now for finding that far too hot." Your voice comes out low and whiny, a near whisper being all you could manage.

Aaron releases a breath of a laugh before he turns to settle on his side, drawing his legs up, moving closer so he's right beside you. So you can feel his skin against yours.

You reach out, your hand cupping his face and he leans in all too willingly, kissing you softly, completely. As he pulls back, you can feel his eyes examining you - searching. Trying to figure out what exactly it is that had you so thoroughly convinced that you didn't belong in heaven. Because he knows you and while at the time killing your father had been awful, he knew that you believed it had been right. Otherwise you wouldn't have done it.

"Can we accept the premise that killing your father isn't a dealbreaker?" he asks cautiously, his hand reaches out, settling into the curve of your waist, fingers curling into the skin. "What is it really?"

You blink, moving into his embrace, hands fidgeting slightly. You're nervous and you're sure he can tell. However, you know you need to tell him. Tell someone. If anyone should know, it's him. You lick your lips and sigh, looking up into his darkened eyes. "You've met my father. If you had to profile him, how would you do it?" Your voice is quiet, timid, unsure.

Your question is met by some apprehension. Aaron isn't certain, however he hesitantly answers you. "Control freak. Narcissist with a God complex."

You nod at his blunt assessment. "Did you ever wonder why my father - why he let me get away with so much?"

He hadn't.

"I broke off an exceptionally advantageous engagement. He did nothing. I cashed out my trust fund and ran away - slutting it up - " He flinches. " - on the cover of every trashy editorial. Crickets. I joined the FBI and he tried to take me out for dinner. Does he seem like the kind of man that tolerates that kind of insubordination?"

Aaron realizes that he should've thought about these questions. He should've thought to protect you from this back then. It was a miss. Especially after finding out what he had about Julian's death. And yet, there had never been anything in your father's interactions with you to suggest that he would do anything to truly harm you. Despite your fear of him.

"Do you remember what you wrote - in my recommendation letter to McKinney?" you murmured, your face right against his. If he moved a millimeter closer you'd be able to feel your nose against his.

Aaron watches you, his brow furrowing, wondering where exactly this was headed. He nods. He remembers. Your skin under his hands is starting to develop goosebumps. Without a word, he grabs you, shifting and maneuvering so that the two of you are laid together, heads at the headboard finally. He pulls at the blankets, draping them over you both and draws you back against him.

You place a quick kiss to his chest in thanks, fingers brushing over the scars that have persisted. Over time, he's become a lot more comfortable having his shirt off around you. It's still not something he will do in public, but around you, he feels comfortable enough. After all, you'd seen them back when they had been much worse.

He nods at you to continue. He has a need to know now. He has to know.

"The night that Matthew proposed to me, Julian and I got into a huge fight," you confess, legs tangling with his as your fingers trace the mapping of lines down his chest and stomach. "He revealed to me that my father - that the proposal was orchestrated. That it was part of some deal between our fathers. That - ." Your voice breaks and Aaron is quick to run his hands soothingly down your back, whispering soft encouragement in your ears, his lips following your hairline. You sniffle and continue on. "He told me that our father gave me away. Without asking. Without talking to me about it. He sold me."

It's Aaron who is lost for words this time. Out of all things, this - this he could not possibly have prepared for. All things considered, you're holding up remarkably, while his mind reels, putting everything he knows about Matthew into context with this new piece of information. He's struck by a tornado of anger towards your father. How dare that man - that awful, cruel man, treat you like property? To be traded and sold at his whims as if you weren't a fully fledged human being of your own.

You find yourself rubbing your hands up and down Aaron's arms, knowing that he must be processing everything all at once. You've had nearly a decade to deal with it and it still feels overwhelming at times.

"I didn't want to believe it, but it made sense."

Aaron opens his mouth to speak - to say something helpful but no words come. You shake your head, reassuring him that it was alright. He needn't say anything.

"So, I woke him up. We talked. I told him I wasn't about to waste my life - being the perfect daughter and the perfect wife. I couldn't."

He nods. He expected nothing less. You weren't some trophy wife.

"Matthew didn't want me to work after we got married. But I wanted something to work towards. Something that would be mine. It wasn't fair that just because Dominic was the eldest son - that he would get it all. Everything. The entire empire. It was the one thing Matthew could never deny me. He wouldn't have dared."

Aaron's eyes widen as the realization begins to sink in. He takes in your gaze - blazing with renewed fire and fury at the situation you'd been in. The fervor within to escape, be your own person within the confines of the life you were in.

"My father - he fought me on it. Because the thing is, sons inherit the earth. Sons and not daughters." You take a deep breath, watching Aaron who appears to have followed along marvelously, because you can tell that he knows exactly what you're trying to say now.

"I showed him, however -- " You nod your head shakily "-- how I had built connections with all the right people. How I was smarter, would work harder, be better than anyone else he could possibly hope for to fill his shoes."

"You'd take over." His voice is low and the words feel reluctant on his tongue. Resigned despite the truth of them.

You nod. There it was - it was finally out there. Your worst secret that no one else had ever known. This secret had gone to the grave with your father. You hadn't even told John, knowing how disappointed he would've been in you - especially so soon after Julian's passing.

Aaron looks at you, taking in the guilt behind your eyes, the fear at revealing this to him. He knows too, that you're right. That if you had applied yourself to that, even half as well as you did to your job, you would've done it brutally well.

"That's why you think you aren't going to heaven," he concludes, his hands still rubbing up and down your back. He can feel your heart beating rapidly against his chest. It wasn't killing your father. It was this. "Sweetheart, you didn't do it, though. You didn't."

"I would've," you argue. "If Uncle Robert hadn't told me, even with Julian dead, I would've. I signed up for all of it Aaron. He trained me. He groomed me. Those things that you wrote in your letter to McKinney - all about how I'm adept at reading people. Because I can manipulate anyone into doing anything I want. He taught me how to do that. That I have an aptitude for navigating politically nuanced situations - because he showed me how to get close to the people that really matter. That I am exceptional at tactical planning - because from that day onwards, he planned out my entire life. And I let him. I helped him. Everything I did, anyone I spoke to, was all part of it. Part of his plans. So when I left, he wasn't ready to let go. He wasn't ready to waste his investment in me." The words leave you like a storm - evidence in the case you'd been building against yourself, carved from marble and sitting heavy against your heart for the past decade. You hated how much of him you saw in yourself.

You're breathing really hard and there are tears clinging to your lashes as Aaron continues to hold you, pulling you in even closer, if that were possible. He couldn't even imagine how long you'd carried this with you. Nearly a decade of guilt and for what? For something you hadn't even carried through with.

"You didn't actually do it," he repeats himself, brushing his lips against your forehead, knowing that right then that's what you need. All the reassurance that he doesn't see you any differently. That he never could. Especially not for this.

"Aaron, I would've been someone the Bureau goes after. Someone you'd have gone after. But the difference is, I would've never been caught."

Again, he knows you're right. Aaron isn't even surprised really at your entire confession - it stood to reason that you'd want the keys to the kingdom. From what he knew of you and your siblings, you really would be the person who was most capable, despite the dubious nature of the job. He's not naïve enough to think you couldn't have done it if you wanted to. You would've been exceptional at it. But you didn't. Given the chance today, you wouldn't. For him, that's what mattered.

He brushes the hair out of your face tenderly, sweeping away all the wisps and baby hairs, holding your face in his hands. "You need to forgive yourself, Y/N. You need to realize that there is a difference between signing up for something and actually doing it. What you actually did, that's what matters. Regardless of the circumstances. That's what truly happened."

You're quiet, so he holds you. He can feel the tears trickling down your face, onto his chest as you bury your head into him once more.

It was an upheaval, telling him all of this. It's Aaron - and despite everything awful that you've revealed just then, he's being kind, compassionate, and understanding. You just told him that you'd essentially signed up to do every evil job known to mankind and he was comforting you. Making sure that you wouldn't beat yourself up. That you forgave yourself. He didn't even - it was as if it didn't even matter to him. How could it not, though? How could it not claw at him, being tangled up with someone he knows to be entrenched in evil?

"You are a good person, Y/N. A wonderful person. This - this one thing doesn't define you. Being good is a series of decisions and choices in that direction. One thing doesn't derail it entirely. That's what amends are for. What forgiveness is for. To show us that no matter what, we always have a chance." Aaron could only hope that you saw yourself the way he saw you. As someone who tried to be good. As someone who was good, through trying alone.

You want to believe him. You do. It sounds peaceful. But how do you know if you've made enough amends? How do you know if you've done enough?

He knows you're struggling to believe him. He wants to convince you, paint it into your skin, emblazon it onto your soul in a manner so unmistakable that you'd never question it again. You're a good person. He needs you to believe it. Desperately.

Aaron tilts your face up by your chin, his lips meeting yours intensely. "You are a wonderfully good person, Y/N" His whisper falls against your lips, forcing you to swallow in his words. Breathe them in. Taste them. Let them settle into your stomach.

He places another kiss to the turn of your neck, tongue peaking out to lick at mark he'd left earlier, soothing over it. "You're a hero. You save people." He will make you believe it.

You watch in awe as he shifts, placing another kiss to the swell of your breasts. "You take such good care of me and Jack." He will make you believe that you're the good he sees in life. Through all the horrors he sees day in and day out, he looks to you and he sees goodness and purity, laughter and joy.

You can feel the tears welling up again in your eyes, for an entirely different reason as you watch him. Watch this man, make his way down the length of your body, reminding you that you conquer monsters for a living. Remind you that you took down your father and in turn prevented him from doing more evil. Impress upon you the importance of everything you've accomplished since then - all the people you've saved, all the happiness you've brought, all the people you've loved.

You can't help but press yourself to him. Closer to him. Because his touch is the forgiveness you can never seem to give yourself. His touch is pure. His touch is good. It is divinity itself. Maybe if he touched you enough, it could make up for it all. Letting his essence cover up everything that came before.

Aaron draws up on his haunches, having just kissed your clit, causing your eyes to roll back into your head. You taste like what he imagines sunshine might taste like. He moves you up with him, into his lap and waits until you've met his mouth of your own volition, before pulling you down onto his cock, seating you fully against him.

You can taste yourself on his lips. You can feel him inside you so entirely, consumingly, fully. He clutches onto you, the drag of him inside you so powerful and potent, the bubbling euphoria encasing you. Your arms curl around his shoulders, fingers in his hair, as his wrap around your hips, helping you ride his cock exquisitely. Vastly, painstakingly slow.

Aaron watches you in his lap, taking him in - his. Mine. Mine. Mine. A chant on repeat in his brain as your wet, velvety walls grip him like a vice. Your beautiful pink lips parted ever so slightly, eyes half lidded. In his lap, against his body, taking his cock. This - this was goodness. You were the source of all pleasure, delight, and happiness that he feels. If that is not goodness, then what is? If the God he calls God didn't recognize you as such, then what kind of God was he? Because he would gladly worship at your altar instead, if need be.

His hands grip you excruciatingly tight against him, unwilling to leave even the semblance of room between the two of you. It was as though he began where you ended and you ended where he began. "I don't care if you believe you're going to heaven or not," he declares, watching you take him. "I'm going to believe it enough for the both of us."

Before you can say anything in response, he draws your attention downwards, forcing you to watch. Watch as he exits you, wet and shiny, drenched in your arousal. Watch as he brings you back down, entering you immeasurably slowly and causing you to clench and flutter around him. His.

You look back up, meeting his warm brown eyes, shining with love and compassion and the utmost respect. Everything that made you fall in love with this man. You watch as he pushes into you, moves you just so - so as to perfectly hit that spot inside you. You tilt your head back on a moan, your body shuddering and your back arching once more, pushing you closer and closer against him. When you return to face him, he looks at you. His eyes fixed on you. That look on his face, was nothing short of reverent.

You come achingly fast, teeth sinking into his shoulder as you shudder around him, taking in his release. He continues through it, pushing his cum back into you in the process, keeping it there, mingling with both of your earlier release.

You're entirely weak as you sit in the cradle of his arms, balancing on his thighs. Your mind is far away and present at once. Present only in him - his touch, his feel, his lips, his words - surrounding you thoroughly.

You are both unhurried in your movements as you clean up together, no need or desire to speak further, content in the silence of one another.

Aaron cleans up the bed, making sure there are fresh sheets, as he watches your tired body put on the small slip you'd left out earlier. Your hair was wet again and he grabs a fresh towel, drying it once more as you lean against him, unable to stand on your own for much longer, your body still sore. He can see the marks he'd left behind blooming and he takes extra care as he urges you towards the freshly made bed. You slip in to your side as he lifts the duvet, quickly climbing in beside you and tucking the two of you into the covers - swaddling your body against his own. He places a gentle kiss to your lips, murmuring his love against them, the echo of his words reverberating against them. You fall asleep first, entirely spent, physically and emotionally. With any luck you'll enter a deep, dreamless sleep. He can hear your steady and even breaths paralleled with the slow rise and fall of your chest, persuading him to join you in slumber.

Even if you didn't go to heaven - if for some God forsaken reason you were denied entrance - he'd willingly, gladly, go to hell with you.

With that final thought, he gives in to the call of your warmth and the sound of your breaths, allowing himself to be drawn into sleep beside you.

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x you #Criminal Minds #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds reader insert #hotch #hotch x reader #hotch x you #hotch x y/n #irreverentseries #hotchner x you #hotchner x y/n

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ashleyswrittenwords · 4 years ago

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Whumptober No.5

Where Do You Think You’re Going? (On the Run | Failed Escape | Rescue)

Series Summary: After Calamity Ganon awakens, Zelda is left alone and heartbroken. Now something horrible has happened to Link and no more is she merely tasked with fighting the Calamity - but also what is left of her knight.

Growing up, everyone was taught about the inevitable prophecy.

Esme knew as much as anyone did that 10,000 years ago a fabled princess and her hero fought against a dreaded evil, ultimately bringing peace to Hyrule. It was a tale told in primary school alongside the common alphabet. As a young girl, she nearly obsessed over the prophecy – reading legends and mythos to find similar themes that all led back to a girl with the blood of Hylia and a boy blessed with Her sword.

So, when it was decreed by the historians that the ancient evil would soon break from its seal Esme was not afraid. She knew their crown princess was the goddess’s descendent just as the many princesses before her. Esme had grown from a girl and into a young woman and with that, she found love and bore a family. Still, with so much at stake now, she wasn’t afraid because by the time her daughter was born, they had found the boy who will wield the sword that seals the darkness.

It seemed that everything was falling into place.

Her hometown, just west of Castle Town, was evacuated in preparation for Calamity Ganon. Her husband refused to leave as this was his father’s home and so she left with her children to the outstretches of Hyrule.

Naturally, the Calamity resurfaced and with it was destruction.

News traveled relatively fast. The events that were meant to happen fell out of place. The princess did awaken her power; however, it was too late. Her knight had died at Fort Hateno while they were fleeing from Calamity Ganon. As she was meant to, Princess Zelda was able to fight back against the Calamity’s adversaries even though the time in between had collapsed their current monarchy and resulted in a stand still.

With no hero, who was going to slay the darkness?

It had been nearly a full year since the Calamity overshadowed them. Hyrule was experiencing one of its coldest winters on record and Esme hadn’t seen her husband in months. The only acknowledgement of his whereabouts came from the men who visited their wives or the housewives that have returned to their settlement. It was grueling to be away from him, but she knew he was alive and her two young children were safer away from where Calamity Ganon was the strongest.

Esme also knew her husband wanted to protect their little farmhouse for as long as possible, but it was unforeseeable how long that demon would hold reign over Hyrule. And, of course, she missed him. Their family was alive and well. Without him it only felt incomplete and if she had to drag that man from that house, then so be it.

Perhaps it wasn’t the wisest to leave in the dead of winter. The thought occurred to her as she began trekking east. Her children were safe with her parents and in-laws, so she knew they would be well-cared for. Hylia had blessed them with being so close to Rito Village and the inhabitants were more than generous with supplying them foodstuffs and winter gear. Because of this, Esme told herself she would endure.

Hylians weren’t the only ones that hated the cold, according to her many tomes on Hylian legends, the monsters were adverse to these conditions. So, yes, should she not run into anything particularly difficult – Esme would endure.

She took her old horse east without a hitch. It was true that there was an influx in monsters. They tended to watch her from far away, not willing to chase after one woman. If anything, they were disinterested in her and if she weren’t as smart as she was, Esme would’ve been slightly offended.

Families didn’t stay in her little village, especially in the months following the Calamity. Those that stuck with her stubborn husband were other men and the elder families whose children were already grown.

When she arrived, Esme didn’t see one person on the roads. The sun was setting over the horizon and beyond the windmill of their village was Hyrule Castle in the distance. When prior she had felt blessed to have such a view, it now felt like an awful reminder of what they lost. Their village was modest, but it had never been so quiet.

Winter or not, one of the major roads passed through here and there was always something happening. Mr. Hutchinson would have his world-famous bread baking every morning, his wife just as busy with winter treats. The children here were always so active in the snow. They never tired of their games and would dress up every year to sneak ale from the midwinter festival. (They never succeeded when Esme was around, but sometimes she would overlook the older teens because she was young enough to remember how it feels to yearn for adulthood.)

Mrs. Hutchinson opened her door the moment Esme rode into town. Her wrinkles had deepened and the stress had worn her features. They embraced briefly.

“I saw your old man just the other day,” she had said. “There aren’t many that have stayed, but he’s been beyond helpful.”

Esme scowled at that, “He should be with his family. Just like you and your husband.”

The baker’s wife sighed, “With the raids happening all around this place… you’re right, we should. The timing just hasn’t been the best.”

In response, Esme should have asked what she meant. She didn’t. Instead, she was all too eager to see her partner. Not a moment longer she had bid Mrs. Hutchinson goodbye and promised she’d stop by after wrangling her own husband into leaving.

At the end of the road was her home. It was still standing in one piece with the stable beside it empty. With a gentle voice, she left her horse in the open field in front of her home. She’d properly feed and stable him once she saw her husband.

The door creaked open under her fingertips and she shivered from the sudden shelter from the wind. The fireplace was out, however the embers were glowing and the house looked properly lived in. The lock to the door clattered shut. She unwound the Rito scarf from her shoulders and set it on the coat rack, shedding her first layer of clothes with it. The living space had a set of dishes atop a table, a hearth on the far wall, and a small kitchenette that Esme had always adored.

He wasn’t home, evident from the empty space on the coat rack, but she popped in front of their mirror anyway. Her hands went to smooth down her hair, combing down her pale locks after two days of riding. Her eyes held extra lines she hadn’t noticed before now.

A thought snuck into her head and she cursed herself for her vanity.

“Ben?” she called out, turning slightly to glance at the stairs that disappeared to the upper floor. There wasn’t an answer, so she turned back with a crease in her brow. The emptiness bothered her more than she’d ever admit to him.

He’d tease her about missing him. She’d bully him into confessing that he missed her too.

Esme turned fully away from the mirror and bounded up the steps, calling out again, “Benji?”

It was darker upstairs. She passed the kids’ room and peered into her own. The sheets on their bed were mussed, the workmanship of a man whose heart was only half into the task. That, too, was empty.

She resigned to looking out their bedroom window over the snow-covered cabbage field. They didn’t make much money by farming. Her husband had once done reservation work in the Royal Guard before leaving prior to the Calamity. Even if she believed it was all going to work out, she didn’t want him in danger. Esme knew how guilty he felt, but they weren’t as young as they used to be – only living for each other. They had two more little lives to support, and she wasn’t sure she could do it without him.

Dusk had fallen over the town when she heard a loud bang coming from the village. The picture frames on the walls shook before ebbing back into place. Esme’s heart stuttered in her chest and she pressed her cheek flush to glass to find the source of the loud sound. Her hands launched herself from the windowsill and she bounded down the stairs. Her scarf tangled with the coat rack so she left it a flurry of motions to open the door.

From the entrance of her house were a varied array of screams emanating from the center of town. Smoke rose steadily into the air, illuminated ominously by fire. Esme tried to hold down her horse, but he was already spooked and shirked away from her touch.

Esme did the second best thing, she began running. The air was colder than before and it pinched her cheeks as she reached the road. On her way out, a stocky man she recognized was running her way.

“Esme, gods, what are you doing here?” he huffed out a breath, his hands placed tactfully on his knees. He was the butcher’s apprentice, no doubt staying to safeguard the butcher shop.

“I came for Ben,” she glanced at the direction he came from with concern. “What’s happening?! Are we being robbed?”

“Monsters. A lot of monsters. They’ve been going around raiding villages for food instead of finding it on their own,” he frowned. “You should flee. Come on.”

He went for her arm, but she tore it away. “What about the Hutchinsons? Are you just leaving them?”

He glared at the accusations, “It’s too late!”

She held in her disbelief, again starting down the road.

“Esme, stop! It isn’t just the monsters!”

It didn’t matter. It was beyond awful to leave an elderly couple to fend for themselves. Hopefully he was the only one to abandon them.

The fires roared over the town square and were already spreading towards the bakery. It looked like they started at the general store. Esme reached the bakery entrance, pulling at the door and pounded for them to open up. The porch to the general store creaked to a slump before falling completely into charred smoke. She hacked on a throatful of it and stumbling from the bakery front.

Her name found her ears and she saw a crouched form slumped against the building. Esme’s sight adjusted and she stumbled over.

“Margaret! Are you- Hylia above,” Esme choked on her words and held her hands in front of her month.

Mrs. Hutchinson looked up at her mournfully, tears in her eyes, then looked back down at her husband. He was limp in her arms and stared with unseeing eyes. Sweet Mr. Hutchinson was dead and surrounded by a puddle of his own blood.

Mrs. Hutchinson sniffed and spoke through watery words, “You should leave, Esme. Those monsters…”

She heard them. A bokoblin snort coming from the other side of the wall, then a crash. They were rummaging for food.

“Come on,” Esme began, ignoring the bile forming in her throat to help Margaret to a stand. The women was hesitant at first.

“But…” she motioned to her husband.

Esme found her eyes, “He’d want you to live. Let’s go.”

Her hands shook with uncertainty, but she willed it not to appear on her face. If she could get this woman to her horse then they could start west. The search for her own husband would have to wait, even if the thought of his fate made her heart ache horribly.

Another crash was heard and across the square was a shout of anger.

“Burn it all, damn it!”

It was so loud that Esme stopped in her tracks. Across the square passed the town well was a man in front of the mayor’s broken-in door. She had half a mind to call out for help until his mannerisms sunk in. A blue moblin knelt before him… groveling at his feet. The man brought a swift kick to its head, glaring down at the thing.

“Animals. The lot of you. I want it to the ground. Do you hear me?! You’re not here to scavenge!”

Esme expected the moblin to rear up and attack the idiot, but he only made a noise of pain and slunk backward. She began to think that this idiot wasn’t an idiot after all.

Anger welled in her chest, but she wasn’t reckless. She wouldn’t be. The man turned to them, bright yellow eyes against the darkness. His motions stuttered for a few seconds, enough time to tell Margaret that her horse was waiting at the farmhouse.

He began walking towards them. A nondescript expression forming on his face.

“What about you? I’ll ride this way,” Mrs. Hutchinson whispered harshly, already backing away at the sight.

“No,” Esme said immediately. “No, you leave first thing. I’ll find another way.”

The woman ran off, leaving Esme to glower in the man’s direction. She shouted, hoping to seem indignant instead of startled. If she distracted him then maybe he wouldn’t care to go after her friend.

“What are you doing to my town?”

He was still fairly far away, but she could see the unnaturalness in his movements. His sword in his hand… Esme stumbled back. Blood, red and recent dripped from the tip.

She took a step back and he tilted his head, watching her curiously. “Your town?”

Esme held in a gasp. She knew that face. “I-I thought… I thought it wasn’t true…” she breathed out.

Even with the fire illuminating from behind him, it was unmistakable. She had taken her family to Castle Town to see one of the many military parades and festivities the king threw to keep public morale high. The Champions were a staple, famous. Esme could spot the Hylian Champion easily in a crowd.

But she made a mistake – her voice wavered. His steps grew faster and she staggered back before falling into a run. The fire had spread further, wicking up from the rooves. Rich laughter followed her, echoing off the walls as she ran past the bakery.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

A yelp escaped her as she tripped over Mr. Hutchinson’s dead body. Her leg twisted awkwardly, but she scrambled up anyway. The short alleyway led to a brick way where the bakery furnaces were along with a storage area for the general store. Esme bypassed these too, cursing herself for not taking another avenue.

With the town cut out of the hills, the back alleys were sloped and craggy where infrastructure wasn’t held as a priority. It was often that snow was left undug. Her ankle pulsed red and gave out under her weight once the snow grew too high.

Esme cursed bitterly, scraping by her hands and knees until even that was pointless.

The princess’s knight had loud boots. They were thick and distinctly of military garb. The rest of it wasn’t. He wore a common coat, but peaking out was a Hylian royal blue. In his grip was a broadsword, drawn and ready.

“Please!” she began, her voice taunt. “I-I have children waiting for me.”

In a blink, things were slightly different. He blinked down at her with a blankness and when he kneeled before her, she winced and pulled away as far as she possibly could. When she opened her eyes, she saw normalcy in his. A cobalt, brilliant and beautiful.

The knight brought a hand to her bangs and smoothed them back. It was a gentle gesture. Her hair threaded through his fingers.

“Your hair is the wrong shade,” he said absently, as if disappointed. “And your eyes are the wrong color.”

Esme went to speak but as soon as she did a piercing sound flew through the air and an arrow burrowed into the knight’s shoulder. The force propelled him backward and he made a sharp sound. It happened quick. He rolled into a stance, but then her view of him was obstructed by another.

The woman turned to meet her eyes and gave a minute signal to leave. Her blonde hair was braided back tightly and in her hands was a bow with an arrow readied on the string. The quiver strapped to her back jostled when she faced the knight once more.

“I was wondering when you would show up,” he grunted, Esme heard the snap of wood.

“What do you have to gain by doing this?” she sneered. She stood readily; her thick clothes clear that she was expecting a fight.

Esme shuffled in the snow to get off the ground, but with her injury her getaway was slow.

“You never come out to see me,” he said, a grin was audible. “What else was I to do? Oh… are you going to kill me?”

The knight was referencing the woman’s bow. Esme held in a gasp as the arrowhead shown with bright light. The fingerless gloves she wore readjusted on the bow.

That must be…

From Esme’s position, she could see the broadsword loosen in his grip then falling to the dirty snow altogether.

“Was my sword not enough for you? We both know you can wield it now, but – no – you choose another weapon. I should be insulted,” his humor was palpable. “How poetic would it be to be struck down by something so dear to me?”

“Shut up,” Princess Zelda said through gritted teeth. “Pick up your sword.”

He sighed heavily, falling to his knees in a grandiose slump. “I suppose my charge will do.”

“Link.”

“Death is only good when it’s swift.”

“Link!”

Esme watched as he just barely made eye contact with her. Back was that cat-eye yellow. She opened her mouth to yell out a warning but Zelda had already loosened the tenseness of her string.

In one motion, Link gathered the hilt of his sword in one hand and sprung towards the princess. Her reflexes acted quickly, attempting to parry with the bow’s neck. She braced herself, becoming easily overpowered by the man’s weight and twisted away from him quickly. She drew the sword at her hip in time for his follow through. Steel clashed against steel.

A hand on Esme’s shoulder startled her. She met the amber-red eyes of a Sheikah who tried her best to express that she wasn’t in danger.

“Please, come with me.”

Esme wanted to argue in favor of helping the princess.

“We can only leave him to her. Quickly now.”

At that, she acquiesced and took the woman’s hand. Ducking through a series of alleyways, the Sheikah seemed to know this town better than Esme did. Finally at the town square, she led her to a pair wearing traditional garb. Their faces were covered, but when they saw the woman leading her, they stood.

“Let us go inside,” the smaller of the two said, she took her hand gingerly and Esme turned to thank the one that found her, she was gone.

“Always in a hurry,” she tsked. Her hair was cut to her shoulders and despite her stature, she had no problem carrying Esme inside the house. The fire of before seemed dampened now.

“They must have found him,” the man exasperated, following them inside. “Did you even scout the area? What about those bokolins?”

She gasped at the accusation, wriggling her mask down to glare with full effect. “Um, yes, Robbie. I did. I sent those little soldier boys over.”

Robbie scoffed.

“My name is Purah,” she said with a smile a little too bright and motioned for her to sit. They were in a hallway where a skinny bench sat. Immediately, she saw a dampened Mrs. Hutchinson sitting on the same bench.

“Margaret!” Esme smiled. “You’re safe.”

Purah raised a brow, “Oh good you know one another. The ankle, is it?”

In response, she nodded.

“Are you well, dear?” Mrs. Hutchinson said, enveloping Esme’s hand in hers.

She sobered up, remembering sharply that this woman’s husband was dead. “I am. Thank you. I believe the princess saved me.”

The woman blinked, “Princess Zelda? I found her and her group on the way to your farm.”

“How miraculous,” Esme winced as Purah rotated her ankle.

“Pardon,” she said under thick glasses. “I may be a doctor but my medicine for alive things is a bit rough.”

As Purah examined her ankle, the Sheikah woman of before returned with the princess beside her. Through the small window, Esme watched as they were chattering together and only stopping when a group of men returned with reports. There were at least a dozen men and women, all carrying some sort of weaponry, scurrying through the village either looking through debris or taking the remaining monsters.

The princess’s clothes were slightly more disheveled , but before she could examine further Esme’s thoughts were cut off.

Purah sniffed, “Sprained – probably. According to my calculations, I’m pretty sure.”

“Not that confident, it seems.”

“Robbie, shush!”

Attempting to put weight on it, Esme stood and braced the wall. It wasn’t as bad as she expected.

Robbie opened the door for her and when she hobbled down the steps, she caught Zelda’s attention.

“Your Highness-”

At that, she shot up from the conversation she was in.

“Just Zelda,” she remediated, softening the hurry in her speech. “Please. Did he hurt you?”

Esme bit the inside of her lip. “No, I fell… though I was convinced he would. Thank you.”

“He most likely would have,” the Sheikah woman beside the princess muttered.

Zelda politely acknowledged her before smiling graciously at Esme. “Of course.”

There was a sharp tear through one of Zelda’s sleeves with the faint trace of red. She didn’t seem bothered by it. Purah went about looking at it with a gruff series of mumbling.

“You really should be evacuated,” Zelda spoke up again. “This area is only miles from Castle Town. The creatures here are stronger.”

“Forgive me but… I didn’t know it was true. The hero,” Esme swallowed her nerves. “He’s….”

Purah’s chattering stopped and even the soldiers’ side conversation settled to silence. The group came to a standstill. The only sound came from several men working on outing the fires.

Zelda worried her lip between her teeth. “It happened during the Calamity. We think that somehow Calamity Ganon infected his body with Malice. I’m unsure what it amounts to…”

The Sheikah woman put a hand on her shoulder when she trailed off. Her voice was cool, prepared, “He is the Calamity Ganon’s adversary now. We’re in the midst of stopping him.”

So, the tales were true. And like that, the Sheikah commenced once more into delivering orders to the men and women putting out the fire. Zelda met her eyes with a subdued smile, “Again, I implore you to take as many people to the evacuation zones. They’re the same as planned prior to Calamity Ganon. Do you need a guide?”

“No, actually, I’ve come from the settlement near Rito Village. I’m looking for my husband.” Hope flooded Esme’s breast. “His name is Benji Feidelm.”

Slight confusion screwed the princess’s lips together until her face slacked slightly, she turned to Robbie and asked a soft question. He nodded and walked away towards the smoking buildings.

“He’s been a fantastic help,” she smiled again.

Only moments later, cheeks marred with soot, she saw him. His hair was that same mussy brown that she’d grown to love so much. Ben’s eyes met hers, widened, then ran up to wrap his arms around her. Her feet left the ground while in his embrace and she couldn’t help but laugh as tears escaped her eyes.

When he put her down, she punched him squarely in the shoulder.

The princess watched kindly but left soon after.

Eventually, the commotion died down to make camp in the village square. Benji and Esme insisted that their farmhouse be used, but the group who followed the princess refused in place for the tents they packed. They hadn’t been soldiers’ after all, well, not all of them. As Benji had explained, they were people who were willing to thwart Ganon in any way they could – no matter how menial.

Zelda placed a hand on her arm, partially steering her away from the campfire songs.

“I’m sorry,” she lowered her voice and glanced behind her at Impa, who was caught in an argument between Purah and Robbie. “But was Link telling you something? Before I intervened?”

Esme searched her, taking in the slight glimmer in her green eyes. She was a beautiful girl, but it wouldn’t be so surprising. She was the Princess of Hyrule. As she waited, there was intelligence within her, guiding her.

“I wish I knew what he meant. He said that my hair and eyes were the wrong colors,” she frowned at the short-sighted answer. Esme was smart. She’d fallen in love with the legends of heroes and princesses. They were a staple story in her family, so she had an inkling of an answer. “I believe he was looking for you.”

Briefly, Zelda’s face softened. Her brows knitted together and her eyes grew. Esme reached for her, as any woman would to comfort another, but she had already regrouped. Her jaw set and she added a plastic smile.

“I see, thank you.”

Esme watched her leave the square altogether.

#IM LATE I KNOW #im busy man #whumptober2020 #no.5 #failed escape #loz #tw blood #tw death #legend of zelda #corrupted!link #zelda #link #zelink

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beneath-the-continents · 4 years ago

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oooohh magic gladiator battles? please elaborate i love the way you've built magic into this world it is just so endlessly fascinating (i will also accept any and all information abt ora and dante and their lives/relationship/general vibes)

Yes!! So really, there are all different types of events that involve magic of different sorts which are popular in different regions. I imagine things like magical animal wrangling (much like some rodeo events, but instead of horses and cows, its magical creatures), team sports, or more performative events in the style of say figure skating, but magical duels are what Dante mainly does. Those being that you can use any form of magic at your disposal to defeat your opponent - sometimes through a points-based system, or a simple fight until one party surrenders is also fairly common, although less and less so because it’s the more dangerous of the two. In sanctioned areas, players who seriously harm their opponents face serious penalties, but there’s always an underground markets for this stuff - duels especially, where injuries and sometimes even deaths occur without much repercussion. These tend to quite lucrative, and attract competitors who have been banned from sanctioned fights. Dante begins in more mainstream areas, but in increasingly drawn into underground fighting as they seek more and more difficult fights.

As for Ora and Dante I know I don’t talk about them much, but actually they have their own entire story with its own happenings and characters and what now, but since I’m still figuring out how (especially Dante’s) magic works, I haven’t developed it that much.

Basically, though, Ora is a born seer, which means that, while she can see the future, and those visions are always true, she cannot remember her own past at all - the only long-term memories she retains are those from her prophetic visions. Dante is half fae, their father being what humans call a dream walker - what that means is that they almost exist entirely out of linear time and space because they have the ability to step directly from any one time and place directly to another, and they can project their minds directly into the minds of others. This is usually most easily done when people are asleep, because their minds are more guarded when they are awake, hence their name. They also age at a much slower rate than humans and most other fae as well. When Dante was young, their father was teaching them this dream walking ability for the first time when Dante first met Ora. They reached out with their mind, and felt a strong feeling of fear and distress, which they felt drawn towards. It was little Ora, her mind reaching into the future having one of her first prophetic visions, which Dante walked right into and spoke to Ora, calming her and reassuring her. When Dante told their father of this he was surprised, because normally you can’t interact with people in their dreams - Dante must have accidentally encountered a true seer, and should feel honored to have made such a connection. This first time was a coincidence, but Dante's slow aging allowed them to spend much time as a child searching for Ora again, and did find her. Over time, they became so accustomed to the feeling of Ora’s visions reaching out, that they could sense them, and so by the time they were nearing adulthood, whenever Ora had a vision of the future, Dante was there with her.

Dante and Ora have a very special relationship, because Dante is the only person Ora has any actual memories of - because she can only remember her vision, the only person she can remember things about is Dante, or the things Dante tells her, and Dante is always with her, no matter how frightening or intense her visions may be. For Dante, Ora is very special because she is the only person they’ve known all their life - everyone else seems to slip in and out of Dante’s timeline at best, and the only person they really feel comfortable getting close to is Ora because of their strong mental bond.

But then, one day, Dante’s mother dies. She’s gotten old, she’s lived a full life and Dante and their father have been their for every day of it. It’s not really a tragedy, not to them at least, but Dante’s father is devastated - he leaves the human world and never returns, for fear of losing someone else. So Dante is mostly alone in the world. They don’t mind, not really. They travel, and meet people, and learn, and wait to encounter one of Ora’s visions. But by the time they meet Theo, they’ve become sort of disenchanted with the world, and are looking for anything that makes them feel alive again. So, they get deeper and deeper into dangerous magic circles, until one day things go too far, and they end up in serious trouble. The next time Ora see’s Dante, she knows something is seriously wrong - Dante is in danger, and the only one who knows is Ora. So, although Ora has never left home before, she seeks help from her sister and her husband to rescue Dante.

When they do finally meet, Dante uses their powers to restore Ora’s memories, but in the end they end up losing their magic as a result of their recklessness. Still, the experience teaches Dante the value of life and of love, and they know that with the rest of their (now human) life, they want to spend every moment of it with the woman they love.

#asks #beneath the continents #the oracle #my ocs #dante #ora #dante and ora... big lesbians...#they are SO in love I can't even describe it #but yeah I still have a lot of work to do with them #ora's sister and brother-in-law though... I love they <3 #tobeasyouarebeing

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galadrieljones · 5 years ago

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That he may hold me by the hand: chapter 8

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Albert Mason

Rating: Mature (Adult Themes and Situations, Violence, and Sexual Content)

Summary: After saving Albert from stumbling off a cliff in the Heartlands, Arthur invites him to Valentine for a drink. What ensues after that is a quiet love story, in which both men find themselves completely undone.

Masterpost | AO3 | Epigraph

Chapter 8: St. Denis was never enough.

“Goddam cemeteries,” said Arthur. He was loading his volcanic. It was early night, and they were creeping through the mausoleums. It had become imperative for them to play errand boys, running out grave robbers in their final push to bring Jack back. It was by far the most ridiculous bullshit with which they had ever been tasked. There was a dog barking somewhere amongst the tombstones, and they kept finding vagrants crouching here and there as if the dead could somehow keep them warm. It all made Arthur feel sick in his bones. “This place is hellish.”

“I appreciate you being here,” said John. He seemed nervous, but not by ghosts nor vagrants. He was terrified about Jack. “Seriously.”

“Of course I’m here,” said Arthur. "Don't be a moron."

“Braithwaite Manor weren’t no picnic. I still smell like smoke.”

Arthur lit a cigarette. He was smoking it and feeling dry in his throat and in his eyes. He was tired. He hadn’t slept properly in two days. “Ain’t sure what you expected.”

“Dutch is losing his mind, Arthur,” said John. “Don’t you think? I ain’t too keen on what I see.”

"I don't see much of anything no more."

“I ain’t sure how much of it I see neither. Seems an awful waste. Of a life? All this time, and running? I don’t even know what he’s talking about half the time.”

“You really ought to leave,” said Arthur, looking around. There was a sad dove singing somewhere nearby. It was creepy. Arthur swore under his breath.

“Leave and go where?” said John. He stopped, like he had got confused by his location.

“I don’t know,” said Arthur. “Anywhere. We get Jack back, and then I reckon you ought to wrangle him, Abigail, and leave. Ain't no reason to stick around no more if you don't follow.”

"What about loyalty?" John said.

Arthur said nothing of it at first. In his mind, he had traveled far from the notion of loyalty. His loyalties had changed. He didn't know what the goddam word meant anymore. "Be loyal to what matters," he said, pulling words out of his ass. But they sounded true.

John seemed pensive on this. He had stopped cold and Arthur along with him. They were officially lost, but neither of them seemed to care, or even notice. “Interesting,” said John. "Real interesting. What about you then?"

“What about me.”

“You and Albert.”

Arthur looked at him, taken off guard. John was unwavering in his resolve, gazing through the fog. “Come on,” said Arthur, ignoring the question. “Let’s get a move on.”

“You can tell me the truth,” said John, following behind. “I ain’t—I would never judge you, Arthur. Not for that.”

“For what?”

“For loving a man. It ain’t like that. And hey, maybe I’m wrong? But I’m just calling it like I see it.”

“You ain’t wrong,” said Arthur. He had the cigarette crammed between his lips. He’d started to get freaked out by the atmosphere of the cemetery, so he holstered his volcanic and opted instead for his repeater. He looked back at John who was earnest and reminding him of a dog who had wandered into a field of corn. He looked so young, thought Arthur. He looked as young as he had the day Arthur took him out that noose in Chicago. Arthur remembered how he’d had ligature bruises on his neck as if he had been dragged for a mile, and when they got him back to their camp in Putnam all the way over on the Illinois River, he did not speak for two days. It still broke Arthur up inside, to think of it.

“Arthur?”

"It’s just—” He shook his head out, to get brave. “You ain’t wrong. Okay?”

John nodded. He didn’t push nor prod. He just said, “Okay.” He seemed satisfied. “I think the place we’re looking for is just ahead.”

“Thank Jesus.”

They finished the job upright and got out clean inside twenty minutes. As they rode home, John struggled with Jack, who seemed enamored of the brief, fancy life he had lived while sequestered at Mr. Angelo Bronte’s. He talked in ecstatic, shiny terms, which intimidated John at first. Arthur mostly found it amusing, though he understood. He was relieved to have Jack back. He was relieved. He had known all along how bad it could have gone, and he had to close his eyes to shake the old fear from his heart.

It wasn’t long before they were back at Shady Belle, and the gang was celebrating Jack’s heroic rescue along with the false comeuppance of all those who had wronged them. Arthur smoked idly and stood off grooming his horse so as to avoid Dutch and even more so Hosea who was sick and getting sicker and whose love he knew to be true but constantly misguided by his thirst for the life. Arthur had never felt any such lust for anything and standing now, in the swamps of southern Lemoyne, he felt farther away from his own life and his own love than he ever had. It took him a great deal of will to finally enter their camp that night. A big haunted house in a big haunted country.

It had been four days, and Albert, in a fit of boredom and cabin fever, rode his horse out of the city and to a safe camping spot, north of Rhodes near Dewberry Creek. It had been so long since he’d slept outdoors that he was beginning to wonder if any of it had ever happened. The creek was an Arcadian dream, full of Whitetail, fox, rabbits. Scarce boar. He tracked a twelve-point buck for a while and took its picture, felt free and alone and calm. He built a fire and his tent, fished a fish in the creek, cleaned and cooked it up for his dinner in the manner taught to him by Arthur. He poured a glass of bourbon whiskey and ate as the sun went down behind the tangled tree line, feeling proud.

Before he had left St. Denis, Albert stopped at the post office where there was waiting for him a letter from his mother. He had been looking forward to her correspondence for a couple weeks now. Before he went to sleep that night, he leaned against a fallen tree trunk, sipping more of the whiskey, and he read that letter by the light of the fire. His mother’s letters were long, requiring time and commitment. They often read like opinion editorials full of immaculate grammar and journalistic observations upon her own life and his and the lives of those she deemed worthy of conversation in the high society of Philadelphia. She was a good writer, educated at Vassar College prior to marrying Albert’s father, the son of a prominent businessman from New York. She was into her mid-fifties now, living in Philadelphia, and she had been alone for many years. He worried about her, sometimes. She had always seemed a tough cookie, but knowing Arthur had tough him well that a strong armor is worth little more than the human sadness it protects.

In his last letter, Albert had told his mother of Arthur—not in a bid for her approval. He just wanted her to know. The letter he received in return now was several pages long and full of life, but it did not mention Arthur until the very end. He smoked several cigarettes as he read, and by the time he got to the final paragraph, he was happily drunk and sat up off the fallen tree, leaning closer to the fire, for what he read would serve to change his life—

Well, dear Al, we are nearing the end of this most current exchange, and in the spirit of your previous letter, I would like to close things with a quaint proposition for you. You remember my brother, your Uncle Matthew, who recently purchased a large stake of land out on the central coast of California? Well, Matthew has taken a wife, and together they have purchased a home in San Francisco. In the wake of things, he has offered the ranch to me, free and clear. I have taken him up on his offer, of course, and plan to leave in three weeks time. As you well know, I have been aching for departure to the west for many years, and as a result will be closing up the Philadelphia estate indefinitely.

The property in California is comprised of 200 acres of terrain with water, plus a wide stable and two free-standing homes. It also holds a significant quarters for farmhands and stable boys and finds its end on a cliff that drops off into the wide, blue Pacific. I have seen photographs, and it is quite beautiful. Obviously, it is far too much for me to occupy by myself, however, and what I mean to propose is that, should you and your Arthur find yourselves in need of a home once your stretch in St. Denis comes to a close, you should pack your bags and get on a train to Monterey. Technically it is in a little place called Carmel-by-the-Sea, but you catch my meaning. I hope you’ll come. I am certain you would discover a wealth of inspiration for your work out west, Al. And Arthur as well, for I know how you mentioned he is an artist.

Please be in touch, hastily, as if the two of you plan on coming to stay, I will need to ready the property. I like to be prepared! Good luck with your opening, and remember how I love you. Give Arthur my warm regards. I do hope to meet him soon. You sound happy.

Your Loving Mother,

Cynthia

Much later, with the night winding down, Arthur stood chain-smoking on the swamp as a thunderstorm now raged over the horizon of the Lanahechee. With the adrenaline wore off, his body felt beat as he looked at the dark water ahead of him. It seemed endless and humid. Behind him there was the party, still going on and on as ticker tape. Javier played the guitar while Karen sang with Miss Grimshaw and they drank whiskey by the fire.

The colors of the world in which Arthur lived were changing, all around him. He felt sour and uncomfortable there, held up inside and anxious to unleash himself from the life to which he had been yoked for so long. Having forged a life of his own, separate from the interests of the gang, this was now all that Arthur could think about. He knew that it was selfish but he could not remember any other time in his life in which had allowed himself to entertain his own needs long enough to even register what selfishness felt like. He was bored and agitated as he looked out at the swampy river’s edge.

Mary Beth came down at some point and stood beside him, a welcome surprise. She had a pale scarf tied around her hair as if to protect from the occasional blowing rain. Arthur gave her a cigarette, lit it for her off the burning end of his own. Together they stood, looking at the lightning for a while, and smoking like old times.

“You did good, Arthur,” she said after some time. She glanced at him from behind the scarf like she was hiding part of herself. Thunder went off in the distance and shook the land. “Getting Jack back. It was a real good thing you did for John.”

“I know,” he said. “Thank you.”

“I’m supposed to tell you that Dutch wants to talk to you.” She said it half-heartedly. She did not even look at him.

Arthur said nothing.

“Anyway, John’s inside,” Mary Beth went on, smoking. “He’s with Abbie and Jack. Things seem good between them, for once.”

“I’m glad.”

“Arthur?” said Mary Beth.

He looked at her, sensing the curiosity and the concern on the edge of her voice. She wore it so often with him. They had been friends a long time. “What is it?” he said.

“I’m gonna ask you something,” she said, watching the water, “and you don’t have to answer. I won’t mind. I promise. But if you do answer, please tell me the truth. Don’t spare my feelings.”

“Go ahead, Mary Beth.”

Out on the edge of the horizon, lightning threaded the sky. The storm was moving fast. It was headed to sea.

“Mr. Mason,” she said, looking at her hands, “do you love him?”

He smoked. He finished his cigarette, tossed it to the earth and put it out with the heel of his boot. He nodded, gripping his belt, glancing to her and her freckled cheeks. “Yes,” he said.

Her breath did not catch, and she did not hesitate. She simply nodded, took a drag, and blew the smoke out in the air. “Okay,” she said.

“Mary Beth,” said Arthur.

“It’s okay,” she said. She smiled at him, through a fierce façade, as if she were trying desperately not to cry. “Please don’t apologize. I’m glad you found somebody, Arthur. Somebody decent. I surely am, as I want you to be happy. You deserve love.” She put the hair behind her ears and looked at her cigarette. “I never held no expectations for us. I know it sometimes seemed that way but I swear.”

“I know,” he said, studying her. “I know.”

“We’re friends. Ain’t we?”

“Always.”

“Good,” she said, like she was relieved. “You know I used to be filled with all these fantasies, especially when I first joined up with you boys. Knights in armor, all that. They saved my mind for many years. You always fit that bill.”

“I ain’t no knight, Mary Beth.”

“You are to me,” she said. “And I ain’t forgotten.”

“I will always protect you,” said Arthur. “Any way I can. And I am thankful for you. Taking care of me after all that nasty business, in ways that no one else would. For listening to me. You will find love, Mary Beth. If that is what you desire. I know it.”

“Thanks, Arthur.”

“You’re welcome.”

They smoked. The sky churned. “I been saving up, you know,” said Mary Beth, finishing her cigarette, throwing it into the water. She adjusted the scarf in her hair. “I got more than $800.”

“Saving up for what?” said Arthur.

“For leaving the gang,” she said, like a revelation. “It won’t be long now. I been reading a lot, about the Midwest. There are places up there I could live forever, on a much longer dime. I could get a room, with a desk. Maybe even a cabin. A place to write all these stories I been cooking up in my mind. I don’t doubt they’re terrible, but still. They’re mine. I want to make something, Arthur. I can’t do that here. Try as I been, it’s too much running, too much uncertainty.”

“I get that,” said Arthur. “And I think that’s a fine plan.”

“You should go, too,” she said, growing wistful, like she had stars in her eyes. “With Albert. He loves you. He has money. He can take you away from here. From all this. You should let him, Arthur.”

Arthur looked at her, and then he glanced back to the party where he could not see nor hear nothing but debauchery. It was a mixture of those he loved and those he no longer understood, and he knew that in time, all would draw to a close, and it would make no difference. None at all. The hour was growing late now. The night was long. He did not go to see Dutch. He breathed.

The next morning when Albert returned from his camping trip on Dewberry Creek, he opened the door to his apartment and found Arthur inside, waiting. He had been sitting on the sofa, sketching furiously, and when Albert came in, he looked up, relieved, stood and closed his journal.

“Where you been?” he said.

“Arthur,” said Albert, happily surprised. He set down his valise and his tripod, and he removed his hat. “How did you get in here?”

“I uh—I picked the lock,” said Arthur. “Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," said Albert.

"I got here late last night. You wasn't here."

“I went for a ride,” said Albert. “Don't worry. Did you find Jack? Is he okay?”

“Yes,” said Arthur. “He’s back with his family now. Thank you for asking.”

“Of course,” said Albert. “I’m relieved. It seemed so serious.”

They stood across the room from one another now, as if yet too hesitant to cross. Both of them looked at their shoes for a moment, very still in this liminal space.

At some point, Albert finally came over, and both of them sat down on the couch. Albert reached for Arthur’s hand and held it steadfastly. They looked at each other. Arthur studied Albert’s face closely and said, “So, you went for a ride, huh? You look a little windswept.”

“Yes,” said Albert. “I went out camping, just one night. Over on Dewberry Creek.”

“Dewberry Creek?” said Arthur. “That’s pretty country over there. Bold move, Mr. Mason."

“Well, we are untamed," he said, smiling to himself. "I got some wonderful shots of a twelve-point buck. I caught a fish as well.”

“You did?”

“I did.”

“Very good."

“Thank you,” said Albert. He blushed. “I got a letter from my mother yesterday.”

“That sounds nice,” said Arthur. He ran his thumb across Albert's knuckles. His whole body calm, safe. His heart was quiet. “What did she have to say?”

“A lot, actually,” said Albert.

“Oh yeah?”

The morning sun was pouring in through the windows, soaking the room and making it warm. There were some loud and joyful noises then, coming in through the wide open French doors from the bustling street outside. It sounded like a bunch of kids, getting loose, playing tag, being free.

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan #albert mason #arthur x albert #arthur morgan x albert mason #albthur #that he may hold #john marston #mary beth gaskill #happy new year !!#<3

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cursewoodrecap · 5 years ago

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Session 11: Cirque Macabre

On the road from Mornheim to Bad Herzfeld, we can’t even have a day off in peace.

Good Morning Baaaaaaaltimornheim~

We wake up in Mornheim along with the Fairgolds, having crammed all six of us into one room at the overcrowded inn. We see behind the scenes into Flynn’s hair care routine. What, you think he looks this dashing naturally? He has product for his beard and moustache.

Flynn is sicker than he was after Valeria gave him the Pat Pat of health yesterday, but better than he was when he came in. He had advantage to his roll today, for Reasons the DM won’t disclose. He’s putting up a brave front, and is definitely putting some extra effort into looking dashing and healthy. Somebody get him his fancy hat!

Meanwhile, having spent the whole night in close quarters with Valeria, Clem, and Fiona, Shoshana wonders: why is every woman she meets improbably jacked? What even is her life.

The plan, just to recap: We’re heading to a place called Bad Herzfeld, because we’ve heard it’s overflowing with the rare herbs and plants we need as spell components for the ritual we found in the manor house, which should purify the water supply of Mornheim. (Somebody’s been sticking their Taint in the water. HURR HURR)

We take a moment to question why, if it was a mage working in the von Mornheim manor, are the ingredients of the spell so druidic, and the spell written in archaic Old Valdian like a druid might speak? Druids live in the woods making friends with badgers; this was a bona fide wizardy laboratory. Shoshana rolls to see if she can figure it out and nat 1′s. What do you mean this isn’t what all wizard shit looks like?

Valeria also rolls to figure it out and rolls...not much better. Maybe there was a druid squatting in an old wizard lab? Who knows. Magics is magics.

We have a thin, unfulfilling soup for breakfast, and then split up to prepare for travel.

Valeria immediately heads off over by the city gates. She tells the DM that her activity will need ten minutes, and that “you know what I’m doing.” The rest of us have to wait in suspense.

Shoshana stops in to double-check on the doctor; she’s realized that it’s pretty likely that any corpses will get up just like Sokolov did, and she’s pretty sure the locals have figured that out but needs to double check. Turns out that yes, the Doctor has been burning the bodies. Cremation isn’t common in Valdia; if you live in a forest, funeral pyres tend to set the trees on fire. But you do what you gotta in a zombie apocalypse.

Clem organizes her kit and sharpens her sword, then takes a little while to read through the Sturmhearst journals she picked up from the book merchant. There’s an article about research into “replacing lost limbs with synthetic troll blood made of fungus.” Given what we’ve just found out about fungus people... thaaaaat could be bad.

Gral interrupts her reading to awkwardly ask Clem about when he used his magic lutestrings to wooble her. “How did it feel? I’d like to make sure I don’t kill someone by accident.

Clem thinks about the experience, which did come with a chunk of psychic damage. “It wasn’t painful, or necessarily unpleasant?” she says, thoughtfully. “But it was unpleasant in its unexpected nature. Like when the surface of a pond starts rippling – but you’re made of air instead of water – I dunno if I’m describing it right? But it was like that.”

Gral sits down next to her. “After acquiring the strings, my best test subject was self. You get used to it quickly. Maybe it’s not good to get used to it?”

Clem nods. “Yeah, it’s probably bad to get used to it.” She shows the journals to Gral to get his opinion, since the orcs have had skirmishes with fungal zombies before. The paper details the formula derived from a strange new fungus, but doesn’t really give any details about the fungus itself, so Gral doesn’t have much to go on.

As they flip through the journals, they also find a paper about fungal infection and potential treatments, by a Professor Alma Ulmus. Useful for Flynn, perhaps?

Clem med checks well and grasps the concepts pretty well. The paper details several techniques for dealing with fungal infection. There are some theories about ways to selectively target the infection with necrotic damage and certain medicines/poisons. Unfortunately, the techniques tend to come with hefty risks to the wellness of the patient, since you’re basically injecting a toxin that is mildly more deadly to the fungus than to the patient. It’s chemo, basically.

(We go down a conversational rabbit hole re: magic cancer and magical chemotherapy techniques, and have to get wrangled back on track.)

None of the treatments are outlined in enough detail for us to use. Mostly it’s an update about ongoing research initiatives, in case anyone wants to give the good Professor some grant funding.

(”The results aren’t peer reviewed yet - Who am I kidding, Sturmhearst doesn’t peer review.” “They used to, back in the good old days!” says our ghost scalpel.)

Valeria has, meanwhile, found a decent spot to perform her holy ritual, and lets the other players know that “we” are coming to meet up with the group. The first player to realize what’s going on squeals a little.

Valeria, in fact, has cast Seek Steed. (Yes, the PHB calls it Find Steed, but alliteration is important!)

Something is walking alongside Valeria, pressing its large reptilian head to her chest affectionately. It’s similar to the creatures we’ve seen pulling Lucinius’ cart but it’s thinner, taller, more fine-boned. It is a faintly glowing lilac color, with silver reaching up to almost its knee on one foreleg and its ankle on the opposite hind leg, with a silvery crescent on forehead.

“Oh my god, it’s a crocodile,” Shoshana’s player gasps.

“It’s an ALLIGATOR,” Valeria’s player returns indignantly.

Valeria pets the cool dinosaur behind its skull and tells it its name is Aethis. (It’s named for the aether from which it arose, being a celestial mount.) Rack, in his divine kindness, also had Aethis show up with a very fancy saddle. It has a rose embossed on it, and as Valeria names the creature, “Aethis” appears embossed on the saddle in Draco-Aquilian. The reptilian mount is faintly glowing purple.

Its pronouns are they/them, because it is a celestial being of divine energy that has taken mortal form for Valeria’s convenience; what even is a gender.

The rest of us stare. “...Where did you get that.”

“Rack gave them to me!”

“Just, like, now? While I was in the bathroom?”

“There’s a ritual. It’s a paladin thing.”

Shoshana awkwardly waves at the lizard. Gral obligingly holds out his hand for sniffs. Aethis sniffs him. Heartened, Shoshana cautiously moves forward for awkward pats on the head, which Aethis accepts.Shosha awkwardly pats. Aethis accepts the pats. Gral(‘s player) is like I PLAY WITH THE PUPPY even though it’s an Alligator Horse.

(The locals are like, what the fuck is that thing??? Like it’s obviously a paladin’s celestial steed, but……it’s THAT THING. Former-Kyr Crabber is not around to miss his long-gone mount.)

We don’t see Aubrey around – she was on watch last night, so she’s probably sleeping. Skulbjor the troll is watching the gate.

“Hi, folks. Oh, lookit dat. You didn’t come in with that,” he says, appreciating Aethis. And hey! More folks came in last night - the one that doesn’t talk and the one that talks too much. So where ya headed? Back into the necropolis for another mission?”

We tell him all about our mission for spell components and fungus problems.

“Alright, well, don’t got time to process all that right now,” he says slowly as his troll-brain tries to catch up. “Let’s say good luck and I’ll tell Lady Aubrey you went to get some medicines. All right, best of luck to ya. Stay away from that grove what’s north of the road, the watchman heard some things movin’ around in there. I like your new chomper.”

Skulborg proceeds to scritch our new chomper with one big troll finger. “Aww, ’s a good chomper.” Aethis accepts the scritches.

We leave the dreary town of Mornheim. And as we leave its twisted trees and grim orchards and rows of graves, we feel the sun on your face, and it feels a little like we’ve been holding our breath in all this time. The sun feels warmer and we all feel a bit more alive, having left that place.

According to our best map, some of the roads go through Dead Towns, which people generally go around. Traveling in the Cursewood is a lot of back roads these days. You take the main road where you can, but some places are just impassable now – disrepair, or spooky monsters, or sometimes a town just vanishes and people wisely decide not to go where it used to be.

The result of this is that all of us have maps, and none of them match. Being a cartographer is a very stressful job right now, okay? Luckily, a good Survival check keeps us on the trail. We’re going for a town called Three Oaks Junction, which is more of a permanent camp than a proper town. We can get a better map there. It’s basically a three-way crossroads of some major roads; a travel stop that has a large enough occupancy of tents and carts that it can function as a safe stopover and makeshift town. We’re about two days out from there.

How long do we have until the troll moot? Fiona starts signing, and Flynn translates. Trolls don’t exactly subscribe to the mail, so they’re very slow to get the word out and get together. It’s less of meeting and more like a short-term living situation for times of crisis. They rarely last very long – trolls are solitary because they eat a lot of food. A large population of trolls in one place needs a LOT of food, and a big gathering is only done in extreme situations where there’s access to large food stockpile. There hasn’t been one in at least 200 years; mostly they’re just talked about in old songs. So we have plenty of time, but we want to shut it down long before any momentum starts up. If we can stop trolls from hearing about the moot in the first place, that might be the best for everyone.

(As we travel, we have our usual silly arguments, this time about Aethis: Celestial war mounts do not need to eat, although war gators are obligate carnivores. So Aethis can eat meat if they want to, right? In that case, what happens to that food?

“HOW IT POOP, DM? WRITE THE LORE!”

“It’s not a real gator, it doesn’t poop!”

“It waits until it’s unsummoned, and then it poops ALL AT ONCE in the celestial plane.”

“Dude? Dude? Curse you.”

“Was that a....lore dump?”

“CUUUUUURSES.”

I am told to please excise this from the record. I absolutely do not follow instructions.)

We’re boppin along and making decent time. As we travel, Valeria rolls good insight and sees through Flynn’s stiff upper lip, and insists on pushing another Lay On Hands of curing disease into him. Again, it clears his symptoms but doesn’t end the disease.

It’s late afternoon when we see a decently sized cottage by the side of road. It looks pleasant! There’s flower boxes in the windows, blooming picturesquely. There’s a cart next to it, loaded up with furniture and stuff, and a sign nailed to a tree nearby that says “MOVING SALE! CURIOS, ODDS AND ENDS. COOKIES PROVIDED WITH PURCHASE.”

Valeria is intrigued by cookies. Clem always likes a curio.

There’s a young girl running about and an old lady in a rocking chair, out in front of the house. The young girl is carrying things from the house to the cart. There’s a little table next to the old woman’s chair with a tray of cookies, as well as a surprisingly sturdy looking box. The old lady waves. “Oh, hello!”

We come say hi. “Yes, I’m moving in with my daughter and my granddaughter here! Say hi, honey.” The little girl waves hello and continues to help pack the cart. “My daughter and her family say it’s not safe out here alone for old woman. I resisted as long as I could. I can handle myself, but just last week as Rosie here was coming to visit, a werewolf almost attacked me! So I figured it was finally time to pack up and go.”

(Yes, we picked up on the Little Red Riding Hood joke.)

Clem immediately insight checks the little old lady, and nat 20′s. She is being perfectly trustworthy. Actually, she’s playing up the helpless little old lady act a little too hard. Clem thinks that she might have killed that werewolf herself. She’s got no intent to harm us, except maybe rip us off a little.

Clem shrugs. We ARE a group of 6 well armed strangers and a war gator. She’s got every right to be a bit on guard and play up the friendliness. She’s legit.

“Most of the things I’m not bringing with me are inside. Go take a look around! I traveled quite a lot in my youth, and I still have a few souvenirs!”

Valeria ties Aethis outside – in sight but not right up on the old lady, who is not spooked by Aethis at all. (Valeria is slightly offended that everyone is a little spooked by them. They’re just a gator! Gators are everywhere, it’s not like they’re a big deal!)

We enter the charming cottage and, well...that’s not what we expected. It’s absolutely stuffed, and it’s stuffed with COOL-ASS STUFF. There’s paintings and trophies lining the walls. That’s definitely a giant’s axe hanging there, carved with ancient runes. There’s a sultry oil painting taking up most of one wall, a picture of a young woman halfway out a window, turning to face the camera, smiling wickedly and clutching a gem as she prepares to rappel out the window. There’s big ol’ treasure-chest-lookin’ chests and boxes everywhere. There’s an old Aquilian war banner, hanging as a decorative tapestry. Gral spots some Orcish artifacts.

Who IS this woman?! Maybe she’s the protagonist of our spinoff prequel.

The first thing Valeria does, of course, is cast Detect Magic to see what glows. A beat, and then she just starts pointin’ everywhere. EVERY-DANG-THING is magic.

Gral ponders sagely. “I’m starting to think she may have overplayed the helpless old lady thing.”

Let’s investigate for stuff we wanna buy! Gral would like a projectile weapon, or perhaps some armor? Or a nice brooch. He finds a pack of 5 crossbow bolts inscribed with some sort of rune.

The old lady sticks her head in to see how we’re doing. “Ah yes, can I help you find anything? I know it’s a bit of a mess, I’m in the middle of moving.” She spots Gral holding the bolts. “Oh, those are Bolts of Heart Seeking! They’re quite nice, I think. They’ll run you at least a hundred. I was asked to get rid of most of the deadlier souvenirs…” Gral buys them. 5 bolts, each granting advantage on the attack and an expanded crit range.

Shoshana looks for something protective, given her terrible caster AC.

“I’m sorry, dearie, I sold my old armor set a while back,” the old lady tells her, but she rustles in a drawer and pulls out a little bag. “This was big help back in the old days whenever I got cornered by some-”

“Grandma-” interjects the granddaughter, warningly.

“Well! Anyway, this will make anything that breathes sneeze and cough! 100 gold, and don’t say where you got it if you use it for anything illegal.” It’s 3 doses of Dust of Sneezing and Choking. Shoshana considers, but passes.

Clem doesn’t have much money after splurging on her new armor. She’s gonna save it.

Valeria looks for - well, she wants books, also anything that matches the Order of the Rose aesthetic, since she just found Kyr Marius’ old dagger. She doesn’t find anything recent - maybe some stuff decorated with floral designs, but nothing that would have been lost in the Crusade at the Summer Palace. She does find a shrine to the trickster god Guile in one corner of the room, and more importantly, a collection of rare books! None are magical, sadly.

Valeria picks up a book about an expedition to an ancient Aquilian flying city. “Ah yes, that one was a comp copy! It all happened maybe 40 years ago?” the elderly lady chirps.

“Oh, did you write this?” Valeria inquires politely.

“Oh, goodness, no, I didn’t write it – I’m in it!” Sure enough, the cover has a lovely picture of a dashing lady-adventurer who looks suspiciously similar to the one in the painting.

We ask her name. “Jolene. Or Josephine. Johanna, sometimes. I think I’m Jolene in the book. Yes, those were good old days…”

She holds out a rod with a grappling hook on both ends. “This old girl’s seen a lot of the world with me. I picked it up from that nice artificer in Galway. It produces ropes! You push this button to launch the grapple, see-” she says, demonstrating, “-and this one to wind it in.”

“It’s a clever bit of machinery,” Valeria admits.

“Oh, he mostly cheated with magic.” We pass on the Rod of Ropes, but it’s caught Flynn’s eye. After a short bickering session of increasingly rapid hand-signs, he buys it.

Gral asks about all orc stuff. “That was all a gift from orc leader some years back.”

“Oh? Who was it?”

“Ven’shek was the last name. His people mostly called him One-Ear?”

Gral’s jaw drops, like an indie band kid who found out their grandma knew Les Paul personally. “YOU KNEW ONE-EAR?!”

Gral’s history roll gives him some context: One-Ear was a bard, and he was a pretty big deal. He had two ears; he was just deaf in one after rocking out too hard at one point. He’d fought an evil necromancer who was trying to animate mummies of the honored dead, leading a group of bards to put a stop to that nonsense. He unleashed a sonic blast so powerful it buried the necromancer in an avalanche, but also blew out his left eardrum.

The old lady seems unfazed. “Yeah. He had two ears! He kept wanting us to ask why, but I wasn’t gonna fall for that.” Hanging on the wall is a bona-fide autographed copy of One-Ear’s bard mask, similar to the one Gral wears.

Gral is still Absolutely Gobsmacked. “He was before my time but I’ve always really admired his work!”

“Yes, good times. He wanted my help with retrieving a thing from a-” Her voice drops to a mumble, “-dragon’s hoard.”

We check out a few more items. There’s a perpetually bloodstained sword sitting in the corner, with teeth carved in the hilt, quietly whispering, “feeeeeeeeed” to itself, which we leave well alone. There’s Gloves of Thievery and a Handy Haversack for sale, as well as a small silver raven ornament that Ms. Jolene claims will deliver messages. “Oh, I got that little thing in the flying city! It’s an Aquilian device originally meant to carry messages between their cities. It’ll deliver a spoken message or a letter. If it can’t get there in 24 hours, it’ll come right back to you. I was sort of hoping to use it to correspond with old friends...”

Awww. We won’t take it away from her, then. We WILL pool some cash for that Haversack, though. “We had good times together. I’m a bit sad to see it go,” the old lady admits, patting it fondly. Sure enough, the small black-and-grey bag is there in her painting, on the hip of the sexy thief.

That’s about all the cash we want to spend, but the sun’s starting to go down and this seems about as safe a place to camp as any. Old Woman Jolene doesn’t mind.

Flynn takes the opportunity to play with his new Rod of Ropes. “Fiona, hold my hat! I’m gonna try it out!”

Fiona signs to Shoshana, which with a bit of insight she figures out means, “Can you cast Feather Fall?”

“Nope.”

Fiona signs something to Flynn.

“Thank you, Shoshana! I’ll be sure to shout if I need your help!”

He does some acrobatics off the roof of the house, but he hasn’t had the practice with this thing yet. “Shoshana, now would be a good time to-” He falls flat on his face.

Fiona does her weird cough-laugh at him as he dusts off with an overdramatic scowl.

That’s our adventure at Jolene’s Lifetime-of-Adventuring Surplus. Jolene’s Stolen Goods Boutique: She takes them just because she caaaaaaan.

Given what we know about Ms. Jolene, we all keep an eye on our purses that night. Luckily, it seems like she’s trying to downsize.

In the morning, Flynn is not doin’ great, coughing hard and looking pale. Valeria Lays on Hands again, negating his symptoms. But we’re gonna need a permanent solution eventually.

Shoshana rolls a mediocre medicine check. The illness is from the inhaled spores from the farmer’s son, and it’s mostly respiratory. Maybe Shosha could brew a tea that could help with some of the symptoms, but she doesn’t have a supply of the right herbs, and Valeria’s got the symptoms covered for now. Ah well, it was worth a try.

We get on the road and roll into Three Oaks Junction later that day. There are indeed oaks there, significantly more than thee. Like we expected, it’s more of a big camp than a normal town – there are a few permanent structures, like a sheriff’s depot, but most folks here are living out of tents. There’s a big marketplace where many traveling merchants and local farmers come to trade, sort of a perpetual bazaar.

Valeria & Clem work together to write up a letter to Ambassador Khoshev with the warning about the Red Hand’s assassination plans. They give Clem’s name and rank for veracity and slap Valeria’s noble seal on it to give it priority. Asking around, they’re told there’s actually a courier service with a permanent shop over by the founder’s statue. Bonus, not only can they get a message to the Ambassador, they can also get a message over to Holzog, where Clem knows there are messengers who could get a message back to her “caravan,” which she hasn’t mentioned to the other three before.

Clem and Val head over to Red Raven Couriers to send their letter. Clem also sends parcel of gems to her caravan, the ones that we found in the Mornheim manor, about 100g total. The halfling clerk asks if the packages have any valuables we’d like to insure. Clem insights him, he seems like a trustworthy professional instead of someone who’ll go through her mail for loot. “The package for Holzog is valuable, I’d rather delay it if it will get extra security. The message is the opposite - it’s urgent, and there is no material value.”

The package of gems will go on the next well-guarded stagecoach, and the message will go immediately on a relay of fast horses. Valeria makes sure to tip extra well. Red Raven Couriers: Leave at sunup, there by nightfall.™ (Disclaimer: this is not a guarantee of one night service. We do not travel by night. What, do you think we’re crazy?)

Their job done, they take a look at the statue of Three Oaks Junction’s founder. It’s a drow! There’s two captions, a rather short one in Valdian and a much longer one in the Drow language.

Valeria reads off the Valdian: THREE OAKS // TOWN FOUNDER.

Clem can see the Drow caption has the elf’s full name: “Born to Clan Shenkel on a Rainy Night Under the Shelter of Three Oak Trees.” Ah, that’s where the town name comes from!

Clem’s pretty chuffed! “I’m very pleased to see people who aren’t averse to drow in this area! There’s even a statue, and not a burning heap where the statue used to be!”

The folks at the courier are happy to share the founding story. Three Oaks was a skilled wagon repair-person, and set up a wagon repair station at a good high-traffic spot. It became a local fixture, she eventually settled down and built a real shop, and that was the start of the town!

Clem knows: If drow know anything, it’s how to fix wagons. And care for horses. Good for this Three Oaks for making an opportunity of it!

Towering over the town, a distance from the main thoroughfares, is a large black and white striped tent. There’s a circus, scheduled for tonight! Valeria gets excited about the possibility of Night Circus.

Clem has never seen a circus. Gral has never seen a Valdian circus. Valeria has seen many traveling shows. Shoshana’s seen a couple significantly less fancy traveling shows. Flynn and Fiona are excited to go to the circus. Everybody’s like, yeah, let’s have a night off, let’s have fun!

We worry that Gral, as a performer, might be That Guy: “Their technique was horrible, frankly, I’ve seen better-”

We’re hype! Let’s get CIRCUS SNACKS. There’s spiced nuts and funnel cakes. Clem gets a funnel cake. Shoshana is deeply disappointed to learn that cotton candy has not been invented yet.

Valeria goes over to get some spiced nuts. The nuts stand is run by a red dragonborn, obviously named Bophades. (He tells us he has brothers, Joe and Ligma.)

Valeria doesn’t know how much to pay the guy, and we meme about it. How Much Could Nuts Cost, Clementine? One Gold? Ah, nobles.

A few performers are starting to walk around to work the crowd. Everything in the circus is black and white, like a fun theme. All the performers have pristine white facepaint.

We realize we should probably not bring Large Greatswords into a theater, so we stash Clem’s sword, Valeria’s tridents, and the Eyegis with Aethis. Hey, Aethis has the Eyegis, Valeria basically has a large lizard camera drone to look through! Cool. Valeria buys Aethis a live chicken as a snack, even though celestial steeds don’t need to eat. “We’ll come back soon, I love you~!”

Shoshana’s anxiety cloak is freaking out, but, like, it freaked out around the cool old lady too. Does this thing have a snooze button?

We all find our seats, passing around snacks and jostling with the crowd. Outside the sky is darkening, and Dancing Lights come up all around the tent, swirling and casting shadows. A ringmaster in a black-and-white jester’s motley comes out. The lights all focus around him,

“Hello, everyone,” he calls to the crows, in the practiced cadence of a seasoned performer. “We live in troubled times. This wood is not a very fine place. So tonight, in this tent, open your minds and your hearts and join me as I take you to a kingdom far away - yet as close as you allow it to be! First, walk with me as we approach the land of my king. We must approach the borders, guarded as they are!”

Braziers burst into flame all around the perimeter of the tent with a big oooh from the crowd! Jugglers begin tossing batons between them, forming a high arch, which the ringmaster walks under. “Cross the border with me!” he calls. “These woods are dangerous place, but my lord’s marksmen are expert.” Each baton is shot out of the air at the apex of their arch by an arrow! The jugglers catch them expertly, and demonstrate that each arrow has struck the dead center of a target painted on each baton!

Gral murmurs an aside: “I have the memories of every orc performer who ever lived, I’ve seen better, there was this one guy-”

Shoshana dope slaps him. Shut up and enjoy the show, doofus.

After a pause for the audience to applaud the archers, the jester continues. “And now, our master, my king, is building a bridge! A vast river lies before us!” Performers come out, shaking a long blue cloth between them. “But fear not, we will cross it!” A pair of strongmen start heaving around big ol’ beams of wood, while acrobats start making their way across the tops of the whirling beams in an impressive display of balance and coordination. The beams are moved into place, and one strongman lifts ringmaster with one hand up to them. The ringmaster mounts the ‘bridge’ and walks across. “Ladies and gentlemen, the bridge builders!”

There’s another round of applause. Clem and Valeria are enthusiastic. Even Gral is starting to get into it.

“But before we can approach the castle and visit my master’s court –” the jester warns us. We her galloping hooves (or possibly coconut shell) noises. “Ah, yes! Do you hear who’s come to greet us! The knights of the Black and White!” Everyone claps, the ringmaster throws something in the braziers, and the arena fills with smoke. As horses carrying stunt riders circle the big top, we must all make wisdom saves. Valeria is informed she may do so with proficiency. We’re all lucky enough to save, except Flynn.

As the smoke hits Valeria, she realizes – there’s something wrong here. Once tent has filled with smoke from the smoke bombs – it was to set up dramatic entrance, but…the ringmaster’s describing this glorious kingdom where nobody has to fear any death or dismemberment, where the power of his king is absolute. There’s something weird about the smoke. Something weird about the performers and their flickering shadows. She can’t quite place it...

The show has moved along. There’s a knife thrower, a fire breather, and a sword swallower performing now as the “village blacksmith” as the procession “approaches the court”. It’s a whole routine.

Something Is Wrong.

The ringmaster’s patter about this king has become increasingly creepy. Fiona is giving us the side eye. Meanwhile, Flynn and most of audience are slack jawed and enraptured. I mean, it’s a pretty impressive show, but the imagery is getting macabre.

The crowd is no longer applauding after each performance. Everyone is just sitting there, completely entranced. Clem murmurs, “Does this...usually happen at circuses?”

Valeria glances through the Eyegis. The camp outside is perfectly normal, no fires or thieves or anything this might be a distraction from. She cuts back to the here and now.

Right now there’s two guys with halberds, with acrobats dancing on tips, performing as the “castle guards.” Shoshana pokes Flynn, who doesn’t react at all as he stares unblinking at the black-and-white figures. Fiona scoffs - just a poke? Please - and slugs her brother in the stomach. He snaps out of his trance as he gasps for breath, sputtering “WHAT WHY WOULD Y-mmph!” as she slaps a hand over his mouth and shushes him.

Gral hisses, “If we make a scene, they’ll know. Pretend like you’re watching the performance!”

We all perception check. Gral figures it out: the entire time, those dancing lights and braziers have been casting wild, flickering shadows of the rapidly moving acrobats and the people in costume armor But he gets clear look under the acrobats for just one second, and realizes: they’re casting the shadows of skeletons.

These are undead. The king the ringmaster wants us to visit is none other than the Pale King himself.

Clem is very glad she kept her warhammer on her.

There’s maybe 80-100 people in audience. If we act, the civilians might be collateral damage.

The bad guys wouldn’t know us by look. Maybe we pretend to be enraptured like the rest of audience and wait for them to reveal their big plan. That, or we could just rush the guy leading circus.

The ringmaster is narrating entering the castle gates. The smoke started the process, but clearly the performance has something to do with keeping it going. Shoshana’s all for casting Shatter into the center of the ring - maybe a loud enough noise will wake up the audience. Valeria’s not sure.

Gral and Valeria want to wait and see; Clem and Shoshana want to disrupt the performance before they finish enthralling the audience. Valeria’s player flips us a coin. Our answer? Disrupt.

We refocus in on the plot of the show. The audience has been invited into the great hall, and a feast has been laid out for us – there’s a huge table, with acrobats and jugglers doing a routine where they’re tossing around plates and chairs. We have to roll deception, and we do good enough that they don’t notice we’re snapped out of it, but the ringmaster is definitely scanning the crowd for anyone who’s not under yet.

At this point, the macabre stuff has become overt. The “castle servants” are setting plates with skulls and crawling hand bones. It’s Obvious Curse at this point. We agree that this is a really cool, goth circus theme, but we would prefer it to maybe...not end with the whole crowd becoming zombies?

Gral decides to Dispel Magic the smoke. To hell with subtlety, we’re going for disruption. He stands up and strikes an echoing POWER CHORD!!! Rolling well, he dispels the effect of the smoke, shouting, “The show is over!”

As he strikes his lute, a tangible soundwave goes out through the audience. A ripple goes through the smoke, and it starts to fade. The Dancing Lights flicker and come back up. With the spell gone, we can see clearly: the performers are still dressed up, but the acrobats, strongmen, etc. are all visibly rotting or skeletal.

The crowd, suddenly jerked out of the mass charm effect, predictably panics.

The ringmaster turns and looks directly at Gral. In his ringing showman’s voice, he bellows, “GET THEM. THE KING COMMANDS IT.”

Shoshana centers a Shatter on the table full of dancing acrobats, trying to get as many low level undead as she can. Bone shards fly everywhere as all but one of the skeletons explode into bits, with a deafening BOOM that drowns out the circus music. A shame, since this is a dope-ass circus.

(The DM comments: If we’d let it get to end, it would have definitely gotten a bit King in Yellow. We drew a red card at the end of last session, so we get to meet an Avatar of the Curse. This here is the Ringmaster, also known as The Fool.)

Clem, Valeria, and the Fairgolds dash toward the Ringmaster. Valeria has her adamantine wrench. Clem has her warhammer. Fiona has hers, too. Just three super buff ladies with hammers…and Flynn.

“I’ve got an aesthetic, it’s called Swashbuckler? We don’t use hammers!”

“If he used a hammer, he’d be a Squashbuckler.”

“Or a Smashbuckler?”

“That’s alright,” he quips, summoning his pistol, “I’ve got another kind of hammer I can use…”

(”Is it his penis?” asks everyone who has ever seen Dr. Horrible.

“It’s the HAMMER OF THE GUN, it’s not his penis!” sighs the DM.)

Shoshana aims another Shatter on the remaining zombie strongmen and their table, but they have better CON than a bunch of bones, so it doesn’t have quite the dramatic effect. Flynn shoots the Ringmaster with his pistol. As the shot hits home, he drops the pistol and snaps his fingers, a second pistol materializing in his hand. This time the shot goes wild.

The Fool howls, “GET THEM!” and the two strongmen rush at our tanks, picking up chunks of table to wallop our melee fighters with, mumbling “In the name of the king!” in their garbled zombie voices. The Fool begins to rise into the air, which is never a good sign. He points at Shoshana and in an echoing voice demands she KNEEL. She flips him off. She ain’t kneeling for no floaty-ass pale-faced clown!

Gral Banes the strongmen and the acrobat. The zombies are zom-baned. Clem sees them waiting to clobber her with chunks of table and is like “I can take ‘em,” and rushes in, carving a chunk out of the nearest one. The zombies don’t seem to be trying to defend themselves - they’re just balls of rotting meat in between us and the real threat. I mean, they’re swinging broken table legs at us, but they’re whiffing hard. Valeria casts Shield of Faith on herself and Cone of Colds them. One save, one fail. Thanks, Bane! (”I love Bane!” “I love you too, citizens of Gotham!”) The one who failed its save and got Clemmed is bloodied. Fiona, raging, does 35 damage in a single turn and bloodies the other strongman. Her mouth is open like a battle-frenzy scream, but it’s just coming out as a hiss.

Shoshana takes a thrown knife from the last skeleton acrobat, and brushes it off. Then she realizes that unlike the others who charged in, she and Gral are still in the middle of the crowd. A crowd that is freaking the fuck out.

Shoshana promptly takes more damage from getting Crowd Trampled than she has from the actual enemies. (Gral gets buffeted around, too, but at least he stayed standing.)

Hey, did you know that The Fool gets lair actions? Arrows, like the ones that shot down the jugglers’ batons, fly in, targeting Gral, Clem, and Fiona. They even seem to change direction in midair to target him. These are ghost arrows! (Which does make the whole baton trick less impressive in hindsight. Cheaters.)

Shoshana staggers to her feet and throws a Chromatic Orb of acid at the Fool. Flynn’s sword burns with green flames as he brings it down on a strongman zombie. The flame spreads between them and burns at their rotted flesh. One of ‘em nearly smacks Clem, but Gral’s Bane comes to the rescue, and Valeria gets to Sentinel him! She brings the adamantium wrench down on him with two hands. CRONCH.

Strong Boi #2 punches Flynn in the face – or tries. “Ha! My sister punches better than that!”

The zombie is like, “We’re fighting your sister! That’s a compliment!” Or it would, if this was The Road to El Dorado. Mostly it just grunts.

The Fool gestures grandly, and we all must make Charisma saves. Shoshana and Fiona fail and are Baned. (Hey, no fair using our own tactics on us!) Also, he’s calling reinforcements. We hear the hoofbeats of the stunt horsemen as they charge back into the arena. Without the obscuring magic of the smoke, we can clearly see these are skeletal steeds, ridden by terrible, ethereal spectres waving big ol’ cavalry sabers. They are not headless horsemen; they have heads. We vow to change that.

(These are Sword Wraiths, for anyone who’s keeping track. Also, shout out to Skeleton Horse from our last campaign, forever in our hearts.)

Gral Phantasmal Forces one of the strongmen. The zombie hears a terrible crunchin’ noise. In his mind, the nearly destroyed table has come to life! The shards of wood invert inward, and now there’s a big mouth chompin’ at him! He turns around and starts fighting a table. The Ringmaster facepalms.

Clem channels the scalpel ghost and makes an excellent medicine check. Professor Wendell hmms, and points out a weak spot on the one Gral has just targeted. Clem pops the darn thing’s skull like a weird melon. He died, knowing he was getting eaten by a table. RIP.

Valeria tries to charge past the other strongman, but takes a solid hit of opportunity and gets knocked to the ground. She gets back up and returns the favor. The acrobat skeleton - oh, we forgot about that guy - throws more knives! Have a Knife Day, Valeria. (It doinks off her armor harmlessly.) Fiona smacks at the last big fella.

The spectral riders form a second barrier between the tanks and the Fool as the strongmen fall. They throw some spears at Clem and Flynn.

The crowd knocks Shoshana over again. This is how she ends: stepped on by frightened civilians in a puddle of popcorn. You’re all gosh darn lucky she hasn’t gone evil yet.

The DM makes a Secret Roll. It’s a success! Valeria’s the first to hear the result, a thudding of claws on hard-packed dirt, and then we see the crowd parting as Aethis the war gator charges toward us, bringing our weapons. They wanted to help! They did a good job!!! We’d give them scritches but we’re, like, in a fight.

We get hit by more ghost arrows, and then Shoshana drags herself to her feet and twins another Chromatic Orb, shooting lightning at both of the spectral riders, who up close look like elven nobles. She then hides behind a chair, in the vague hope that no one else will stomp on her. Flynn stabs one of the riders with his green-flamed rapier, and the flame flickers between both of them.

The remaining strongboi hits Valeria for a big slam, but no one’s looking at them anymore. The Ringmaster, hovering above, begins to distort his body horribly. He distends his limbs, extending his body to spidery and unnatural proportions, and leers at us all with a manic, wild grin. The melee fighters all make WIS saves. Valeria and Flynn are now Frightened of him. As his lips stretch into an even wider rictus, his head rotates on its neck in a deeply unnatural way and his fingerbones stretch out into slender, vicious claws.

Gral inspires Clem, and Dissonant Whispers the strongman. It instantly drops dead. (”You scared a zombie to death. Metal AF.”) The spectral riders close ranks with their shields, forming a barrier between the melee fighters and the Fool, but Clem and Dr. Wendel are READY TO OPERATE! Clem misses one, but maneuvers on attack 2 to try to trip a skeleton horse. Action Surge! She crits the ghost to death, exploding it into mist, its horse falling apart into an inert pile of bones. Her final attack goes to the other horseman with a Distracting Strike. I mean, she did just pulverize his buddy, that’s pretty distracting.

Valeria is afeared of the Creepy Jester (which is taxonomically distinct from a creepy clown, we are told to note.) She takes the opportunity to Lay On Hands herself. The DM is kinda surprised that paladins don’t have resistance to fear in 5e. OH HI AETHIS!!!! They’ve run up to Valeria with her sword and shield. What a good gator!!!! Valeria grabs the Eyegis, and her AC goes back up.

The lone skeleton acrobat is like why r u guise ignoring me??? and throws a knife at Clem. We continue to ignore it. Fiona charges the ringmaster, Clem continues to duel the remaining rider, and the unforgiving crowd continues to trample Gral and Shoshana.

Clem, Fiona, and Flynn all take hits from the ghost arrows. Fiona shrugs it off, but Flynn’s not looking too hot. Shoshana chugs a healing potion (because of freakin’ CROWD DAMAGE!) and dives behind a tent pillar.

The Fool cackles eerily, and everybody under 10 health must make CON save. He was trying to give us all taint, but everybody affected manages to save. He swipes at Fiona with his Horrible Claws, but she blocks with her hammer.

Gral Dissonant Whispers the remaining rider, who nat-1s. It’s scared bad, and Clem does the honors, catching it with her hammer as it passes by. “AH-AH, YOU ARE NOT DISCHARGED!” cries Dr. Wendell. As it flees, the ghost dissipates, and horse tumbles into a mess of bones, carried forward by its own momentum.

Now it’s Clem’s proper turn, and she’s gonna hit the Fool!!!! But first, Second Wind. Miss one, hit one, MANEUVER! Trip Attack! She knocks him prone!

Valeria rides Aethis to the Fool, then dismounts, and Aethis dashes to get to the acrobat. Valeria brings her wrench down on the Fool. She Smites him good. (He is undead, so smite does a Lot.) He makes a goofy OOF! Sound and begins to wriggle up from the ground, and then she just SLAMS him back down. Flattened. After a hit like that, I almost PITY the Fool.

Look, SOMEONE was gonna make that joke.

The acrobat throws knives at Valeria! It crits, but like, it’s a knife. Valeria doesn’t care. Fiona drops one warhammer and just pins the Fool on the ground, grappling him. Raging, she gets advantage. Pinning him down with one arm, she swings her hammer down with the other. He contorts oddly, moving out of the way of one blow, but gets hit by her second slam.

The ghost arrows are back! They all target Fiona. As the arrows slam into her back, she just grits her teeth and takes it. Barbarians, man. Shoshana’s shot goes wide on the Fool as she snipes from afar. Flynn saves against his Frightened condition and starts escorting the last few crowd members out of the tent.

The Fool tries to contort out of Fiona’s grapple, but she keeps an iron grip on his wriggling limbs. Gral decides to join the melee party and stab with his Psychic Blades, finishing off the avatar of the Pale King. The circle of phantom orc warriors again rushes in as one. As he slices into the Fool with his sickle, the jester’s costume tears like a cloth bag, and a bunch of choking black mist bubbles out and away. Inside, there are only the barest, faintest hints of a skeletal form. His weird painted skull rolls away, a head in a jester’s cap locked in a rictus grin jingling absurdly across the big top.

Aethis swats the skeleton acrobat with its tail. It’s dead now.

The circus is silent. The last vestiges of the strange mist are blowing away. The tent is eerie, dark and cold.

Valeria makes a knowledge!Religion check. With the context that this was a weird Pale King thing, she realizes what was bothering her at the start of performance: she’s never been to a circus or play that didn’t open with an invocation to Guile, the god of trickery, illusion, and the arts.

Shoshana lies on the ground grumpily. Aethis comes over and offers a friendly shoulder to help her up. Shosha is like O__O because she’s looking into a massive faceful of teeth, but gingerly accepts the help up after being nudged and sniffed a bit.

Those ghost arrows were flying in from backstage. Let’s check out backstage! We find some quivers sitting there, but the arrows seem to be inert now that the Fool is dead. There are a few musical instruments in the hands of some deactivated skellies and zoms, collapsed awkwardly to the floor. There’s lots of props, costumes, makeup - all the regular circus stuff, including a tour map of places they’ve been. One more for Valeria’s collection!

We find some high-quality stage makeup, which seems a little magic. It might channel illusion magic particularly well? Gral takes a crack at understanding it. It’s not itself a magic item, but it’s designed as a good conduit for illusion spells. Gral takes it. It has 5 charges of enhancing illusion spells. Valeria takes one of the charges. We find some finely ground crystal, which seems to be what was thrown into the braziers. Valeria takes it.

We also have the creepy elongated skull of the Fool. Clem only wants it because her player used to be our party warlock. Fiona wants to smash it. We COULD bring it to the Cursebreakers, like responsible adults, but we’re all like SMASH IT SMASH IT WOOOOOO

We also find a throne on a litter, under a sheet. Is there something on the throne?

Valeria Detects Magic. There’s a lingering magic clinging to it, but fading rapidly. (The makeup and throne have a lot of Illusion and Enchantment; there’s a lot of necromancy generally everywhere.) Shoshana lifts the sheet with her stick. There’s a skeleton sitting in the throne. Not even an animated one. It’s wearing a very nice costume robe and has a crown on its head. Clearly, it’s meant to represent the Pale King, and the culmination of the circus act’s plot, but whatever power it once held was probably coming from the Fool. It’s inert now. We smack it with sticks. It engages in normal skeleton behavior. We want it to be on the floor in pieces, which it finds perfectly doable.

We snag some posters labeled “Feste’s Circus Presents: Journey to the Great Court” and start to head out.

We roll against Taint, but we’re fine. The initial Wis save against the smoke was the big taint risk - getting drawn into story could have been a disaster.

Gral theorizes on what exactly the Fool’s gambit was. There was spell worked into the performance. Its effects weren’t physical, like the disease in Mornheim. This was more like an elaborate, highly modified Mass Suggestion, bringing the people into a susceptible state and then implanting the idea of the glory and power of the Pale King. This wasn’t an attempt to make more undead; this was an attempt to indoctrinate more cultists.

As we exit the tent we remember - oh, right, there’s a big crowd panicking.

Luckily, we have a charismatic and noticeable person with us. A Large Shiny Paladin Riding a Fancy Magic-gator shouting “There is no more threat here, everything has been taken care of, let us talk to the sheriff,” definitely helps - people don’t necessarily believe her, but they’ll obey and let themselves get corralled. Flynn, very experienced in the public relations aspect of monster-fightin’, helps wrangle and pacify the crowd.

The sheriff of Three Oaks Junction has been summoned, and pushes through the nervous crowd to Valeria. “Kyr, thank you, I hear you’ve save us all – what do we do about this???”

Valeria puts on her best commanding voice. “The villainous troop itself has been dealt with; we have no idea if there is any other magical danger in the tent. Is it safe to burn it down?”

The Sheriff nods. “Oh, ya, local fire ordinances meant we had enough clearance around it; nothing else’ll catch.”

We get the townsfolk well clear of the area, and then Shoshana, whose player is appeased that she won’t start a godawful circus tent fire like in that documentary she saw once, Fireballs it. The tent burns merrily.

Flynn nods to his sister; it’s time for him to do what he does best. He rolls a decent performance check and steps into his role as Radiant Knight, dramatically recounting the battle for the shaken crowd. He focuses on making all of us look good, which is really nice! He lights up his sword with Green-Flame Blade as he gestures around with it, which is an excellent visual effect. He’s framed in front of the burning fire of the tent, and Gral performs an exciting score of back-up musical accompaniment.

“And then Kyr Argent strode forward, her sword flashing...”

(whispers) “I wasn’t using my sword”

“Ssshhh, it fits better, he’s embellishing.”

As camera pans up, following the smoke into the starry skies over the Cursewood, we end session.

#session recap #mornheim #three oaks junction #gral omokk'duu #clem haxan #valeria argent #shoshana bat chaya #flynn fairgold #fiona fairgold #The Pale King

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jrockingw · 5 years ago

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Had to go there to get here to go there...part 1

The common saying is “Everyone has a story”, right? Does that make yours or my story any less valuable? I thought it did for the longest time. I was born into a cult religion as a bastard child. As that bastard child, I was regularly told, “children are meant to be seen and not heard”. My mom found ways to expose me to things that might invite joy into my confined world. We lived on a 30 acre farm with horses, pigs, dogs, cats, homing pigeons and a family garden. At 2, mom threw me on a mini horse named Half Pint and she said I gave the biggest smile she’d ever seen. She nurtured that and I was riding around the pasture while she worked with her pigeons and fed the animals every day. Because mom had refused to put me up for adoption, she was disfellowshiped but still forced to follow the religious rules. She had to appear happy and repentant while being treated like an outcast, a leper.

By the time I was 6, mom moved us off the family farm. We moved around quite a bit. Never living in the same place for more than a few years, most times moving me to new schools. I went to 13 different schools in 12 years. By age 13 I entered “the system”, then called HRS. After a summer placed back on that 30 acres, I returned home to mom. A year later I was back in the system. But this time, I stood my ground and refused to go back to the family and was placed in a foster group home. I was bounced around, even spent 3 weeks in a detention facility in Jacksonville waiting on a bed in a foster home. By 15 I was placed permanently at the Florida Sheriffs Youth Ranch. And they had a horse program! After 2 years, I was finally back in the saddle and they even helped me go to barrel races on the weekends. I spent all my free time working with and practicing on this little mare named Shetone. After graduation I found a job as an assistant trainer/exercise jockey for a quarter horse racing farm.

That loop of away from horses and back to horses happened a few more times for various reasons; a broken leg, finances and a divorce. In 2003 I moved across the country to Montana. I was living in Charleston, SC and took a summer job wrangling in the Crazy Mountains. I felt so at home in Montana that when the summer was over, I drove back to Charleston, packed up my life and drove right back to Montana. After all, I was conditioned to move around. By this time I was into reining and reined cow horse but the west coast was completely different than what I grew up with. I was uncomfortable and didn’t understand the training methods used so I once again, stopped riding. But this time, for good. I gave away or sold all my tack and couldn’t even look at a horse as I drove down the road.

The following 15 years were life changing and not always in the positive way. Horses was all I knew and I was terrified of my first winter so I went to work indoors in hospitality. I started experiencing depression, was diagnosed with SAD and depression, put on medications, went through a traumatic loss that added PTSD and panic attacks to my list of ailments. I became a precious metals expert for an international buying company and got to travel the country hearing some fascinating stories. Seeing collectibles in person you normally only get to see in a book. I loved it and I was good at it. The company later went out of business and I was back to hospitality. The great thing about hospitality is you get to see instant results of your efforts. And it didn’t matter to me that the people receiving the results of my work didn’t know it was mine. I had grown accustomed to being in the shadows and was satisfied seeing the results of my teams labors myself. I had gone from being this boisterous bubbly confident and somewhat rebellious person to a terrified, lost introverted and silent one.

The day I got the call that I was chosen for a job I had applied for, I also received the call that would trigger understanding the past and where to go for my God gift destined future. Just 3 hours passed between calls. My mom had passed away. Her passing was “unattended” at her home and she was at the morgue in south Florida. A gofundme page raised enough to purchase a round trip plane ticket to Florida. I never in my wildest dreams expected to find what I did when I got to her home. In short, she was what I would later learn is defined as an organized hoarder. There was so much stuff. But the stuff wasn’t the value for me, it was the process. I learned things a daughter should never know about her mother, I learned things I wished she had shared with me but didn’t or couldn’t for her own reasons and most importantly, I learned where my life would start heading and what I can still learn from her even with her gone. A revival of what she always called my natural or God given talents. But even then, I didn’t know everywhere the path would lead because I’m still heading there. I wanted to carry on at least some of what she taught me and was passionate about. I chose beading and essential oils. I found books of graph paper with patterns she had made with colored markers and the markers, hundreds of them. There were more notebooks she had written down essential oil recipes and authored books with highlighted sentences, dog eared pages and notes written in the margins. She made bead jewelry for a local tribe for years and her essential oil recipes were for her own ailments and the race horses she worked with when she worked in the shed rows.

Now, going on 3 years since she passed, I’ve experienced a multitude of revelations, inspirations and an assured feeling of guided determination towards powerful goals for the right reasons. I had one of those “AHA” moments where I realized, without horses in my life, not having the ability to connect and share my gift with a true heart, my true purpose was not being achieved. For me, I’ve learned that without goals for the right reasons, they’re empty vessels. An empty vessel serves no purpose and without fulfilling my purpose depression took residency. Something has to fill the heart so if it’s not uplifting and giving then it’s negative and burdensome. Maybe that’s where the saying of having a heavy heart comes from? Almost all my ailments have gone, insomnia still lingers from time to time. But as I walk this path, I’m confident that will become a thing of only memories too.

In part 2 next week I’ll share those goals. How I plan to reach them and where I draw inspiration from. Thanks for reading my story. I hope you’ll share yours. And I particularly hope my story inspires or validates yours.

#beblessed #childhood #lifeexperiences #mystory #beinspired #beinspiring #horses #fosterkids #fostercare #charactergrowth #godgifts #giftsfromgod #giftoftragedy #findthegoodinthebad

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incorrecteragonquotes · 6 years ago

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Eragon Movie Recap Part 5: Big Trouble in Little Daret

There’s magic in this one.

We pick up where Part 4 left off. Eragon, Saphira, and Brom have left home, and there’s no turning back now. They may have evaded their pursuers this time, but if all that bickering is any indication, they still have a long and trying path ahead of them.

We begin by returning to Durza’s fort. We get a nice, long look at this sizable yet dingy workshop where Urgals can be found. This is the first time we’ve seen them since the ambush on Arya’s patrol! I wonder how they’re doing.

They look to be doing well enough until Durza himself materializes out of thin air. The guy must run a tight ship, as the whole place goes quiet in an instant. There is one Urgal who missed the memo, though, and he continues with his important mission of sharpening his large, bladed weapon of a type that I cannot identify. His nearby friend gets him to stop after a moment. It’s quite awkward.

Durza walks over to our focused friend, compliments his blade, stabs him in the foot with it, complains about Eragon’s escape, and gives the guy some orders. Durza then dissipates. Say what you like about him, but he sure does know how to keep a schedule.

Meanwhile, in the forest, Brom’s scheming session is in full swing. He claims the best way to evade Durza’s minions and reach the foothills near the Varden’s hideout is to trek over to the reasonably nearby village of Daret. But Eragon’s skepticism may have reached Brom; even he doesn’t seem to have too much faith in his own plan.

Brom gives Saphira some instructions on how to stay safe and hidden. Fly high, only rejoin the group at night, you never know when the Ra’zac may be watching. You know, the usual. Or rather, Brom gives Eragon the instructions, but the instructions are for Saphira. Eragon pulls a classic Yeah Just Do What He Said manoeuver when Brom finishes talking.

Now aware of how to avoid detection, Saphira shares a little bit of sass before promptly departing. She is immediately spotted by the Ra’zac, who are watching from a cliff some distance away.

After about 10 seconds of riding montage, Brom and Eragon hear screams from around a corner. It turns out that some Urgals are attacking a nearby group of random civilians. Brom’s a bit too eager to flee the scene, but Eragon’s a bit too eager to join the fight, which Brom knows isn’t a great idea.

Eragon gets a little cocky when insisting that he’s a trained fighter thanks to his bouts with Roran back on the farm. Brom is visibly excited, while somehow managing to remain simultaneously skeptical, but he still chooses to leave the scene before assessing Eragon’s skills by sparring with him.

Sure enough, they spar by a stream an unspecified distance away after an unspecified amount of time. The bout is implied to be a sort of litmus test for whether or not to participate in the fight with the Urgals, but there’s no way they could get to the sparring ground, finish the bout, and get back to the scene before it’s too late. The terrain is different enough that it can’t reasonably be all that near the Urgals and their victims, who are not seen again. This suggests that these people’s sole purpose in this story was to act as a catalyst for this sparring session. Maybe also to add to the background threat of Durza and friends? I guess we shouldn’t ignore the part where the raid reminds Brom to stay off the main roads. What a noble sacrifice. Maybe the filmmakers were trying to darken the story’s tone here, but it just feels like we lost some perfectly good civilians to a potentially interesting raid that our characters literally walked away from with smiles on their faces.

Regardless, the sparring match is inoffensive enough. They fight with a pair of sizeable wooden sticks. Eragon promises to go easy on Brom because he doesn’t want to hurt an old man, Brom’s clearly in teacher mode, Eragon gets overconfident, Brom gets the upper hand quickly and easily, Brom causes Eragon to lose the bout and get his boot wet in the stream. Brom reminds Eragon that, unlike Eragon’s previous opponents, the enemies they’ll be facing will actually be trying to kill them.

Saphira rejoins the group as they set up camp later in the day. Eragon insists that he Totally Could Have Won That Fight But Didn’t Want To Hurt An Old Man, I Swear. Saphira amusedly voices her doubts.

Brom, meanwhile, is trying to light a fire by hitting a pair of rocks together. When asked, he informs Eragon that Saphira is too young to breathe fire. Eventually getting tired of his repeated failures, Brom stealthily conjures a fire with the power of language. Eragon immediately notices that something is amiss, and questions Brom on the thing he just did. Brom firmly denies the occurrence of any shenanigans.

Uncharacteristically, Eragon doesn’t press the issue. He’s disappointed that Brom doesn’t trust him enough to explain, but Saphira suggests that maybe the whole trust thing is a two-way street, and they should start doing their part as well.

The next day, they set out towards the village of Daret. It’s a long and uneventful journey, and they arrive around dusk. The village is shrouded in mist, and it seems to be built as a series of bridges and platforms on top of some sort of marshy lake. Eragon’s falling asleep on his horse, and even though it mostly seems to be an excuse to show Eragon having another dream about Arya, I think it’s a really neat detail for the filmmakers to have included. Not every movie shows that part of the journey.

Brom shakes Eragon awake so they can enter the village on foot, leaving the horses at the entrance. Brom strikes out on his own to go wrangle some information out of the locals, and Eragon wanders off alone. He is tasked with buying bread and talking to nobody. After a few seconds, Eragon notices a mysteriously cloaked figure a few platforms away. They look at each other for a moment, but the establishment of eye contact prompts Eragon escapes the situation by entering the nearest door and hoping for the best.

On the other side of the door, Eragon finds himself in a dimly lit hut featuring many modest but homely decorations. Eragon immediately moves to touch the dragon-shaped handle of some sort of basin. The resident of the hut takes this opportunity to jumpscare Eragon by suddenly walking out from some back corner of the tiny room. Her clothes are loud and jangly, and she speaks in the third person. Introducing herself as Angela, she offers to read Eragon’s fortune.

Saddened, Eragon laments that he has no money. Angela scolds him, as she is apparently doing this for fun. And for free! She shakes her bag of dragon knucklebones out onto a table, her eyes go all milky, and she begins spouting vague and elaborate descriptions that generally boil down to either “you are important and so is your destiny!” or “you are powerful and so are your enemies!”. Eragon clings to her every word.

There are two meaningful pieces of information. Firstly, a tragic death is imminent! Eragon is unfazed. It happened back at home, after all, didn’t it? Secondly, there is a girl! She’s super important, and she’s calling to him. Eragon realizes that this must be the girl he’s seen in his dreams, and asks Angela to tell him her name. Angela closes her eyes, bows her head, breathes deeply, and the scene cuts to outside the hut, leaving it unclear how much information, if any, was disclosed.

I would like to take a moment to note that Book Angela lives with a werecat named Solumbum. His impact on the first book is minimal, but he eventually comes to play a crucial role in the story. There is no sign of a cat in this scene, nor in the rest of this movie. While the filmmakers could introduce him later, the level of teamwork between him and Angela, such as his interest in Eragon being the thing that prompts her to do the fortune reading, makes it important that he be introduced here. Regardless, the writers will need to work overtime later if they want his exclusion from this scene to work in their favour.

Upon exiting the hut, Eragon manages to walk about three steps before being attacked by an Urgal. A few seconds later, Brom appears and solves the problem for him.

Brom is not thrilled about Eragon’s fascination with his fortune. While Eragon keeps pestering him about how he’s been told his future, Brom gets a few good quips in as he drags Eragon to the outskirts of town. The residents are nowhere to be seen. Urgals are coming from every which way now, including beneath the floorboards, and our heroes find themselves quickly surrounded. Desperate, Eragon fires an arrow while shouting the word that he heard Brom use to start the fire. As a result, the arrow is fired in a spectacularly fiery manner.

The arrow causes quite the explosion, but it does little to affect the Urgals outside the blast radius. Drained, Eragon faints. He manages to stay awake just long enough to see that Saphira’s here to save the day.

That’s it for Part 5! This part covered about 10 minutes of screentime. Things actually happened this time! After Part 4, this change of pace is both wild and welcome. We’ve even got some new characters, some of whom we’ll even see again later! What an exciting time!

Remember to tune in next week when we visit such questions as “how does Angela wash such loud clothing?”, “has Brom ever experienced appreciation?”, and “will Eragon perfect his battle strategy of shooting a fire arrow and fainting?”. See you then!

#eragon #inheritance cycle #eragon movie #stuff actually happens this time it's weirding me out #eragon movie recap #eragon shadeslayer #durza #saphira #brom #murtagh #angela #long post #sorry mobile users #mod zar'roc

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uncheckedtomfoolery · 7 years ago

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Some youkai for your consideration

I’ve often thought it’s a bit of a shame that the legions of Touhou OCs out there seem to limit themselves to shrine maidens, outsiders, the occasional god and ‘actually Remilia has another sister’, when there’s such an enormous wealth of as yet unused legends to pick from. While it’s somewhat off-brand for me, I’ve decided to actually try and change this rather than just sit and complain.

Below the cut, you’ll find a bunch of youkai with a mix of descriptions and suggestions plus, where possible, a link to Wiki or another resource. Anyone who doesn’t care for Touhou might still find some interesting/bizarre folklore (but I repeat myself).

Gashadokuro: Starting strong with a gigantic skeleton. Or, depending on the legend, a swarm and/or gestalt of skeletons. The latter is more accurate, but a popular painting depicted on the wiki page has more or less overwritten the popular perception. The Gashadokuro is said to be invulnerable and invisible, though you can hear it (a ringing sound, surprisingly, and not its footsteps); you can probably also tell it’s around if you’re not completely blind. Being formed from the unburied bodies of those either starved or killed in war, it’s mostly grumpy and hungry, and stalks around biting heads off random people to drink the blood, like a really gory and inefficient vampire. You can probably do some kind of ribcage-coat-and-skull-hat deal if you don’t want to outright go with a skeleton, series aesthetic being what it is. A bamboo eyepatch might be a fun nod to the myth often conflated with it, too (as noted on the Wiki page).

Namahage: Approximately Japanese Krampus with a ridiculously strong northern Japanese accent. They go from house to house brandishing buckets (why? Not a clue) and giant knives or outright machetes, yelling at kids and generally scaring them into behaving. At the request of parents (who give them gifts of mochi), they might throw in a special lesson as well. Then they stomp off to wherever they came from. Originally this was a ‘be good, or...’ kind of myth where the community played into it, but hey, youkai potential. Probably playing the exact same role, which could be funny.

Azukitogi: An old favourite just for being profoundly weird and irrelevant. The Azukitogi is an old man (according to some sources; I’ve always heard the stories casting it as an old woman) who washes their azuki in a river, musing on whether they should keep at it or go eat someone. The latter, to my knowledge, never actually happens, so it’s just a morbid youkai talking to themselves. If you get close, depending on the telling, you will drop into the river. That’s it. It’s just an ugly humanoid youkai sitting around washing beans in the middle of the night, muttering. I feel like it captures the ‘some of them are just kind of there’ spirit of youkai perfectly.

Heikegani: Reaching into animal youkai here, sort of; some do theorise that it’s a kind of haunting. You see, Heikegani have shells that look a bit like scowling samurai masks, and as such, were believed to be the reincarnated souls of Heike clan warriors who died at sea in the sea battle of Dan-no-Ura. Combine that with the whole animal youkai thing and you can easily wrangle up... oh, an extraordinarily (if misleadingly) grumpy-looking, 24/7 armour-wearing crab youkai who has way too many swords. Optionally a ghost. ...What, you don’t think they really look like that? Here you go, then.

Chochin-Obake: Okay, I won’t pretend this is especially innovative. It’s low-hanging fruit, and it’s simple: The archetypical lantern tsukumogami. As such it’s kind of astonishing that I haven’t seen this done more, though?

Todomeki: Literally the ‘demon with hundreds of eyes’, the Todomeki is a towering humanoid woman with countless bird eyes covering her ridiculously long arms. The eyes are, according to several brands of moon logic living in happy coexistence, a symbolic punishment for stealing. No theft occurs in the stories of the Todomeki, and she has a lot of weird powers from somewhere, so this is... weird. Her stories feature her scaring people in a horse graveyard (I did not know this was a thing) for no apparent reason, spouting fire and breathing poison gas, then coming back a long time later to collect the blood and poison gas that she lost so she can recover. I want to further note there was a 400 year delay in between the horse graveyard fight and ‘oh yeah I should go back for my blood and nerve gas’. Possibly for Touhou this gets toned down to a suspicious mess of stolen goods, and eye patterns all over the sleeves of her dress.

Nurikabe: Another in the ‘some Youkai just exist’ brand, the Nurikabe is a living wall of indeterminate origin (depictions make it look kind of dog-like for some reason?) that extends forever. If you knock on it politely, it disappears. Theories on how the myth came about, on the other hand, tend to be either explaining lost travelers... or dietary changes in the lower classes during the Edo period, which led to an outbreak of fatigue and night-blindness. You’d stagger home in the evening, hit a wall you can barely see, and feel like it goes on forever because you’re so tired. Of note, also, is the popular (in Japan, anyhow) Gegege no Kitaro adaptation. Imagine someone buying a figure of this. I don’t understand. To wrap up, the Nurikabe’s motivation is purely to mess with people, as far as anyone can tell. Some theories attribute it to tanuki instead. Oh, and a mountain variety growing out of the mountainside, the Nuribo, also exists.

Ittan-Momen (or here, but there’s not much to be found anywhere): This one provides an interesting counterpoint as an entirely hostile tsukumogami. It’s a roll of cotton that flies on the wind, native to Kagoshima, and either sneaks into houses or bears down on travelers in the middle of the night, wrapping around their face and suffocating them out of sheer spite. It is quite possibly the world’s most hostile blanket, or the ultimate evolution of the sheet ghost.

Inugami (WARNING: Gross and terrible things happen to dogs in the wiki text; do not click if this will upset you greatly): As much a brand of ritual as a creature, the Inugami is the result of one of multiple processes in southern Japan’s distant past that would result in the creation of a vaguely canine spirit. The spirit (described as variations on the theme of a tiny black and white floating thing with a dog’s head) will possess your enemies, bring them to ruin, bring you prosperity, or whatever depending on the telling. It will also haunt your family for generations, so this is kind of a Faustian deal. On the other hand, it has reasons for being angry.

Oboroguruma: A literal monster truck An oxcart, translucent and ghostly, with a giant face on the front. It rattles up to your doorway and makes squeaking noises until you step out and see the cart there, whereupon it appears to do nothing in particular. Youkai. It’s some pretty striking imagery though, which is no surprise since, as the link elaborates, the art came before a story. According to the after-the-fact backstory, it uh, feeds on the petty grumbling of spoiled aristocrats, which seems fairly harmless? Ghost taxi.

Kamaitachi: Another high-profile, if minor youkai. This one has... a thousand origin stories and variations depending on where you go in Japan. I’ll let you hit the link yourself. The core of it is an etymological corruption turned pun. A weasel with sickles for arms, taking the form of a dust devil, whirlwind or just a gale, with the weasel either at the heart of it or invisible outright. The wind cuts people; thus the term Kamaitachi is actually used to this day to refer to any sort of strong wind that feels like it’s cutting/biting into you. I’m going to toss in an excellent drawing by @moominpappa also. Here it is.

Basan: A giant chicken that lives in forests and breathes fire, which as a combination strikes me as a non-survival trait, but what do I know? It... makes bird noises outside but disappears when humans look at it, which strikes me as extremely convenient. I mention it solely because- I mean, click the link. It looks utterly ridiculous. I love it.

Kodama: Alternatively Kotodama, literally ‘tree soul’ or ‘tree spirit’. They’re the spirit of any sacred or spiritually significant tree, a Shinto god of the small-g variety (that is to say, welcome to animism, where everything is a god but not necessarily a high-profile one). You know those little black and white guys from Princess Mononoke? Yeah, those are the ones. They’re basically minor guardian spirits for their tree, and the reason you’ll see trees ringed with braided rope and paper tassels all around Japan. When it’s depicted as anything other than the actual tree, Kodama tend to be pretty small. They’re benevolent unless, of course, you try to cut the tree down, at which point you will pay dearly (but more in the ‘curse your house for seven generations’ sense than ‘whoops, tree ate you’).

Jinmenju (or Ninmenju): The Jinmenju is possibly an extremely displaced Arabic legend about the Waqwaq Tree. It apparently serves no real purpose except to really creep people out, and even that, only by accident. The Jinmenju has fruit shaped like human heads complete with a face (ditto the seeds within), which smiles constantly. If you laugh at it, it will laugh back at you, but laughing too hard will make the fruit fall off. You can eat them, and the tree will not object, nor the fruit. It’s said to be sweet and sour, which carries the horrible implication that someone thought this was a good idea. According to Mizuki Shigeru, there are stories of people who (for some godforsaken reason) planted orchards of these things. They’re mostly found in the south, which probably deserves it for the whole inugami business. Design-wise, you might tone this down by giving the character a green or brown robe with smiling faces drawn all over it (or cut out, Hata no Kokoro-style), and a wooden mask over their actual face (if one exists). Optionally, combine it with the previous youkai so there’s a kodama perched on her shoulder.

That’s about it for now, but I do want to point out that if you want to look further, Yokai.com is a pretty good resource and frequently a more comprehensive one than Wikipedia. Have fun making incredibly weird youkai.

#Touhou #Folklore #Writing #Kind of? It's a resource of sorts

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phoenix-before-the-flame · 7 years ago

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Roped In

Now this, this is a very long overdue present for a friend and man am I sorry for the wait you had to go through for this.

But! @stardragon17 I really hope that this was worth the wait and that you enjoy reading your gift! Have fun!

.“See something you wanna wrangle Lu?” Cana propped herself up on her knuckle, leaning further into the old yet sturdy wooden fence.

While it wasn’t unusual to see the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of her lip, this one evolved to a full grown grin, wickedly mischievous like the cackle she let loose at Lucy whose only response was a light ‘mhmm’ with her eyes focused elsewhere inside the paddock.

Cana could laugh all she wanted but Lucy’s had a long day, which is bound to turn into a long and tiring week. Sure she didn’t normally ogle cute guys, maybe spare them a glance then continue on her way, but this was a different case.

When there is a guy running around with horses inside a paddock, kicking up as much dust as his equine companions without any sign of slowing down and a tired grin pulling at his lips, simply sparing a glance doesn’t cut it.

It was like that scene straight out of George of the Jungle minus the billowing shirt and sunset when he leapt on the back of a particularly rowdy stallion. It reared up on its hind legs trying to buck him off but only succeeded in whipping it’s mane in his face, to which he let out a laugh lost to her on the wind. But she knew it was hearty from the way his eyes squinted and how he threw his head back.

Cheesy romance movies were right. Men and horses make a great combination to distract from real life. Especially since she’s on her father’s ranch for the first time since he brought it into fruition.

Leave it to the man, a retired stock broker, to have not only one of the wealthiest ranches in the country but also somehow managed to breed the best racehorses since Seabiscuit. Not to mention the other horses Heartfilia ranch put out were either rodeo stars or making big screen appearances in most tween movies.

Yup, the old man was making the Heartfilia name even bigger than it used to be, attracting the media’s ever watchful eye. Which is where she unfortunately dropped in.

It took her years to land a decent journalism gig. Why? Well when you’re the daughter of a well known business mogul trying to make her own for the first time in her life, no-one’s gonna take her seriously.

Everyone figured she was some airhead heiress looking for attention so she was promptly turned down without even a shot at an interview. She was damn near about to give up and go get that job at Subway when she got a call from one of the places she’d sent her résumé.

While it wasn’t the job she always dreamed of, what with her boss being like Jonah Jameson only eviller and with dumber facial hair, she hadn’t had any major difficulties until now.

Her boss put two and two together and decided, ‘hey sending Heartfilia to talk to Heartfilia’s gotta mean big bucks.’ so he went ahead, arranged an interview and shipped her to her off to the ranch with only her wits and her camerawoman in tow.

And she’s been dreading it since she got off the plane. The car ride over was basically her trying to decide whether or not jumping out a moving vehicle’s truly worth it, all the while staring out the window and noting the fact that really tight blue jeans were the pants of choice for everyone out here.

Clearly they weren’t meant for everyone.

She got here on time but Lucy’s been bouncing around the place, interviewing farmhands and wranglers, and pestering Cana to take pictures of any and everything that might be of use for the paper. Her father no doubt was doggedly pursuing her, expecting her for the interview and to hassle her about whatever else he’s been holding onto since she last saw him some years ago.

But truth be told, she wasn’t quite ready to see him yet and bless Cana for understanding. Despite the heat she’d yet to complain about Lucy’s ‘round the world journey.

“Hey, earth to drooling journalist. Are you gonna interview this one too or just keep gawking?” Cana sharply snapped her fingers in front of Lucy’s face, managing to get a few blinks out of her and a breathy sigh that sounded almost dreamy.

And maybe a little bit thirsty. But who was Cana to judge?

“Lu. Earth to Lu. Hello?” She tried again, this time reaching for her weapon of choice- the camera- snapping pictures in rapid succession. The results were even better than she expected with Lucy jumping back in shock, a garbled cry leaving her and disbelief in her eyes. “I’m sorry but if I let that continue any longer you’d jump the fence to jump him.” Cana’s eye zeroed in on the tiny LED screen of the camera, eyebrows raised.

Yeah those pictures are definitely gonna make rounds in their friendship circle.

“You make it sound like a bad thing.” Lucy grumbled, rubbing at her eyes. “Jumping a hot guy is never a bad idea but you got a job to do, remember?” Cana chastised. She pushed herself off the fence with a weak grunt and wrapped an arm round Lucy’s shoulder. “Playing when you still have stuff to get done isn’t nearly as fun as it should be. Trust me.”

Lucy sighed, her shoulders dropping as though a sudden weight came upon them, nearly throwing off Cana’s arm. “I know.” She groaned. “ I just, don’t wanna have to deal with him yet. I know he’s gonna do it,force me in a corner and twist my words to hear what he wants. And when he does that, he does the pity thing like everything’s my fault. And I just-” Her voice quavered. Fingers tightened round her upper arms, squeezing a bit too tight but Lucy almost didn’t realize until Cana pried her fingers away, replacing them with soothing strokes up and down her arms.

Lucy’s eyes stung as Cana pulled her closer, tucking her into her side with a tight squeeze. “It’s alright. You don’t have to say it. You can ogle as long as you want, and when this is all over we can go get waffles at that diner we passed. Whaddaya say?”

Lucy tried for a watery smile. It wasn’t the best but Cana accepted it nonetheless. She didn’t know the full story, none of Lucy’s friends knew apart from a few slivers of details that obviously couldn’t paint the whole grim picture.

Lucy grimaced, curling in on herself despite Cana’s calming embrace.

“Want me to snap a few pics of sexiness over there for the road?” Cana suggested, wiggling her eyebrows. “You never know when you might need ‘em.” She nodded in the direction of sexiness, prompting Lucy to look up. Just in time to see him thrown to the ground. A strangled sound left his throat as his back slammed against the red dirt.

He rolled quickly to the side, narrowly missing his head getting pummeled in by the stallion’s powerful hooves before jumping to his feet when the horse tried again, letting out an angered whinny when its harsh stomps gained it no satisfying results.

Lucy winced, watching him dance around the aggravated beast, trying his hardest to calm it down to no avail. The carefree grin that was plastered on his face vanished into hard set lines, a seriousness overcoming his features. His stance went rigid, lowering into a slight crouch as a silent standoff ensued between him and the horse- inching ever so slightly and its tail flicking this way and that dangerously.

“Maybe we should get him some help before that though…” Cana muttered, worry creasing her brow as they both watched the horse stop to ponder, pawing the ground and snorting, bucking its head as it tried to decide whether or not maiming this guy was really worth it.

Lucy nodded stiffly in agreement, vaguely wondering how he could stay so calm in the enclosure with danger a mere few feet in front of him. Cana’s arm slid from around her. “ I’ll stay here in case things escalate, you go over to the next paddock and grab a few of those other wranglers we saw earlier. With the way that horse’s acting you’d better make it quick before It flips out again.”

“Got it.” Lucy warily eyed the man inside the paddock again before starting to turn away. Cana steeled her hand on the fence, ready to jump into action if needs be.

And that’s when everything went to hell.

The horse reared up with a roar that no animal, let alone a horse, should ever produce. The guy leapt back as it came crashing down, staring it down with an unreadable expression. Then something crossed it, a split second glimpse of realization before a cry forced its way up from his throat when the horse bolted. “LOOK OUT!!”

He tried to give chase but it lashed out with a hind leg, catching him squarely in the stomach and sent him flying. His pained scream when he slammed against the ground did nothing to halt the beast charging towards them at break neck speed, head lowered ready to rip through the fence to freedom.

The sickening crack of wood sounded like a gunshot. Splinters and huge chunks of the fence became airborne, debris that promised injury apart from the horse, giving a triumphant whinny at last, finally on the other side.

It galloped away to freedom. If it didn’t give a damn about its wrangler that it probably murdered, then it sure as hell didn’t notice how it threw Cana forward.

Not a scream passed her lips, things going too fast for her to process and crashing into Lucy. Pain flared in her head before the full force of her friend’s weight pushed her to the dirt, both of them letting out twin groans.

One of them groaned again, and she wasn’t quite sure who with it sounding tinny and far away to her though she figured Cana, rolling off her moments later with another -more alert- groan, sounding vaguely irritated at the turn of events but that might’ve just been her brain muddling things up.

“Shit, Lu? Lucy? Are you awake?” She was slightly aware, being pulled up and made to rest against her friend’s side. “She hit her ‘ead?” A voice weakly piped up.

Maybe it came from the limping figure slowly coming into view? Her eyes were kinda blurry now.

“Yeah, just looks like a bump. I hope.”

“Got some supplies for that. Can ya walk an’ help me carry her?” The figure swoops into view, leaning over her slightly, their brow knitting with obvious concern.

Was that an accent? It sounded odd.

“Yeah i’m good. Is it far?”

“Just up ahead past the barn.” Her head felt funny, she tried to focus but the words kept flowing in and out like an old tv just static fuzzing over words the harder she tried to focus. She felt herself being hoisted by two pairs of strong hands. Maybe if she just closed her eyes for a bit….her head might clear…….

When next her eyes open she almost wishes they hadn’t. A dull ache blankets her head and forces her eyes back to weak slits.

Wait. What happened?

Horse, Cana, running around the ranch, sexy wrangler…

Lucy presses a hand to her forehead to recall more and immediately pulls it back. A hiss passes through her teeth as fresh pain blazes to life from where she touched it, dying down to a weak pulse letting her know not to forget it.

Tentatively Lucy tries again, light fingers gently prodding her tender forehead and wincing slightly at the large swell she feels there. She tries to sit up but fails, sinking into the ridiculous softness of what she can only suspect to be a couch. And a fairly old one at that given how she felt brittle sponge crumbling against her palm from a tear in its seam. A frustrated sound escapes her as she struggles to rise.

“Sounds like ya finally come to.” Someone rumbled nearby. Clinking and weak shufflings came from behind the couch, out of her sight. Which frustrated her even more.

She made another sound, a low whine from her throat and grabbed the back of the couch, hoisting herself up in one go. Lucy’s half-concussed brain didn’t particularly agree with that. Her eyes blurred slightly, the dimly lit room disappearing for a moment.

With a hard blink it returned and Lucy peered behind for whoever just spoke to her. Her eyes widened slightly, taking another hard blink and then another just to make sure that her eyes weren’t tricking her with some sort of delusion. Not that she’d be complaining either way.

Holy.Shit.

Earlier when she ogled she might’ve had a shirtless daydream about him (not that Cana should ever know) but was Lucy actually expecting to see him with his shirt off, slung casually over his shoulder with a small smile directed at her?

No, and damn was Lucy wrong about those romance novel covers. Apparently guys really did come as chiseled and perfect as a statue carved by the gods themselves. His pink hair was delightfully tousled, falling into dark- almost black- green eyes. Every inch of rich brown skin toned and stretched over hard muscles. Though there were a few patches, warped and silvery, that dotted his body from face to just above the waistband of his dirtied jeans.

What stood out the most however, was the vague horseshoe shaped swell on his left side. The skin wasn’t broken but it still looked painfully inflamed. Despite the layer of salve coating it, she could still see the bruised purple skin just beneath, shining through.

At least she had the decency not to drool, her mouth instead falling into a soft ‘o’ and continuing to stare unabashedly.

Lucy was pretty sure she was obvious about it but he didn’t notice, or if he did he didn’t seem to care, only quirking his brow at her silence with amusement in his green eyes.

“How’s ya head feelin’?” He asked, making a vague gesture to her forehead. “There’s a ice pack ‘n a glass a water on the table next to ya, if ya need ‘em.”

She nodded slowly, eyes darting to the low coffee table in front of her. The glass had a ring of water around it, racing across the tabletop and the little ice cubes in it were almost gone. How long was she out for?

She gratefully took it, chugging back its contents just realizing how dry her throat is and welcoming the distraction from the man who’s this close to frying her brain.

It’s cool helped clear her head. Satisfied, she returned it to its place with a soft clink and took in her surroundings. Though the curtains were drawn to a near close she she could still easily make out the junk hoarded in the very well lived living room, knick knacks of all sorts overflowed from shelves and piled high in the corners. She was pretty sure the pile of teddy bears to her left was hiding a chair but she could be wrong.

At least the bookshelves actually had books, messily stuffed back in their places and extra papers about god knows what sticking out from between them. Though they housed memorabilia too, a tiny red dragon statue bared its teeth at her in a grin from underneath yellowed paper.

“You have, a lot of stuff.” Lucy mused, eyeing him curiously as he stepped around the couch, pushing aside the empty glass (and…a blue lucky cat statue?) to settle on the coffee table, ignoring how it shook dangerously under his weight.

He held out the ice pack to her with a shrug. “I like stuff.” He said simply. “Stuff fills space.” Well he wasn’t wrong.

“Yer friend’s outside by the way. Seemed fine since she raided the fridge ‘n stole my last beer.” He chuckled, “Almost broke my hand for it.”

That accent was weird, she wasn’t imagining it earlier. What was it, scottish? irish? Not something she’d really expect to hear this far south. But it wasn’t perfect either, there was some underlying hitch, a drag at some of his words that reminded her of Gajeel’s heavy jamaican accent.

“Yeah, sorry about that. Beer is her go to when things go wrong.” She grumbled, clutching the ice pack tightly to her head. "She’s not so violent once you get to know her.”

“Take ya’ word for it then.” A grin pulled at his lips before he reached back in a stretch,shirt flopping off behind him and cracking his shoulders with a satisfied grunt. He caught her gaze and his grin pulled wider, holding her stare with ease, his hands coming to rest atop his head.

Did, did he know? Did he know?

Of course he knew, she was obvious, Cana must’ve said something suggestive and there was no other reason for him to pull of a pose like he was a vogue model apart from that.

She takes her thirst back, he’s an ass for teasing. Stupid, sexy wrangler.

He doubles over suddenly, breaking their stare when his eyes squeezed shut in pain, hands flying to his side.

“Are you alright?” Lucy exclaims, hands hovering out to help.

He quickly waves off her concern, other hand still gripping his injured side. He gingerly rose, shuffling off to the side and coming back seconds later, plopping on the table once again despite its angered shakes and nursing a small jar in his hand.

“Gotta redress this stupid thing.” He mumbled to himself, pulling off the lid with a soft ‘pop’. “You don’t mind if I��?”

“Oh not at all. It’s no problem.” Already her nose started to wrinkle from the pungent odour wafting from the little container. It grew stronger as he scooped out a handful and spread it over the bruise. The black ointment was thick like paste yet he seemed unperturbed by its gross smell, no doubt used to it given the multitude of scars that criss-crossed his upper body.

“Did a real number on me, damn horse.” He cursed when his hand roamed over a particularly tender spot, wiping off the rest of the ointment on his pants. The black streaks running up its side didn’t really look out of place.

“Ain’t the first somethin’ like this happened an’ probably won’t be the last. We didn’t need ‘nother horse, ‘specially that one but the boss never listens. An’ now the demon’s runnin’ wild. He’ll want me to fix that too.”

Hmm.. inability to listen and won’t take responsibility for his mistakes? Lucy suspected right, her father hadn’t changed one bit.

“Sounds like you and your boss have disagreements a lot.” She said, clearly amused.

“He’s an ass.” He growled out, tapping his finger irritably on the table. “ Half my scars are ‘cause of stuff he tried an’ didn’t work out.” He pointed to the jagged scar marring his cheek.

“Foal got stuck in a barb wire fence he installed.” He explained. “Jumped in before it got worse. An’ this one?” He pointed to another, an X shaped scar on his right hip. “He tried raising reindeer thinkin’ they were like horses. Almost mauled me to death.”

“And that one?” Lucy gestured to the broad slice that nearly wrapped around his neck, slightly faded with age. His look of annoyance faltered, something like guilt flashing past in his eyes.

His hand lowered slightly. “That one’s on me. Did somethin’ stupid as a kid.”

“Oh…” An uncomfortable silence stretched on between them. Suddenly he jumped up from his perch on the table and flopped back on the couch next to her, sinking deep into the cushions with a heavy sigh, arms stretched back behind the couch.

“Main point is he’s an ass an’ i’m sorry ya gotta interview him.”

“What?” “Yer a reporter right? That’s why yer here right?”

“Oh, right. That.” Between almost getting murdered by a horse and this encounter she had practically forgotten about why she was really here. Lucy deflated slightly, unaware of the concern on her new friend’s face as he watched her curiously.

“Oi.” He began softly, nudging her shoulder slightly. “I make him sound bad, but he isn’t all that. He can be kinda decent sometimes.” She could hear the doubt lacing his words but was grateful for how he tried even when they both knew better.

“Thanks but, he’s horrible and I gotta face him sooner or later-”

The door banged open bouncing off the wall at the force, shocking both of them but he took it a step further, jumping to his feet and his face was quickly changed, concern fading behind a serious mask. Seems like someone was always on edge.

Cana stepped into the room and past the wrangler to stand before Lucy, her expression grim and forehead bearing only a light red bruise. “Dad’s coming. You gotta bounce. Now.”

“What.” “What?!” When she said sooner she didn’t mean this soon.

As if on cue, the heavy crunch of gravel sounded outside. With two steps he was by the window, peering out the curtains. “That’s the boss’s truck aaaaann’, that’s the boss.” He finished when they heard a car door slam.

His head whipped around to fix them with a confused stare, eyebrows scrunched up together as though something just dawned on him. “Wait, did ya say dad?! I thought ya was just a reporter!”

“Well i’m both!” Lucy blurted out, tossing the ice pack gone warm long ago to the side and flying to her feet, eyes instantly scouring the room for escape routes. She caught sight of her reflection in the glass case behind her. The knot on her forehead was comically red, the skin beneath it a sickly grey.“ And neither wants to see him right now! Do you have somewhere I can hide?!”

The confusion was still strong on his face, still processing the situation. Cana snapped her fingers, bringing him back. “Well?” She asked, almost harsh. “Do you?!”

“Y-yeah, the stables not too far from ‘ere. He never sets foot in there.”

“Good. You two start running. I’ll keep the other one busy to buy some time.” And she ducked out the way she came, prepared to sacrifice herself for the greater good.

“Sure she can handle him?” He leapt over the couch in a single go, landing beside Lucy who’d already thrown open the back door. “She’s tough.” Lucy replied jokingly, gesturing to her swollen forehead. “I should know.”

He barked out a laugh, pushing her ahead of him. “Don’t let me start feelin’ sorry for the boss now.” “Would you really?” “No.”

Lucy heard Cana’s faint sound of feigned surprise behind them and her father’s clipped tone, obviously angry that Lucy gave him the slip again. The door clicked shut behind them and they started to sprint, neither going fast due to injuries but fast enough.

“So i’m Natsu, should I at least know your name? Or are ya gonna stay just ‘both reporter and daughter of the boss’?” He beamed, eyes squinted slightly.

“It’s Lucy.” “Lucy huh? An’ how long are ya gonna run around the place?”

“Why the interest?” Lucy panted, grateful to see the rise of a building nearing them. His grin seemed almost savage, as did his eyes, slowing his gait to almost a stop. Confused, Lucy slowed as well.

“Why? Giving the boss hell sounds like fun. That’s why.” And he barked out another laugh, hearty and strong that had him clutching his side.

Hot and wanted to screw with her dad? Oh yeah, lucy was right to take a liking to him.

I might’ve snuck in an old headcanon of mine where natsu’s irish-jamaican and if anyone thinks those two can’t work then you can fight me.

#natsu dragneel #lucy heartfilia #nalu #nalu fanfiction #fairy tail #fairy tail fanfiction #fairy tail au #nalu nerds #what a phoenix can do #this ended up being way longer than i intended it to be #but i'm not complaining #i kinda like stupid sexy wrangler natsu

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krissysbookshelf · 7 years ago

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Enjoy An Exclusive Sneek Peek Of: The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue!

Henry "Monty" Montague doesn't care that his passions are far from suitable for the gentleman he was born to be. But as Monty embarks on his grand tour of Europe, his quests for pleasure and vice are in danger of coming to an end. Not only does his father expect him to take over the family's estate upon his return, but Monty is also nursing an impossible crush on his best friend and traveling companion, Percy. So Monty vows to make this escapade one last hedonistic hurrah and flirt with Percy from Paris to Rome. But when one of Monty's reckless decisions turns their trip abroad into a harrowing manhunt, it calls into question everything he knows, including his relationship with the boy he adores. BONUS! Pop in your earbuds and listen to Chapter 1 now!

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Cheshire, England 17— 1

On the morning we are to leave for our Grand Tour of the Continent, I wake in bed beside Percy. For a disorienting moment, it’s unclear whether we’ve slept together or simply slept together.

Percy’s still got all his clothes on from the night before, albeit most in neither the state nor the location they were in when originally donned, and while the bedcovers are a bit roughed up, there’s no sign of any strumming. So although I’ve got nothing on but my waistcoat—by some sorcery now buttoned back to front—and one shoe, it seems safe to assume we both kept our bits to ourselves.

Which is a strange sort of relief, because I’d like to be sober the first time we’re together. If there ever is a first time. Which it’s starting to seem like there won’t be.

Beside me, Percy rolls over, narrowly avoiding thwacking me across the nose when he tosses his arm over his head. His face settles into the crook of my elbow as he tugs far more than his share of the bedclothes to his side without waking. His hair stinks of cigars and his breath is rancid, though judging by the taste rolling around the back of my throat—a virulent tincture of baptized gin and a stranger’s perfume—mine’s worse.

From the other side of the room, there’s the snap of drapes being pulled back, and sunlight assaults me. I throw my hands over my face. Percy flails awake with a caw like a raven’s. He tries to roll over, finds me in his path, keeps rolling anyway, and ends up on top of me. My bladder protests soundly to this. We must have drunk an extraordinary amount last night if it’s hanging this heavily over me. And here I was starting to feel rather smug about my ability to get foxed out of my mind most nights and then be a functioning human by the next afternoon, provided that the afternoon in question is a late one.

Which is when I realize why I am both utterly wrecked and still a little drunk—it isn’t the afternoon, when I’m accustomed to rising. It’s quite early in the morning, because Percy and I are leaving for the Continent today.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Sinclair says from the other side of the room. I can only make out his silhouette against the window—he’s still torturing us with the goddamned sunlight. “My lord,” he continues, with a brow inclined in my direction, “your mother sent me to wake you. Your carriage is scheduled to leave within the hour, and Mr. Powell and his wife are taking tea in the dining room.”

From somewhere near my navel, Percy makes an affirming noise in response to his uncle and aunt’s presence—a noise that resembles no human language.

“And your father arrived from London last night, my lord,” Sinclair adds to me. “He wishes to see you before you depart.”

Neither Percy nor I move. The lone shoe still clinging to my foot surrenders and hits the floor with a hollow thunk of wooden heel on Oriental carpet.

“Should I give you both a moment to recover your senses?” Sinclair asks.

“Yes,” Percy and I say in unison.

Sinclair leaves—I hear the door latch behind him. Outside the window, I can hear carriage wheels crackling against the gravel drive and the calls of the grooms as they yoke the horses.

Then Percy lets out a grisly moan and I start to laugh for no reason.

He takes a swipe at me and misses. “What?”

“You sound like a bear.”

“Well, you smell like a barroom floor.” He slides headfirst off the bed, gets tangled in the sheets, and ends up doing a sort of bent-waist headstand with his cheek against the carpeting. His foot rams me in the stomach, a little too low for comfort, and my laugh turns into a grunt. “Steady on, there, darling.”

The urge to relieve myself is too strong to ignore any longer, and I drag myself up with one hand on the hangings. A few of the stays pop. Bending down to find the chamber pot under the bed seems likely to result in my demise, or at least a premature emptying of my bladder, so I throw open the French doors and piss into the hedges instead.

When I turn back, Percy’s still on the floor, upside down with his feet propped on the bed. His hair came undone from its ribboned queue while we slept and it edges his face in a wild black cloud. I pour a glass of sherry from the decanter on the sideboard and down it in two swallows. Hardly any flavor manages to kick its way through the taste of whatever crawled into my mouth and died during the night, but the hum will get me through a send-off with my parents. And days in a carriage with Felicity. Lord, give me strength.

“How did we get home last night?” Percy asks.

“Where were we last night? It’s all a bit woolly after the third hand of piquet.”

“I think you won that hand.”

“I’m not entirely certain I was playing that hand. If we’re being honest, I had a few drinks.”

“And if we’re truly being honest, it wasn’t just a few.”

“I wasn’t that drunk, was I?”

“Monty. You tried to take your stockings off over your shoes.”

I scoop a handful of water from the basin Sinclair left, toss it across my face, then slap myself a few times— a feeble attempt to rally for the day. There’s a flump behind me as Percy rolls the rest of the way onto the rug.

I wrangle my waistcoat off over my head and drop it onto the floor. From his back, Percy points at my stomach. “You’ve something peculiar down there.”

“What?” I look down. There’s a smear of bright red rouge below my navel. “Look at that.”

“How do you suppose that got there?” Percy asks with a smirk as I spit on my hand and scrub at it.

“A gentleman doesn’t tell.”

“Was it a gentleman?”

“Swear to God, Perce, if I remembered, I’d tell you.” I take another swallow of sherry straight out of the decanter and set it down on the sideboard, nearly missing. It lands a little harder than I meant. “It’s a burden, you know.”

“What is?”

“Being this good-looking. Not a soul can keep their hands off me.”

He laughs, closemouthed. “Poor Monty, such a cross.”

“Cross? What cross?”

“Everyone falls in immediate, passionate love with you.”

“They can hardly be blamed. I’d fall in love with me, if I met me.” And then I flash him a smile that is equal parts rapscallion and boyish dimples so deep you could pour tea into them.

“As modest as you are handsome.” He arches his back—an exaggerated stretch with his head pressed into the rug and fingers woven together above him. Percy’s showy about so few things, but he’s a damned opera in the mornings. “Are you ready for today?”

“I suppose? I haven’t much been involved in the planning, my father’s done it all. And if everything wasn’t prepared, he wouldn’t be sending us off.”

“Has Felicity stopped screaming about school?”

“I don’t have a notion where Felicity’s mind’s at. I still don’t see why we have to take her along.”

“Only as far as Marseilles.”

“After two goddamned months in Paris.”

“You’ll survive one more summer with your sister.”

Above us, the baby kicks up his crying—the floorboards aren’t near enough to stifle it—followed by the sound of the nursemaid’s heels as she dashes to his call, a clack like horses’ hooves on cobbles.

Percy and I both flick our eyes to the ceiling.

“The Goblin’s awake,” I say lightly. Muted as it is, his wailing stokes the ache pulsing in my head.

“Try not to sound too happy about his existence.”

I’ve seen very little of my baby brother since he arrived three months previous, just enough to marvel at, firstly, how strange and shriveled he looks, like a tomato that’s been left out in the sun for the summer, and, secondly, how someone so tiny has such huge potential to ruin my entire bloody life.

I suck a drop of sherry from my thumb. “What a menace he is.”

“He can’t be that much of a menace, he’s only about this big.” Percy holds his hands up in demonstration.

“He shows up out of nowhere—”

“Not sure you can claim out of nowhere—”

“—and then cries all the while and wakes us and takes up space.”

“The nerve.”

“You’re not being very sympathetic.”

“You’re not giving me many reasons to be.”

I throw a pillow at him, which he’s still too sleepy to bat away in time, so it hits him straight in the face. He gives it a halfhearted toss back at me as I flop across the bed, lying on my stomach with my head hanging over the edge and my face above his.

He raises his eyebrows. “That’s a very serious face. Are you making plans to sell the Goblin off to a roving troupe of players in hopes they’ll raise him as one of their own? You failed with Felicity, but the second time might be the charm.”

In truth, I am thinking how this tousle-haired, bit-off-his-guard, morning-after Percy is my absolute favorite Percy. I am thinking that if Percy and I have this last junket together on the Continent, I intend to fill it with as many mornings like this as possible. I am thinking how I am going to spend the next year ignoring the fact that there will be any year beyond it—I will get wildly drunk whenever possible, dally with pretty girls who have foreign accents, and wake up beside Percy, savoring the pleasant kick of my heartbeat whenever I’m near him.

I reach down and touch his lips with my ring finger. I think about winking as well, which is, admittedly, a tad excessive, but I’ve always been of the mind that subtlety is a waste of time. Fortune favors the flirtatious.

And by now, if Percy doesn’t know how I feel, it’s his own damn fault for being thick.

“I am thinking that today we are leaving on our Grand Tour,” I reply, “and I’m not going to waste any of it.”

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17thcenturyart · 8 years ago

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Ask many of the great painters of the last two centuries who's the greatest portrait painter of them all, and they'd answer without hesitation, Velazquez, an artist who transformed both the image of the 17th century Spanish Royal Court and the process of painting itself, with a degree of realism that had never been seen before.

Diego Velazquez de Silva was born in Seville in 1599.

This was a Spain whose aristocracy was still luxuriating in the wealth of Columbus's discovery of the Americas just over 100 years earlier. His middle-class parents had tenuous aristocratic connections, so it was considered unusual for someone of his background to take up the craft of painting. Painting was seen as a lowly trade in Spain, on the same level as farm hand or blacksmith. But Velazquez was educated, and this meant he could attempt to rise above the status of a provincial artisan.

At the age of 11, he became an apprentice to this local painter, Francisco Pacheco, with whom we went to live for six years. And it was here that he began to learn the trade of painting.

This is Velazquez's first great painting. And in fact, it's a great painting by any standards, but even more so when you realize that he was barely 20 when he did it. It's called The Water Seller of Seville, and it shows a simple, everyday scene of a man selling water to two other men. Now, there's a guy here in the foreground. He's youthful. He has the glass in his hand. In the background, you can just see, emerging out of this extraordinary darkness, a figure who is drinking. And then, illuminated in an almost theatrical way, the water seller himself. And some critics have read this is an allegory of the three ages of man, from youth, to adulthood, to old or middle-aged, and maturity. Now, this type of painting is called a bodegone, which means literally "chophouse" or "tavern" in Spanish art. And it's a scene of tavern life. Now, in Spanish literature, the water seller is usually a symbol or a character of low life. But what does Velazquez do? He shows him unidealized, certainly, but not as a villain. He shows him as a man with quiet dignity-- a real man, an honorable man, going about his daily life. And that graphic sense of realism is utterly unprecedented in the art of Seville.

His teacher, Pacheco, was well-connected. And this proved vital for Velazquez's future success, bringing him to attention of the Count Duke Olivares, a patron of the arts, and a very powerful chief minister to the young king, Philip IV. Olivares showed an interest in the precocious talents of the young Velazquez and knew of his ambition to become a court painter. So in 1623, when one of the six court painters died, leaving a vacancy, Olivares permitted the 24-year-old to make the journey to the new capital, Madrid, to meet the king and to paint his portrait.

This full-length portrait of King Philip was one of Velazquez's first court commissions. It would've been a daunting task. The King was already the most powerful man in Europe, and Velazquez was a young, inexperienced artist. It's an imposing picture, though-- the way that the young Phillip, still in his teens, would have appeared to visitors-- aloof and without expression. The king is wearing a somber outfit, which suited Velazquez's own style at the time, which was dominated by a sober palette of browns, blacks, grays, and whites. But as well as capturing the king's distinctive image, with his pronounced Habsburg jaw, the picture fulfills a function-- to communicate the position of the new king to everyone who looks at the painting. The king's right hand holds a piece of paper, symbolizing his administrative duties. His left hand rests on a sword, emblematic of his role as defender of the nation. The picture's important on a personal level for Velazquez, too. It marks the beginning of a long and potent relationship between monarch and painter. Velazquez produced numerous portraits for the king over the next few years, redefining the royal image as the Duke Olivares intended. They were images of kingship as much as of a particular king. The effect was like a modern-day public relations exercise, promoting Philip to his subjects as a capable and suitable leader, presenting him in armor and out hunting.

Philip IV had inherited a vast collection of priceless art from his grandfather, Philip II, including an unrivaled collection of Titian's works. As a result, the young monarch's interest and knowledge of the visual arts began to grow. Incredibly for a court painter, Velazquez was given a studio in the royal residence of the Alcazar, sandwiched between the apartments of Olivares and the king.

The preferential treatment that Velazquez was a receiving at court started to generate a good deal of jealousy around the place, particularly from other painters, who spread the rumor that Velazquez could only do heads. The king wryly confronted Velazquez about this. And he shrugged his shoulders and said, they flatter me. I'm not sure anyone could do heads particularly well. But in turn, Philip IV decided to call everyone's bluff by holding a competition, which has become one of the most celebrated mythologized events in the history of 17th century art.

The competition itself was quite complex. It involved a commission to paint a painting for the Alcazar palace that showed Philip III-- Philip IV's father-- expelling the Moors from Spain. There were three other court painters involved. And the two judges, were well-versed in recent developments in arts, and favored the style of painting that was being undertaken by Velazquez. In the end, therefore, there could only be one winner. And sometime in the middle of 1627, Velazquez was duly proclaimed victorious. And from then on in, his position as court painter was virtually unassailable.

I think Velazquez gets the job, actually.

But for the ambitious Velazquez, the turning point in his career was yet to happen. He was 29 when he met the great painter and diplomat of the Spanish Netherlands, Peter Paul Rubens. Recent years in Europe had seen much political wrangling between the courts of England, France, and Spain. So Rubens had been sent by the governor of the Spanish Netherlands to lay the groundwork for a peace treaty with England. Rubens found time out from his diplomatic mission to study the art collection of King Philip IV, and Velazquez accompanied him, seeing the more experienced artist as the perfect role model-- an ambitious courtier and a successful painter. Undoubtedly motivated by Rubens, Velazquez requested leave from the court in 1629 to go to Italy and to broaden his artistic knowledge beyond the horizons of the royal collection. He spent most of his time in Rome, seeing the splendors of Renaissance and classical art and architecture.

The lessons that he learned in Italy are evident in this painting, The Forge of Vulcan, produced in Rome in 1613. It's a mythological scene. Apollo appears before Vulcan to warn him of his wife's infidelity with Mars, the god of war. In a wonderfully frozen moment, the workers stop dead in their tracks as they listen with disbelief to the revelation. It's here that we can see the creative genius of Velazquez. The bodies are pure classical creations inspired by his findings in Italy, by his studies of classical sculpture. But the faces and the expressions show Velazquez's developing brand of naturalism. Their reactions range from outright shock to disbelief, but it's done in a restrained way. All the emotion is shown on the face-- in the eyes, with a subtle tilt of the head, or a wrinkled brow. By studying directly from nature and not by rehashing the conventional ideas and techniques of painting, Velazquez had done what many others had failed to do-- breathe life and tangible emotion into the painted figure.

In 1631, Velazquez returned to Spain and embarked on the most productive period of his career. The Count-Duke Olivares had just presented the Spanish monarchy with another palace in tribute to them-- The Buen Retiro. And that palace needed decorating, and Velazquez was heavily involved. In the new, vast Hall of Realms, 12 battle scenes were commissioned, the most powerful of which was this one, by Velazquez.

It shows the surrender of Breda, an event that had taken place in 1625, when the Dutch city surrendered to the Spanish forces. So it's a relatively recent event, and the painting has something of a feel of a documentary about it. But Velazquez skews events to make a moral and political point. At the center of the painting are the two commanders. On the right hand side is the Spanish general, Spinola, on the left hand side, the celebrated Dutch commander, Justin of Nassau. Now, it never actually happened that Justin of Nassau presented the keys to the city. Instead, the Dutch forces left after three days. Also, it never would have happened that the Spanish general would've got off his horse and been on the same level as the Dutch commander.

But what this shows is the generosity of spirit of the Spaniards. And it's a chivalric image of the moral superiority of Catholic Spain. Look at the way that the general puts his hand consolingly on the shoulders of the man that he's just defeated. The way that Velazquez makes this painting successful is by focusing on the figures. He's identifying or empathizing once again with the common man. But he also drifts in and out of focus in the way that he paints them, rather in the manner that we experience looking at a crowd of people. Sometimes people's faces are in sharp relief. On other occasions, they fade into the distance.

And there's another nice little touch from Velazquez. On the extreme right hand side of the painting, clad in a rather elegant, gray-green jacket and hat, topped with a little white feather, is a self-portrait of Velazquez himself, looking out at us as we look at his work. And then, in the foreground in the extreme right hand corner, is a blank piece of paper that's been discarded there. This is where Velazquez should sign his name. But by this stage in his career, authorship is self-evident. And he's already emerging, not just as a confident artist, but as a cocky one, too.

During the 1630s, portraits of the king and the royal family form the chief part of Velazquez's work. But he also painted portraits of the hombre de placer-- the dwarfs and buffoons of the court. These entertainers amused the king with magic tricks, jokes, and general tomfoolery. Some were disabled, like the jester Calabazas, who Velazquez painted with great empathy. And in his Portrait of Sebastian de Morra, he portrays someone of considerable intelligence. There's dignity, even defiance, in his pose, and an intensity in his eyes. In these portraits, Velazquez loosens his technique. The faces model close to perfection. But he paints the clothes and the background with much more freedom, so that nothing competes with the confrontational gaze. The decade of the '40s was a bitter and turbulent time for the king. Revolts were occurring both in Portugal and Northern Spain. The Count-Duke Olivares had fallen from grace, and the king had him exiled. The powerful Spanish empire had begun to decline.

It was also a time of great personal tragedy for the king. In 1644, his wife, Queen Isabella, died, followed two years later by their son, Balthasar Carlos. Velazquez had painted numerous portraits of the young prince, including this one, which stands out from many of his other equestrian portraits in its use of luminous colors, which give a monumental pose a lightness of touch. It was a quiet time for Velazquez as far as painting for the court was concerned. But Philip had other ideas for the artist. Velazquez was ordered to visit Italy. His mission-- to acquire more works for the royal collection and hunt out young, talented artists to paint frescoes for the Alcazar.

Velazquez's year in Rome led to some staggering achievements, notably in the field of portraiture, beginning with this work. It's a portrait of Juan de Pareja, who was Velazquez's assistant. In fact, he was known as an artist's slave-- not an uncommon phenomenon in 17th century Spain. This was the man that crushed his paints, that prepared his canvases. But he was also an artist on the quiet-- a frustrated artist who, rumor has it, slipped his own pictures into Velazquez's studio one time. And when the king, Philip IV of Spain saw the work, said that this could never be the work of a slave, and so, according to rumor, lost his status as a slave and gained his freedom.

We don't know whether that's true or not, but we certainly know from the way Velazquez painted him, he was a man who Velazquez had a huge respect for, because this is an ennobling picture. He's almost a latter-day Othello. This is a man of Moorish extraction who is painted wearing an ornate lace collar and a large, chunky belt that amplified a status well beyond that of a slave. He also has these wonderfully piercing eyes that stare out and confront the viewer with a kind of noble disdain. The crucial thing, though, about the picture is the way it's painted and how Velazquez, using only four different shades of color, from white, to gray, to brown, to black, manages to produce what is, in effect, a symphony of mute colors. He brings them absolutely to life. The background is done with brush strokes that you can barely see. But as you get closer to the head, you could see them much more markedly. There's this layering or washing of different colors. And look here at the sleeve. Now, this is velvet. When you get closer, what you see are these slightly scumbled brush strokes of gray over the top of this dark browny-black surface. And that gives the effect of light dancing on the sleeves. And when you move away, there's a sense of lush texture.

And the response to this painting was very strong. It was shown in an exhibition in the Pantheon in Rome in 1650. And a number of artists from all over the world who were there in Rome, which was this Mecca for art, came to look at the exhibition and said, according to Velazquez's biographer, Palomino, that most of the work in the exhibition was just art. But this-- this was truth. Now, we can still admire this work now, in the 21st century. But what's extraordinary about it is that it was only an exercise for Velazquez, and that the real big work was just around the corner.

This is Pope Innocent X, one of the most powerful men in Christendom. Velazquez's royal links meant that he had access to the Vatican and an opportunity to meet this imposing figure face to face, and then to paint him. Velazquez depicts Innocent slightly turning away from the viewer in order to emphasize his remoteness from the mortal world. But he also seems to have got under the papal skin, and shows a mere man, impatient and slightly irritable-- a reminder that Velazquez would have been granted very little time in which to capture a physical likeness.

His use of color is remarkable, as is his depiction of texture, as in the Portrait of Juan de Pareja, which he creates with a very limited palate. With only tones of red and creamy white, he distinguishes masterfully the satin of his cap, the rich velvet of the cloth on the background, and the glistening, ruddy skin of his face. It's one of Velazquez's most celebrated works. Francis Bacon, one of the great painters of the 20th century, who was inspired to paint various screaming versions of Velazquez's great pope, said that it was one of the greatest portraits that has ever been made.

On his return to Madrid two years later, Velazquez discovered that much had changed in the royal household whilst he'd been away. For a start, he found out of the king had remarried-- his own 14-year-old niece. And Velazquez immediately found himself back in the thick of royal duties. In fact, there was much to be done around the palaces.

Aside from the Alcazar, there were four other great royal palaces around Madrid that Philip IV used, the most spectacular of which was this one-- El Escorial, built by his grandfather, Philip II, as a mausoleum to the family, and in turn, housing the body of his father, the great Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V. And it was in this kind of magisterial environment, rather than an artist's garret, that Velazquez's career developed.

Velazquez's closeness to the king set him apart from other painters. There were a few painters at court, but they had mundane tasks, including restoring pictures and mending frames. But not so for Velazquez. In many ways, he broke the mold in the way that artists were seen in Spain-- the shift from being artisans to something more elevated. He was also given the job of restoring and decorating numerous rooms here the Escorial, including the sacristy and this fantastic chapter house. Along his trip to Italy, he came back with numerous treasures by Titian, Veronese, Tintoretto, and others, which he hung all over the palace.

From the moment that Velazquez arrived at court and was made court painter, he began to accumulate a number of different titles. And in 1652, he got his last and the most illustrious. This time, he was made Supreme Marshall to the court-- after a lot of political wrangling, where various other candidates were put forward, but Philip IV wanted Velazquez, so that was that. The job was mundane, as well as ceremonial. Velazquez was in charge of an army of service to look after the King's bedchamber-- to organize the linen, to light the fires, and so on. He was also responsible for organizing transport to and from the palaces. And more creatively, he arranged festivities and dances. But the job was important to Velazquez for two reasons. Firstly, it paid him a healthy salary. And secondly, it put him right at the heart of power, where the [? kudos ?] was immense.

Velazquez's creative energy and talent showed no signs of waning towards the end of his life. At the age of 57, he produced the most astounding, enigmatic, and challenging painting of his entire career. It's called Las Meninas or The Maids of Honor. But it's also known as the family of Philip IV. And what we see is Velazquez himself with his paintbrush in his hand, standing before an easel. And then, center stage, is the infanta-- the young daughter of the King and the Queen-- surrounded on either side by her maids of honor. In the background there's a chaperone and also a bodyguard. And to the right, and in the foreground of the picture, are two dwarfs, on of whom who kicks rather playfully-- perhaps cruelly-- the dog that's lying quietly there on the floor. Something has happened. Everyone, to a certain degree, looks startled. The infanta's eyes are just looking straight out. Her maid of honor still presenting water, but the dwarfs, too, are staring out at us. And the key to this is the background. There's a figure silhouetted in an open doorway, who's the palace marshal, the man responsible for the running of the palace. And he's looking. And then we look to the left. And this is a mirror. Some people think it's actually a portrait of the king and the queen. But look at the way Velazquez paints the light around it. It's a mirrored image. Now, some people have also said that Velazquez is painting the king and the queen, and that's a reflection of the painting. But the angles are all wrong.

This is a pictorial mystery. But it seems clear that someone or something has just happened in the foreground, where they're all looking out. And the most likely explanation is that the king and the queen themselves have just arrived. And this makes the picture a very cheeky, clever royal portrait, because it's unprecedented to show the painter and the royal subjects in the same image, but Velazquez is doing that. And so this time-honored quest for status is finally realized in a picture where he's showing himself as a nobleman, but he's showing himself sharing the same space as the royal family. And that's enhanced by the fact that Velazquez isn't painting in a small studio. He's taken over one of the grand rooms of the palace with pictures on the walls after artists like Rubens in which to paint his work.

And Las Meninas is a summary of everything Velazquez has tried to achieve as an artist. It's acutely observed-- almost scientifically so. Figures come in and out of focus. The detail is wonderfully controlled. The light is extraordinary. And there's a sense of a frozen moment captured, just like the bodegones in Seville. It's as if that nanosecond when something has just happened has been wonderfully captured and immortalized. And instead of us just looking at what Velazquez has painted, he casts us in a position as if we, ourselves, are being painted by Velazquez. So he's turning art inside out. He's mirroring and refracting. And it's a fantastic picture because you can never quite grasp it. It changes its meaning. It changes the way you look at it every time.

At the age of 61, the strain of his court responsibilities had taken its toll. After a large ceremonial function, he suddenly became ill. Velazquez died a couple of months later in the Alcazar on the 6th of August, 1660. Velazquez ensured that artists were no longer perceived as mere artisans in Spain. But he also subtly showed that art could be so much more than religious or political propaganda. At their best, his paintings were like mirrors through which men saw themselves and their world with perhaps more clarity than ever before.

#diego velazquez #diego velázquez #17th century #17th century art #spanish art #art history #baroque art #baroque

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somar78 · 5 years ago

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A Brief History of the Citroën 2CV – Everything You Need To Know

A Farm Cart And The Citroën 2CV

Legend has it that the germ of the idea that would become the Citroën 2CV was sown in the mind of the Vice-President and Chief of Engineering and Design of Citroën, Pierre-Jules Boulanger, one rainy afternoon when as he drove along a narrow French lane he found himself stuck behind a farmer’s horse and cart which was moving at horse walking pace.

Boulanger could have simply become annoyed, which would have done no-one any good. But he didn’t, instead he started thinking like a car manufacturer, and asked himself the question “Why not offer French farmers a better mode of transport?”

This was a sensible question, not only to make traffic move more quickly on French country roads, but for the benefit of the farmers. A horse requires a significant amount of maintenance including feed and vet bills. But a car could be built that was low maintenance, easy to start, easy to drive, and a whole lot faster than a horse at walking pace.

In his mind Boulanger decided to get the boffins at Citroën working on the design of just such a vehicle. It didn’t need to be fancy, but it did need to be cheap: and it had to do the things farmers needed to do reliably day after day, year after year.

The Citroën 2CV Design is Formulated + Prototypes Built

Boulanger sat down with a sharp pencil and clean sheet of paper and began thinking through the concept for the new car. That thinking did not begin with a car design but instead was based on Boulanger’s thoughts on what a farmer would need a vehicle to do.

In this sense his design analysis was somewhat different to that used by Dr. Ferdinand Porsche when he created the Volkswagen Beetle. Porsche’s design began with concepts for a car and those ideas were steered by none less than Adolf Hitler, who had very definite ideas of what the car for his people should be. Boulanger on the other hand was free to do his task analysis unencumbered.

Boulanger did not come up with a pencil sketch of the new car, instead he came up with a list of requirements for it. This set of requirements included that the car had to be able to transport up to four passengers, it needed to be able to cross a freshly plowed field with a basket of eggs on the back seat without any of the eggs getting broken, that the car should be able to comfortably be driven on the worst of French potholed muddy roads, and that it should have the load carrying capacity to take a 50kg sack of produce or a full cask of wine to take to market.

Additionally Boulanger specified that the car have fuel consumption of not less than 3 liters per 100 kilometers, which is 80 miles to the US gallon or 95 miles to the British Imperial gallon, have a top speed of 60 km/hr, and be easy for women to start and drive. He also decided that the car should require minimal maintenance and that any servicing work or repairs must be kept inexpensive and affordable: it had to be cheaper to run than a horse.

These were the specifications that Pierre-Jules Boulanger gave to his design team in 1936 and some of them probably thought he was just a trifle mad when he referred to it as “an umbrella on wheels”, but he was the boss, and what the boss wanted was what the boss was going to get.

The design team charged with creating this quite unique vehicle included André Lefebvre as the chief engineer and Italian stylist Flaminio Bertoni. They referred to the car as the TPV which stood for “Toute Petite Voiture” (English “very small car”).

The work on the car design proceeded in absolute secrecy. The design team initially used a single cylinder motorcycle engine and bodywork made of aluminum, with magnesium being used in some parts. During the 1930s it was thought that aluminum production was to become much cheaper and so it was expected to be a durable and inexpensive material to use in car production.

Similarly the downsides of using magnesium, especially its propensity to burn rather well, were not yet well understood. The chassis was to be a simple ladder frame while various systems were tried in the search for a suitable suspension system.

The most complex of these was created by Alphonse Forceau and it consisted of a leading arm front suspension and a trailing arm rear, the whole sprung by a system of eight torsion bars located beneath the rear seat. These torsion bars comprised one for the front suspension which was connected by cable, one for the rear, an intermediate bar for each side, an an overload bar for each side.

The rationale behind this complex system was that the overload bars would become active when the car was loaded with three or more people or cargo. This suspension would not be carried through to the post-war production cars.

The then bankrupt Citroën company had been taken over in 1934 by the Michelin tire company and Pierre Michelin became president of Citroën at that time. Michelin became involved in the design and creation of the Citroën TPV and as his tire company were working on a new concept for passenger car tires, the radial tire, he wanted that more advanced tire technology to be used in the TPV. Michelin created their first radial tires in a special size specifically for the needs of the TPV and so tires and suspension were jointly created to compliment each other.

A feature that was not carried forward to production was the use of hammock type seats which were suspended from the roof. These moved around with vehicle motion and proved to be most unsatisfactory so they were replaced with conventional steel tube frame seats.

Boulanger was determined to be highly involved in the TPV project and he created a department whose job it was to weigh each and every component and to try to find ways to make each one lighter. The project was top secret, Boulanger did not want rival car makers Renault or Peugeot to get wind of it or to start working on their own versions.

Pierre Michelin was killed in a car crash in December of 1937 so Pierre-Jules Boulanger became Citroën’s President. By this time 47 prototypes had been built and tested and the TPV design finalized. A pre-production run of 250 cars was undertaken and completed by the middle of 1939. These cars had just one headlight and one taillight because that was all French law required. The plan was to debut the car to the public at the Paris Motor Show to be held in October 1939. Publicity materials were prepared and the car was re-named the Citroën 2CV ready for its launch.

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It was at this point that one of the most significant events of world history took place. Adolf Hitler ordered his military to invade Poland on September 1st, 1939 resulting in both France and Britain declaring war on Nazi Germany on September 3rd, 1939. France took military action against Germany on September 7th, 1939 and moved troops with armored support into the Saar and up to the Siegfried Line. This was to be short lived however and on September 17th the French withdrew, heralding in the period known as the “Phoney War” which the French referred to as the “Drôle de guerre” (Joke of a war).

This was a situation in which the French knew they were facing a menace so dangerous that the future of their nation was at stake. Suffice to say that the planned October 1939 Paris Motor Show was cancelled as France began preparations for what would become the fight for her life.

Hiding the 2CV From The Nazis

By May of 1940 the German Army had brought the British Expeditionary Force to Dunkirk from where 330,000 British troops were able to be evacuated. By July of that year the Germans has succeeded in occupying the northern part of France, including Paris, and Pierre-Jules Boulanger had to make some major decisions about how his company would deal with the new Nazi German occupiers.

One of his first decisions was to hide every trace of the Citroën 2CV so the Nazis could not steal and gain advantage from the technology. The prototypes and pre-production cars were either destroyed, buried, or hidden. The plans and machinery to build the cars were requisitioned by the Nazis who packed them into railway wagons ready to steal them away to Germany. However, help of the French Resistance these machines were re-labeled and sent off to various locations in France where they were hidden, hidden so effectively that Boulanger was not sure he would be able to recover them once the pesky Nazis were expelled from his country, as he earnestly hoped they would be.

Pierre-Jules Boulanger was so resistant to the Nazis that they labelled him an “Enemy of the Reich”, a title that he no doubt thought perfectly appropriate, but which put his life in danger. He and his countrymen endured four years of Nazi occupation until the D-Day landings in mid 1944 and the eventual defeat of the Nazis on May 8th, 1945.

With the war behind them France began the process of recovering from its ravages, and a new Citroën 2CV was to be a vital component in that recovery.

The Perfect Car for Post-War Europe

With the ending of the occupation of France in 1944 the French people elected a socialist government, as did the British people. The result of this for the French car industry was government restrictions on what they could or could not do. The new French government nationalized car maker Renault and put policy for car making into the hands of a former car industry executive Paul-Marie Pons who’s plan for the French car industry was called the “Pons Plan”.

Under this plan the only company permitted to make cars for the lower priced end of the market was to be Renault. Renault had been working on their new Renault 4CV model, which was in many respects similar in concept to Dr. Porsche’s Volkswagen and thus subject to the same limitations, and amid the post-war political wrangling Dr. Porsche was forced to be involved with Renault for a time.

So while the political machinations went on Citroën were forced to shelve their 2CV and just produce their Traction Avant. Boulanger and his team were not idle however but had spent the war years and post-war years working on improvements to their pre-war design. The multi torsion bar suspension was gone, the water cooled two cylinder horizontally opposed engine was replaced with a 375cc air cooled one designed by Walter Becchia who was also charged with designing a new gearbox to go with his new engine.

Becchia created a new four speed gearbox and told Boulanger that the fourth gear would act as an overdrive to assist with getting the required fuel economy. The bodywork was re-modeled because aluminum had become expensive and so the car was now to be made of steel.

The Pons Plan was to cease by 1949 and Citroën lost no time in getting the newly designed 2CV into the public gaze for the first time. The 2CV made her debut at the Paris Motor Show of October 7th, 1949: ten years after the planned debut of the pre-war TPV based 2CV.

The 2CV was an instant hit, despite the motoring press generally treating it with disdain. One American journalist had the temerity to ask if it came with a can opener? A motoring writer from Britain’s prestigious “Autocar” magazine said of it that it was “… the work of a designer who has kissed the lash of austerity with almost masochistic fervour.” France had been under Nazi occupation, an experience that America and Britain had been spared.

While segments of the motoring press were somewhat less than enthusiastic the French car buying public were ecstatic about the new “deux chevaux” and the orders literally flooded in at the motor show and continued unabated from there on. In fact the orders flooded in such that a waiting list had to be established and certain buyers had to be given priority over others.

Those in prioritized professions included doctors and midwives, veterinary surgeons, parish priests, and farmers. Within months the wait for a new 2CV was three years, and it progressively increased to five years with the result that second-hand 2CV started to sell for higher prices than new ones because you could have your second-hand 2CV straight away.

But even as his little 2CV was going from success to success Pierre Boulanger was killed in a car crash on Sunday November 12th, 1950, at Broût-Vernet, Allier, on the main road from Michelin’s home base at Clermont-Ferrand on his way to Paris: he was driving a Citroën Traction Avant. But the 2CV would go on to become a lasting legacy of his vision for a car that would deliver to the ordinary French people the essence of liberté, égalité, fraternité.

Citroën 2CV – Specifications

The first 1949 version of the Citroën 2CV was the 2CV Type A. This car was fitted with a horizontally opposed two cylinder 375cc 9hp engine which was started by a pull-cord much like we start a typical lawn mower. The pull-cord starter was changed to an electric starter for production cars, that decision being made the day after the Paris Motor Show and most likely as a result of public reaction.

The bodywork had been completely revised and was all steel fitted onto a tubular steel frame mounted on a ladder type platform chassis. The suspension was completely new. The front still had leading arms and the rear trailing arms, but these were not sprung by a complex torsion bar system but instead used longitudinally mounted coil springs fitted into two cylinders mounted one each side of the mid-chassis: one spring for each wheel.

The way these springs work was quite ingenious. Each spring was connected to its respective suspension arm via an eccentric crank so that when the suspension arm is pushed upward the connecting rod pulls on the retainer that is mounted on its end, thus compressing that wheel’s spring. In addition to this action within the cylinders the cylinders themselves were provided with a degree of springing so that the cylinder was allowed for and aft movement between the chassis members it was mounted to. The idea behind this was to provide a leveling effect by interrelating the actions of front and rear springs dampened by shock absorbers for each wheel.

This front leading arm and rear trailing arm suspension system also provided a degree of body roll resistance despite its being very soft. Vehicle roll in cornering would tend to cause the track on the outside of the corner to increase as the load compressed the suspension on that side, while the suspension on the inside of the corner would tend to reduce the track on that side as the arms moved downwards and inwards because the body was lifting on that side.

The resulting 2CV suspension was soft but able to provide good roll resistance, with long suspension travel to enable the car to traverse rough roads and tracks while keeping all the tires in contact with the road, and while keeping the car’s occupants comfortable, even if those occupants were a basket of eggs on their way to market.

The first engine fitted to the 2CV was the 375cc 9hp OHV horizontally opposed “boxer” twin whose power was so modest that drivers spent a lot of time with the “pedal to the metal” trying to make the car “gain momentum”. In 1958 a 425cc was made available and that model known as the 2CV AZ (or 2CV 4). Then in 1968 a 602cc engine was also offered giving 28hp @ 7,000rpm, a quadrupling of power. Fitted with this engine the car was named the 2CV 6. That same year the 425cc engine was replaced by a 435cc engine.

1970 saw the power of the 602cc engine increased to 33bhp in the M28 version, but after nine years, in 1979, that engine was changed so it produced 29bhp @ 5,750rpm. This was done to improve the engine’s efficiency and it also gave the car a slightly higher top speed and improved fuel consumption.

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In order to maximize simplicity and reliablity these engines used a “wasted spark” ignition system, this being done to eliminate the need for a distributor for a twin cylinder engine. The ignition sends spark to both spark plugs at the same time, so one sparks on its compression and power stroke, and the other on its exhaust stroke, which is “wasted” but which doesn’t cause any disadvantage.

Performance of the 2CV was adequate for its intended use. The 9hp version could do standing to its 40mph top speed in 42.4 seconds, performance that helped the car gain the nickname the “Tin Snail”. Top speed progressively increased as the engine size and power also increased with the 2CV being able to do 50mph (80km/hr) by 1955 and 52mph (84km/hr) by 1962, making it able to do the same speed as a British Land Rover.

By 1970 the 33bhp 602cc engine was able to push the 2CV up to 62mph (100 km/hr) making it a tad faster than a four cylinder Land Rover, and by 1981 the new 28bhp version of the 602cc engine gave it the ability to get all the way up to 71mph (114 km/hr) so at last the 2CV driver was able to get booked for speeding in countries such as Australia which had imposed either 100km/hr or 110km/hr blanket speed limits on country roads.

So to look at the performance of the 2CV it was pretty good protection against speeding fines and loss of license in many parts of the world.

The gearbox was four speed and the engine and transmission mounted as a unit in the front of the vehicle driving the front wheels. The exception to this was the 2CV “Sahara” which had engines and transmissions both in the front and in the back giving it four-wheel-drive capability. Control of the gearbox was via a gear-lever that came out of the dashboard and which had an unusual but practical shift pattern.

In the left-most position first and reverse were opposite each other (left and back for first), in the center position second and third opposite each other, and fourth gear could only be engaged once in third gear, by turning the gear-lever to the right. Why would they do this? The 2CV was designed to be used off road and on muddy tracks, situations in which the car could get bogged. One of the ways of getting a car out of a sticky situation is to move it backwards and forwards progressively building up momentum until its possible to drive out of the boggy situation.

As for interior fittings the car was kept as spartan as possible and was fitted with just one windscreen wiper which was driven by a speed shaft drive. This no doubt seemed quite logical as the faster the car went the faster the wiper went. The roof was a waterproofed canvas cover that could be rolled back all the way to the rear of the car. The speedometer was attached to the windscreen pillar, while to check the fuel level a dipstick was provided in the tank. All of this was done to make the car as reliable as humanly possible, and as easy to repair as possible. The less things fitted the less chance of something breaking or going wrong.

The Van and Utility Versions of the Citroën 2CV

Having been purpose designed as a utilitarian vehicle it was natural that Citroën would make both “Fourgonette” panel van and pickup/utility versions. The 2CV AU Fourgonette first appeared in 1951, quite quickly after the standard sedan model.

The vehicle was fitted with the 375cc 9hp engine just like the sedan, Citroën’s management having decide not to fit the newer and more powerful 425cc engine in it, reputedly because they did not want owners of sedans to install that engine for increased performance. The use of the small engine required a more low geared final drive which allowed the diminutive Fourgonette to carry an impressive 250kg (500lb) load but its top speed was down to 37mph (60km/hr).

In 1955 Citroën decided that the Fourgonette really needed a more powerful engine and so the 425cc was fitted and the new model designated the 2CV AZU.

Citroën also made a “Weekend” version of the Fourgonette which was fitted with windows in the rear van section and folding seats. This made the vehicle very adaptable, being able to carry cargo, or a work team and their equipment, and the vehicle could be used for recreational transport on the weekends.

There were also pickup/utility versions made and these were often purchased by military forces to provide light and durable transport in much the same role as the Willys Jeep. As military vehicles these 2CV pickups could be found with medium to heavy weapons installed such as machine guns, just as Jeeps were.

A Family of Descendants

The 2CV was such a needed concept, and such a cleverly designed solution to the specifications originally coined by Pierre-Jules Boulanger, that it survived in production through to 1990 and also spawned a number of model variations.

Most of these variations were created by Citroën themselves but one that is worth a mention was created by an independent builder who wanted to build a car purpose designed for Africa. Although it never reached full production the “Africar” used a similar front leading arm and rear trailing arm suspension system, and it was fitted with a Citroën engine and transmission. The early prototypes made for a Channel 4 documentary in which a convoy of these “Africars” made their way from the Arctic Circle to the Equator in Africa were made from resin impregnated marine plywood.

You can read the story about this project, if you click here.

The 2CV AZ, 2CV AZL, and 2CV AZLP

The 2CV AZ was introduced in 1954 and was fitted with the more powerful 425cc OHV twin cylinder “boxer” engine. Despite the fact that the 2CV had been designed to be just about as utilitarian as possible a 2CV AZL version was created, the “L” standing for “luxury”. This was of course not to be confused with the word “luxury” as understood by a Rolls-Royce buyer however.

“Luxury” in the world of the 2CV meant that the car came with a demister, but only for the driver’s side, the rear window was made larger, the seats were covered in plasticized cotton cloth, and to impress the people who saw the car it also had chrome detailing strips.

In 1958 the “luxury” model gained a steel lockable boot and was given the model designation 2CV AZLP. The older style model that did not have the lockable boot remained on sale up until 1967 by which time the vast majority of buyers were opting for the lockable boot model.

The 2CV “Sahara”

The Citroën 2CV 4×4 “Sahara” was arguably the most interesting and most desirable of all the 2CV variants, despite the fact that it had to lose the lockable boot. The 2CV “Sahara” was fitted with two 425cc 12hp engines, one at the front and one at the back, complete with two gearboxes and differentials, and two fuel tanks. These engines could be used together or separately giving the vehicle an additional level of dependability. If you can imagine being in Africa and having an engine breakdown, and then finding you had a hungry leopard circling your car waiting for you to get out, then you catch a glimpse as to why this was such an ideal vehicle.

The 2CV Sahara was made in two series, the 2CV 4×4 AW from 1958-1963, and the 2CV 4×4 AW/AT from 1963-1966. Top speed was 62mph (100km/hr) and they have the spare wheel mounted in a recess on the bonnet/hood like a Land Rover, this being necessitated because the spare wheel was normally located in the rear of the standard 2CV but when you install an engine in the boot the spare tire has to go somewhere else.

The 2CV 4×4 Sahara was much more expensive than its single engine siblings and in total only 694 were built and sold. Given the hard lives these vehicles have had, and the remote parts of the world that they were often shipped to, very few have survived: only 27 genuine examples are known to currently exist.

The 2CV AZAM

The 2CV AZAM was introduced in 1963 and was another great leap in providing “luxury” for 2CV buyers. This really was a car in which to enjoy a decent Cuban cigar while your passengers cracked open a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal ensconced in the comfort of the fully upholstered velour interior, there was even an interior light and a sun visor for the passenger so they would not need their stylish Ray Bans quite so much. This car was replete with stainless steel hubcaps, special door handles, and tubular chrome bumper over-riders with other chrome trim.

In 1965 the body styling was changed to include a glass rear window and rear quarter windows, giving the car a light and spacious feel despite the fact that the dimensions had not actually changed.

The 2CV6 and 2CV4

1967 saw Citroën install the 602cc boxer twin OHV engine in the 2CV creating the 2CV6. The 435cc 2CV remained in production and was designated the 2CV4. Despite this the 2CV sales were falling and Citroën were considering ending production when in 1973 and 1974 the World Oil Crisis hit and suddenly as the price of fuel went up so did interest in the economical 2CV, now made much more luxurious and so much less a car created by someone “who had kissed the lash of austerity…”. In fact the 2CV had by this stage acquired a “coolness” factor and had become a French fashion icon.

1975 saw Citroën go back to basics with the 2CV and they released the 2CV Special, which was a return to the car’s original austere roots.

The “Raid” Rallies of the 1970s

By 1970 the Citroën 2CV had matured in its design, performance, and features. Seeing this Citroën’s management embarked on a strategy that was bold and imaginative, and they instigated a series of Citroën “Raid” intercontinental endurance rallies. Customers were offered a 2CV fitted with a “P.O.” kit, the “P.O.” standing for “Pays d’Outre-mer” which translates as an “overseas kit”.

The 2CV equipped with the “P.O.” kit were built for international endurance competition over rough roads and tracks, a passport to adventure in exotic places. This was to prove to be popular among young people, sufficiently so that three of these Citroën “Raid” rallies were held; the first was the 1970 Paris to Kabul, Afghanistan and back again, a distance of 16,500 kilometers, which attracted no less than 1,300 participants; the second was the 1971 Paris to Persepolis in Iran and back again, a journey of 13,500 kilometers, in which 500 competitors took part; the third was the 1973 Raid Afrique from Abidjan to Tunis which required crossing the Sahara including the unmapped Ténéré desert which was normally closed to cars.

The 1974 “Oil Crisis” seems to have spelled the end for the Citroën Raid rallies but the “Oil Crisis” led to an upsurge of sales of the 2CV, its “street cred” having had a great boost from the car proving itself in the Raid rallies.

The 2CV “James Bond” and Other Special Editions

Having attained the status of a “cool” car, almost a “cult” car, the 2CV was manufactured in a number of special editions complete with special paint schemes and fittings. One of the most famous of these was the model made to commemorate the appearance of James Bond 007 driving a humble Citroën 2CV. The Bond car however was not exactly standard in its fittings and although it lacked the built-in machine guns and passenger ejector seat of Bond’s Aston Martin DB5 it did have a much bigger engine in the form of a 1,015cc horizontally opposed four cylinder as used in the Citroën GS.

The production 2CV 007 special edition did not have the Citroën GS four cylinder engine but instead has the rather more tame 602cc boxer twin. To make the model a little more exciting owners were presented with fake bullet hole stickers so they could make their car look more dramatic than it actually was.

The most successful of the special editions was the Charleston which came with its characteristic two tone paint scheme. This model combined some desirable ingredients, it was economical and reliable, and it was stylish and comfortable. It proved to be so popular that Citroën made it a regular production model. This model was fitted with inboard disc brakes for the front wheels making it one of the most desirable of all the 2CV variants.

Other special editions included the “Dolly”, the Mehari, and the “Beachcomber”.

The End of Production – But Not the End of the Story

The Citroën 2CV remained in production for 42 years and was made in a number of countries including Britain, Portugal, Chile, and Argentina as well as in France. The car went from being viewed as the ultimate in austerity to becoming a desirable French icon.

It became the inspiration for others, notably the British “Africar”. Nowadays Citroën 2CV that have survived have become collector’s items and are much loved by their owners. They are a car that was created in an era when people understood what was important in life, because they had lived through the Great Depression and the Second World War in which their nation had been invaded by the Nazis.

The 2CV in its later iterations still represents the features that people really need in a car; inexpensive to buy, easy and inexpensive to fix and maintain, decently comfortable, and very adaptable in terms of where it can go and what it can carry. It is a concept that really should be rediscovered although I suspect that it will not, simply because the modern generations have not lived through the deprivations of their grandparents and so tend to be unable to understand the things that make the Citroën 2CV great. Perhaps that will change, and if it does hopefully it won’t necessitate the world again experiencing the great traumas of the twentieth century that set the stage for the 2CV to be created.

Picture Credits: Citroën, RM Sotheby’s, Guido Bissattini @ RM Sotheby’s

The post A Brief History of the Citroën 2CV – Everything You Need To Know appeared first on Silodrome.

source https://silodrome.com/citroen-2cv-history/

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