#Dirk too but she’s on thin ice.

[ble-ed-mo-re]

Happy birthday to Dove Strider and Dove Strider only.

[aminiatureworld]

The Music of the Night

Ship: Geralt x Jaskier

Warnings: Someone gets stabbed

Premise:  The family goes to a music concert, courtesy of Jaskier, and Geralt gets to experience something he never has before.

Author’s Note: I was hoping to post every five days, but unfortunately with classes starting and the larger Medieval AU this fic was a long time coming. I was more liberal with Geralt and Jaskier being open about their feelings, or at least I tried to be.

Hope you enjoy this fanfic and thank you so much to the 42 people who liked my last Geraskier fanfic as well as the 6 people who reblogged it.  Know that every single one of you contribute so much to my happiness and my determination to continue writing!

Notes about pieces, historical accuracy, and other such things in end note. Ao3 link in reblog

            “Alright, are we ready to go?” Yennefer shouted down the hall. Geralt ground his teeth, staring at the array of weapons laid out in front of him. It was a very important night, one that Jaskier hadn’t shut up about for the better part of three months. A guild of musicians was in a town neighboring Yennefer’s newest stronghold, and the house’s resident bard had been adamant that this would be a perfect family outing, and that no one was getting out of it. This hadn’t entirely been surprising, and Geralt had begrudgingly agreed to the whole endeavor, not being a huge fan of enclosed crowds. When he’d realized that maybe going to a concert unarmed in the middle of what could only be described as the Continent losing its collective mind was a bad move, his intensely minute planning, something that both Yennefer and Jaskier teased him mercilessly about since he’d properly brought Ciri into the family, had spun out of control. Now there the Witcher was, staring at the various knives, daggers, swords, and other miscellaneous weapons that he’d found lying around the house, wondering which to take and which to leave. The two usual swords were among the bunch, of course, but somehow Geralt knew that Jaskier wouldn’t take kindly to them being brought, something along the lines of ruining the atmosphere. Still, he had to bring something and as the banging in the hall grew louder Geralt wondered how he’d ever easily made up his mind about arming himself before.

           “Geraltttt!” Jaskier’s voice came singing down the hall, followed almost immediately by the banging of the door. Rushing over, he planted a quick kiss on Geralt’s cheek, something which never failed to bring on a blush, and shook his head excitedly. “You look lovely in everything darling, I promise no one will be in the mood to glare.” Geralt smiled fondly, if a bit exasperatedly, at the bard, before shaking his head.

           “That’s not it. I, well, was trying to choose.” He gestured towards the table and Jaskier, turning around and surveying the paraphernalia, nodded thoughtfully.

           “Hmm… tough choice.” He brought his hand to his chin for a moment, before his eyes lit up and he picked up a dirk sheathed in black leather. “I’ll take this one!” Checking to confirm the blade was indeed steel, Jaskier smiled up at the, admittedly baffled, Geralt, who couldn’t understand the bent that Jaskier was taking.

           “Jaskier, I-”

           “Oh and of course the others will need something too!” Jaskier scurried into the hallway. “Guys!! Geralts got his weapons laid out, better get one!” There was an incoherent reply from Yennefer, and the quick footsteps of Ciri, who, running into the room, grabbed a thin knife, this one wrapped in ordinary leather with green silk woven into the hilt, an old gift from a grateful pawnshop owner if Geralt could remember right. Geralt frowned as Ciri ran back out of the room, but before he could raise a protest Yennefer had waltzed in, scanned the table, and ran off with an elegant dagger, a whirling pattern built into the blade. Geralt immediately gave a grunt of protest at that, but Yennefer simply raised an eyebrow and walked out. Jaskier, returning, walked up to the poor Witcher, who was running about three paces behind the entire ordeal, and gave him a smile. “Thank you for thinking of that! This should be a relatively calm affair, more serious you know, but hey, protection is always a must!”

           “I… those were for me.” Geralt shook his head. “I couldn’t choose which to pick.”

           “Well, we’ve whittled down the selection haven’t we?” Jaskier smiled indulgently. “Now hurry up and choose yours now, you know how much I’ve been longing for this, and nothing is going to stop me from enjoying tonight. Especially not a late indecisive witcher.” And, pressing a kiss on Geralt’s nose, and nearly falling on him in the process, Jaskier ducked out, leaving the slightly bashful Witcher to pick up a weapon, another dirk, this one wrapped in old worn leather with half rubbed off runes cut into it, and run after him.

           The venue was already quite crowded when they arrived, and the front seats full. Jaskier gave a dramatic groan at that, but Ciri, muttering a quick word of assurance, ducked off to find four seats. Geralt could barely make her out, as she slipped quickly and quietly between various patrons, but he trusted in her abilities not only to find a good spot but to be able to take care of herself. The latter part of that trust had been harder to build up, the first few weeks they were together Geralt felt as if he were walking on melting ice, worried about the various ways he might put his newfound family in trouble. It had taken a lot of lectures from Yennefer and coaxing from Jaskier for the Witcher to finally accept that Ciri wasn’t a waifish girl in need of coddling; after all, hadn’t she survived without him? Through war and death and a cult chasing after her? No, Geralt now knew that being a good adoptive father didn’t mean locking one’s daughter away, even out of paternal worry.

           As Ciri waved the band over to a set of seats in the third row, Jaskier admitting that the choice was “not bad at all”, Geralt reflected for a moment on where he was now in life. He’d never thought at the beginning of his life he’d be a witcher, and he’d never thought at the beginning of his witcher life that’d he’d be destined for anything other than a lonely life, walking the Path with the cold determination of someone who knew no other way. How odd fate had proved out to be, and how grateful Geralt was that he’d been wrong. How happy he was that his life had changed, that he had changed, for the old Geralt knew nothing about either reflection or hope, not in the way current Geralt did, and as he slipped into one of the creaky wicker chairs set up around the semi circled stage, Geralt glanced at the family around him. Yennefer was enquiring after Jaskier the type of music that was to be played, the bard replying with a garble of songwriter facts and music theory that no one but himself understood, while Ciri was scouting the people around them, trying to determine where they were from no doubt, as she’d once confessed to Geralt seeing Cintran refugees always gave her pause, even if she no longer felt the urge to walk up and say hello. It was a happy sight, despite everything that had happened, the mistakes, the goings, the years apart. It was nice to have a night such as this, and as Jaskier turned to glance at the Witcher he seemed to wink, as if to say to Geralt, see, I told you this was a good idea. Geralt lifted his eyebrow, but he couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his face, and as the people hushed and the musicians came out Geralt found himself very happy he’d let that bard follow him around.

          Geralt wasn’t entirely sure what he expected out of this night. He knew that it wouldn’t be the same experience as tavern songs, that this wasn’t going to simply be a group of bards, that the singing would be minimal, and that the songs would be longer and more complicated. What he certainly wasn’t expecting was the sheer beauty that hit him. The song started with one musician playing a fiddle, a low pleasant sound, which rose up in a variety of trills. It put Geralt in the mid of early springtime, the birds just emerging from their nests, or coming up from where they’d left. It made him think of the fields right after a frost, buds beginning to dot the trees, the world coming to life again. Slowly the other musicians, of which there were about 60, began to join in with the lone player, adding to the effect of a world waking. The music chased away the rest of Geralt’s thoughts, and he found himself leaning forward, as if somehow he could envelope himself in the notes floating around the theatre.

           A glance over at Jaskier made evident that the bard was also feeling affected by the music, for the bard had clasped his hands over his mouth, though every once in a while one would float up, as if guided by the music, and Jaskier’s eyes would close. It was a side that Geralt hadn’t really seen before, for though he knew of course that Jaskier loved music, loved it in an all consuming way, he didn’t show it often, mostly joking that no one wanted to hear the intricacies of Dorian mode, or listen to him sing the praises of men and women long dead. A warm feeling filled Geralt’s chest, and he was almost choked by the sense of fondness that he felt, surrounded by what Jaskier loved best, watching him in his element. Turning back to the performers Geralt thanked every god he could think of and all the ones he couldn’t that Jaskier had brought the family, and that Geralt got to be around such a beautiful being and share in such a beautiful experience.

           The music continued, each song more beautiful than the last. After what Geralt could only call the springtime piece came what seemed like four, but Jaskier later told him was only one split up into different “movements”. Their, or rather its, tone was dark, and even when the song seemed faster Geralt only felt agitated, rather than happy. Deciding he didn’t like that as much as the first song, though Ciri rather seemed excited by the frantic energy of it, Geralt was glad when four guild members stepped out and began playing a calmer song, this one another split in four, why did songwriters do such a thing? The second part of the four songs was quiet and soft, almost like a lullaby, and when the third part started again at a bright tone Yennefer, who’d dozed off, jerked up in her seat, to the great amusement of both Ciri and Jaskier, who giggled so incessantly that someone behind them told them in no uncertain terms to either shut up or go home. After that was a song much more based in the flutes and the reeded instruments, which consequently sounded much more fluid and loose, bringing to mind a great city with lazy morals and interesting sights. Geralt was enjoying himself immensely, a happiness only added to by Jaskier’s occasional squeals of glee and raucous clapping at the end of each song, as well as a whisper in Geralt’s ear whenever the Witcher seemed to get lost.

           The night was fading away and as the musicians announced that this was to be their last piece the crowd moaned, and shouts of encore echoed through the hall. The musicians stood up and bowed, causing many in the audience to jump to their feet in applause, and some even to begin to walk out, much to Jaskier’s annoyance. “They’re going to miss the best of it.” He scoffed, sitting back down as the stage emptied. Emptied that is except for one woman. She paused, waiting for the noise to calm down, before placing her fiddle on her shoulder. “This is it.” Jaskier whispered, and then she began. Immediately Geralt was blown away. Although there was only of her, multiple notes were certainly coming out of the instrument, at a breakneck pace, which had Geralt in mind of a horse, frantic and wild. The song developed, as a sweet melody came out of the endless pounding of hooves, only to be brought down by another melody, this one thick with panic and fear. The momentum kept going, pitches rising, melodies crashing into each other. It felt more like a torrent than a song, so swept away Geralt felt, giving him an odd sense of dread. Suddenly everything smashed into one another, and the song dropped, giving one the lingering feeling of discomfort. Turning to Jaskier, Geralt looked at the bard with raised eyebrows, not entirely sure how to convey what he’d felt. Jaskier glanced back at him with what seemed like satisfaction. “Based off a poem,” he explained, “of a man trying to save his son, only to be chased by a specter, one who promises the boy happiness and luxury if he goes with him, only to take his soul and kill the boy.” He sighed, seeming much happier than Geralt felt, for a pit had begun to form in the Witcher’s stomach. “Imagine your writing being immortalized in such a way… one day that’ll be my piece Geralt, just you wait. I’ll be the one striking fear into your heart.”

           “I hope not.” Geralt responded, a bit brusque for he couldn’t get the image out of his mind. “It sounds like a terrible poem.”

           “Tragedy is immortalized better than glory. I’m sure you understand that. Besides, it’s just a story, and one that can bring all people together. You thought her playing was beautiful didn’t you?” He gestured towards the woman, who was receiving heaps of deafening applause. Geralt nodded slowly. He couldn’t deny the talent of both the musician and the songwriter. Still, the music sat uncomfortably over him, and as the family made ready to leave, he couldn’t help but let everyone pass in front of him, thinking of how even if the scenario in the poem itself wasn’t true, the general idea certainly was real enough.

           Outside the air seemed to clear a bit, and the group fell into happy chatter. Ciri was still on about how bombastic that second song had been; “I can’t believe how loud they got sometimes! It was like the roof was going to fall!” Yennefer said nothing, rubbing her eyes slightly, but the look on her face was one of contentment. And, of course, Jaskier seemed ready to burst, talking this way and that about all sorts of things. “Did you see the way the fiddle bows were all together? And the vibrato on that first flautist, I couldn’t believe it! Shame that vibrato isn’t exactly a lute thing. And I can’t believe how much work the composer must’ve put into those pieces! I mean, I can barely read two clefs, imagine being able to read four! Maybe I should consider that for the next big project…” His voice carried off, and Geralt smiled indulgently, knowing that for the next few months there’d probably be horrendous amount of noise as this bard tried to put all he’d seen to good use in his own music. Inhaling the cool, fresh air, Geralt began to feel the shroud of that last song shake off, reminding him of how beautiful he’d thought the first song was.

           The reverie didn’t last forever though, for as the group made their way out of the stables – Yennefer had insisted on no stays at the inns, for who would spend that much money when there was a perfectly fine home only five miles away – and into the woods the atmosphere seemed much more oppressive. When two men stepped out of the shadows Geralt tensed, wishing he’d brought his swords after all. “What brings you to stop in these dense woods?” Jaskier called out, swinging out of the saddle, a move which caused Geralt’s throat to constrict, and made him simultaneously want to protect and strangle the bard. The men said nothing, and Jaskier shook his head, shrugging his shoulders and holding his hands out to the tall, ragged figures. “Well if you say nothing I cannot help you, and will assume that you’re playing a rather insipid game of hide-and-seek. Now if you don’t mind it’s late, and I’d rather spend a cold night like this in bed than staring a statues.” Going to turn Jaskier stopped in his tracks when one of the men piped up.

           “Those are some nice horses. Nice clothes too.”

           “Oh you think so?” Jaskier turned around. “I’ll admit I do agree my fashion is impeccable, I’m glad you can see that. But unfortunately I think your judgement on horses is rather lacking. I mean of course Lyra is the loveliest girl, but honestly could you say Roach is anything close to nice?” He gestured towards Geralt, who gripped the reins. The men on the road had the sense to look slightly uneasy at the realization that a witcher was amidst the party, but “evidently they had a scarcity of sense, common or otherwise” Jaskier would later say, for they both looked back upon the bard, and the bulkier of the two drew a ragged sword out of its sheath.

           “We’ll be taking Lyra and Roach now. And the horses of those lovely ladies.” The second began walking towards Yennefer and Ciri, the former of who raised her eyebrows, and the latter of who looked extremely unimpressed.

           “Do what you want.” Jaskier threw his hands up, as if in surrender. “I must warn you however that one such lovely lady is unused to having her horse stolen out from underneath her, and I daresay mages aren’t known for their forbearance.” The two men halted for a second, and the one closer to Jaskier turned towards the bard. Geralt by now had begun to slide off Roach, looking backwards to make sure there were only two such men, and taking care to be as silent as possible. Jaskier looked as unruffled as ever, and even when the bulky man took a step towards the bard, he stayed in his position, leaning slightly against Lyra, arms crossed at his chest.

           “It’s no good lying to us.” The bandit, for that was most surely what these two people were, had a voice that could only be accurately described as gravely. He pointed his sword towards the bard. “I’ll have to teach you a lesson.”

           “How menacing of you.” Jaskier deadpanned, and as the man lunged and Geralt made for his weapon it seemed for a moment as if Jaskier was truly about to get struck.

           The surprise on the other man’s face was one of complete terror, as his compatriot dropped like a stone. Jaskier pulled his dirk, now drenched to the hilt in blood, out of the man’s ribcage, turning to Geralt, who was likewise frozen. The last bandit distracted Yennefer made quick work snapping her fingers, and in place of the man soon stood a very confused rabbit. Whirling off her own horse Ciri stepped towards the animal, who made a weird sort of strangled sound before bolting into the forest. Walking over to Geralt, Jaskier handed the Witcher the dirk. “Could you hold this for me? My handkerchief is in my pocket, and this doublet is newly made.” Careful to avoid using his right hand, Jaskier pulled out the square of linen, and wiped his hands and the dirk, before sliding the blade back into its sheath. “Thank you darling!” Jaskier planted a kiss on Geralt’s hand, causing the inevitable blush. The poor Witcher still felt like he’d somehow missed something, and as he looked around at the rest of his family, already back on their horses and starting to move on, the Witcher wondered how he’d become the pacifist in the family.

           The rest of the ride was quite a jumpy one for the Witcher, who kept expecting various monsters, highwaymen, and other of the sort to come jumping out of the trees at any moment. By the time Yennefer’s place was in sight, Geralt felt an immense sense of relief, and as the group all untacked their horses, Ciri, determined to be the fastest of the group, already combing Melusine, Geralt stayed silent, ears trained on the soft sounds of the night outside. The cleaning done and the hay placed in the stables, the family filed back into the house, Geralt at the rear, locking the bolt to both the stables and the house firmly behind him. “Did you enjoy yourself?” Jaskier immediately asked.

           “A bit too long for my taste, but you couldn’t deny the talent.” Yennefer yawned. “Thank you for having us attend Jaskier.”

           “Of course my dear Yennefer.” Jaskier dipped into a short bow. Yennefer snorted and walked up the stairs, the bath was definitely going to be hogged for the next hour or so.

           “I liked all of it!” Ciri declared, plopping down on the rug in front of the fireplace in the main hall. “It reminded me of the kinds of concerts my grandmother liked to see. I was glad to go to such a thing again.” She smiled softly, and Geralt and Jaskier both walked over to the girl, enveloping her in a group hug. Ciri hummed happily. “Thank you both.” And giving each of the two a quick hug she too went up the stairs, closing the room to her door with a bang, as was custom.

           “And you?” Jaskier looked over to Geralt. “Don’t you dare say anything about a filling-less pie this time. I know you lied through your teeth then, and I’ll know you’ll be lying now.” Geralt smiled, old memories swirling through his mind, how long ago that seemed now.

           “I liked it. It was…” he paused, trying to find the right words, “different. All the songs were different, but they all fit together. And I felt, carried away.” He lay back on the carpet and sighed. “I felt almost as if there was a spell in the air.”

           Jaskier nodded, flopping down besides Geralt. “That’s how I feel too about it. You hear this piece sometimes, and, I can’t even describe it but your entire soul is lifted up, and you just start to drown in it, but you don’t even mind, you want to be further enveloped, further dragged in. That’s what true music can do. Cast a spell without magic.” Geralt turned to look at Jaskier, who himself was staring into the fireplace. “One day I’ll do something like that.” He continued, his eyes warm and full of determination. “I’ll create something like that.”

           “I think you already have.” Geralt said, and Jaskier turned to smile at the Witcher.

           “Truly?”

           “Yes. I think, well, I’ve seen how people react to your music. Even those in the shittiest taverns in the shittiest towns. They seem, almost younger, as if their cares have lifted.” Jaskier’s smiled widened, and he pressed a kiss to Geralt’s jaw.

           “Thank you my dea, you have no idea how much that means to me.” Standing up, Jaskier reached out his hand and helped pull Geralt up. “Now be a darling and help wash this dirk, I know that you have your fancy way of cleaning these blades of yours. Then come to bed, it’s late, and I’ll chase away the spirits of the forest.” He laughed at Geralt’s expression. “What? You think I didn’t notice? That last piece seemed to send you out of your skin! And even before that idiotic attempted attack you look ready to throw yourself in front of everything.”

           “Cruel of you to notice.” Geralt replied, and Jaskier laughed.

           “Well then I must be cruel indeed, for I notice everything about you.” He kissed Geralt softly then, and the Witcher felt the familiar feeling of love and contentment wash over him, something he never thought he’d be able to feel in his younger years.

           “There’s nothing cruel about you. Even if you’re wicked with a knife.” And, returning the kiss, Geralt went quickly to take the dirk and wash it off, the music of the evening still in his head and the love for his current life in his heart.

End Notes: For all the music nerds out there, I know that these would all be considered songs rather than pieces, one of these are based off a full symphony, and another based off a string quartet, but seeing as I don't think Geralt would use such terminology, indeed most of said terminology didn't exist in the 13th/14th century, which is the time period I would put this series into the real world, I chose to refer to pieces as songs, composers as songwriters, and make vague mentions of most instruments.

String instruments such as violins, violas, and cello originate from the 16th century, most likely around the 1530s. I took creative liberties again, after all this is a fantasy series.The pieces that are vaguely referenced are as follows: The Lark Ascending by Ralph Vaughan Williams, Dvorak Symphony No. 9 "from the New World", Dvorak String Quartet 12 "American", Rhapsody in Blue by George Gershwin, and Erlkonig originally by Schubert for piano and voice, adapted for solo violin by Heinrich William Ernst and based off a poem by Goethe. The last one is my personal favorite of the lineup and I would highly recommend checking out both the piano and voice lieder and the violin solo (Hilary Hahn's my favorite).

Hope any of you found this enlightening and once again thank you for reading.

[athingthatwantsvirginia]

As in Debbie Harry

PART FOURTEEN OF THE DO YOU SEE HER FACE? SERIES

Pairing: Jess Mariano x Original Character (Ella Stevens)

Warnings: implied sexy times, plentiful pop culture references

Word Count: 4.2K

Summary: Jess and Ella have a frank discussion, then go see a live performance of some angry music.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Gilmore Girls is often a very sex-negative show. There are many examples of the sex-negative narrative through the series, such as when Lorelai implies Paris is “the bad kid” for losing her virginity, or when Lane gets pregnant with twins the first time she has sex with Zach. In “Keg! Max!” Jess tries to pressure Rory into having sex while in a bedroom upstairs during Kyle’s party. In my opinion, that scene seemed a very clumsy (and, honestly, out of character) attempt to convey Jess’s inward situation outwardly without using words. It is a very difficult scene to watch and it is Jess’s worst moment in the whole series by far. With this chapter of my AU, I am in no way trying to trivialize that scene or be an apologist for that kind of behavior. It’s unacceptable in every way. Consent is extremely important, and should be clearly given by everyone involved each time they have sex.

Instead, I wanted to create a more positive representation of teen sex. Sex is a normal part of life, and people should not be shamed for having it. I wanted the conversation between Jess and Eleanor to be realistic and beneficial. And I wanted the morning after to be positive too. I wanted it to be clear that they both gave consent during the initial conversation and right before they actually had sex (because giving consent once does not mean giving consent forever). I wanted them to be safe and comfortable. I wanted them to make an effort to communicate with each other. Also, I personally think the show has a detrimental attitude towards virginity, especially considering how much slut-shaming there is, the incident with Paris being only one example. Virginity, in my view, is just a social construct, but that’s a conversation for another time.

In my AU, Jess does not pressure anyone into sex, and he never would. It’s monumentally problematic of Gilmore Girls to brush off the incident in “Keg! Max!” the way it does, so I wanted to make sure I addressed it before any sex happened in this story. It’s important to recognize problems in our favorite content and learn from them. So, I hope this chapter sends a better message about teenage sex and consent. And I hope I got my ideas across in this note. Please feel free to message me any time if you are going through something, want to talk, or anything else. I am always here. You can learn more about consent and find resources for sexual assault survivors here.

Legs crossed, warming both her hands with the to-go cup of tea from Luke’s, Ella listened intently as Lane gushed about Dave Rygalski. They sat in the gazebo, school bags forgotten on the old wood below them. Stars Hollow High was finally closed for fall break, a whole week off to celebrate Thanksgiving and prepare for the odd, torturous month until the sweet release of winter break as well. Lane was thinking out loud, trying to formulate a plan to get Dave to her house on Thanksgiving. Schemes involving classical Biblical guitar and stuffy outfits were being discussed when Rory finally arrived from the bus stop, binders in her hand and her Chilton skirt hitting her knees as she walked.

“Ah, if it isn’t my favorite Catholic school girl!” Ella called as Rory ascended the steps.

Rory scoffed. “It wasn’t funny two years ago, and it’s not funny now.”

“Humor is subjective.”

“Not in this case. You’ve reached an objective lack of humor.”

“Hey, not even Rory Gilmore can bend such universal rules,” Ella shrugged, smirking. Rolling her eyes, Rory plopped down between her two friends and blew out a tired breath, a tight squeeze on the small bench.

“Man, that boyfriend of yours is a bad influence. The heightened snark makes the two of you such a sorry lot,” Lane said.

Ella’s wicked grin only widened. “The snark existed well before Jess came along. I think it’s more my old age that’s making me bitter.” She paused, taking another sip. “Really Rory, I could paint your shoes. Your mom could hem your skirt. I think it’s time to make waves in the antiquated dress code community.”

“Expulsion’s just what I need six months before graduation,” Rory grumbled, digging around in her yellow backpack for her pager. There were fourteen messages from Dean. She let out a frustrated growl.

“Dirk Squarejaw again?” Ella asked, sympathetic.

Nodding, Rory sighed and put her head to Ella’s shoulder. “He just won’t shut up about that kiss with Tristan. I swear this all would’ve been easier if he’d ended up actually going to military school.”

“What do you say we throw off our men and just ride off together, Thelma?” Ella said, uttering a dreamy exhale.

“If only, Louise.”

Clearing her throat, Lane nudged Rory with an elbow and raised offended eyebrows.

“And, once you snag Dave, you’ll be part of the feminist killjoy club, too,” Ella said pointedly, smirking.

“You’ve been listening to too much Bikini Kill,” Lane said, cracking a smile.

“No such thing,” Ella retorted. “Revolution girl style now, baby.”

The three of them descended into a sprawling conversation of Thanksgiving plans, along with a rather colorful anecdote involving Rory’s Chilton frenemy Paris. No matter how exuberant she sounded, Ella couldn’t help but think she would get along well with Ms. Geller. A pleasant tingling had spread within Ella since leaving school, the bell finally chiming in seventh period trigonometry. The feeling always came along with breaks, and it was nice to be with Rory and Lane, chatting in their familiar, breezy way. Everyone was growing older, getting busier, getting boyfriends; it was rare the three musketeers got a true moment to themselves. Eventually, Lane had to go to Bible study, eager to get in good graces with her mother, to allow Dave to provide a musical holiday accompaniment.

Autumn brought early nightfall, and the light was just beginning to wane when a decrepit AMC Ambassador screeched to a halt in front of the diner. And Ella found herself not even surprised when Jess stepped out of the driver’s side, the keyring around his finger. A smirk crossed her lips and she scoffed a little, looking over at Rory, who shot her a suspicious glance.

“He’s back behind the wheel, huh?” Rory asked.

Ella’s face fell a little. “Oh, jeez, I’m sorry-”

Waving a dismissive hand, Rory only shrugged. “That accident wasn’t his fault.”

Letting out a breath of relief, Ella gave Rory a side-hug and another grin. “You’re the best, Gilmore.”

“Second only to you, Ella.”

Glancing over at Jess, Ella rolled her eyes. He leaned against the car, gazing at her. His hands shoved in his pockets, hair gelled up, a leather jacket over his Clash t-shirt. A blush almost rose to her face at the sight of him, but she bit the inside of her cheek and smirked wider instead.

“You need something, Mariano?” she called smugly, and Rory chuckled at her side.

Jess shrugged. “Just didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Oh, how polite of you,” she shot back, then looked over at Rory in askance. The brunette nodded and gave her one last hug.

“Lunch tomorrow?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Ella replied, gathering up her stuff and shaking her head in disbelief as she approached the car, and the boy next to it. “Where’d you get the rust bucket, Mariano?”

“Whatever, soccer mom,” he retorted.

She narrowed her eyes at the insult to her station wagon. “You’re on thin ice. Where’d you even find this?”

“Gypsy sold it to me. Not so pretty, but I got a good deal.”

She nodded, placing her hands on the back of his neck and lacing her fingers together. His arms came to rest around her waist. Ella glanced back around him to the car. “Ah, I wouldn’t write her off too quick. She’s got good bones.”

“Wait to look on the bright side, blondie,” he said, kissing her cheek.

“As in my hair or as in Debbie Harry?” she asked, expectant. “There is a right answer.”

Jess snorted. “Debbie Harry. How could you even ask?”

“Just checking,” she smiled, pressing her lips to his. For a moment, she was caught up, and the kiss deepened. But then she remembered they were still standing in the center of town, and she pulled away as her cheeks heated up.

Jess chuckled at her blush as she took a step back and cleared her throat, running a hand through her loose hair self-consciously.

“Shut up, James Dean” she warned playfully, narrowing her eyes. “With this car? I think you’ve reached caricature status in public opinion.”

“Don’t type-cast me.”

She continued despite his mock defense, ruffling his gelled mess of waves. “You’ve even got the hair to match.”

Rolling his eyes, he swatted her hand away and pouted, trying to fix his look. “Just for that, I’m not letting you pick the music. And I’m not telling you what we’re doing for our surprise date tomorrow night.”

“What? I wasn’t aware the stakes were so high!”

Jess rolled his eyes again.

Before she could do any more damage to his cool exterior, he retreated back into his driver’s seat. Laughing wickedly, she came around to the passenger side and threw her bag in the back.

“I think it’d be perfectly fine for the date not to be a surprise. Where are we going?” she asked, hoping to lure it out of him.

“Somewhere,” he replied flatly, not phased.

Smiling wider at his secrecy, she threw a glance at the diner over her shoulder as he rolled away from town center. Punk blasted through the radio, and she turned it down just slightly so they could hear each other. Jess shot her a teasing glare, but said nothing about it.

“Y’know,” she said, “I’ve worked at Luke’s for three years and in all that time combined I didn’t make enough money to buy a car.”

“And what are you implying?” he asked, feigning innocence.

Ella only scoffed, taking his free hand in hers. She could feel the scar, where they’d pulled out the stitches.

.   .   .

Nowhere. It had been a long drive to nowhere in his car. But, Ella supposed, nowhere could be a kind of somewhere, anywhere. Eventually, though, they’d made it to Hartford and Jess turned back. The frigid sky was darkening to a deep, late autumn blue, and Luke was adding him to a Saturday night at the diner every time he came home past midnight. Upon arriving back in Stars Hollow, it was around ten, the shops were closed, but Jess didn’t want their time to end. Away from town, he felt lighter, easier. Everyone wasn’t watching him. Ella wasn’t the doe-eyed princess like Rory, and she didn’t have overbearing parents like Lane, but the townspeople still looked at him with plenty suspicious eyes when they walked hand-in-hand out in public.

Instead of Luke’s, where watchful figures persisted, they landed in Ella’s bedroom. He felt his muscles relax at the scent of lavender, sitting on her bed and leaning his back against the muraled wall. She laid next to him, shoes off but still fully clothed, atop the knit blanket. Joni Mitchell played a mournful tune over her turntable. Her candles were alight, and Jess would have felt sleepy if it weren’t for the book in his hands. Jess devoured A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, another gloomy tale (shocking) Ella had given him. She said she always read it around Christmastime, and he was beginning to see at least once reason for her Grinchy tendencies. And Ella held Anna Karenina in front of her. It was not her first foray into the Russians, but she had never been too thrilled with them. Jess seemed to believe this one would win her over. A few chapters in, and she doubted it.

“Jess?” she asked as the clock ticked nearer to eleven.

“Hm?”

“Are we gonna have sex?”

Choking for a second in surprise, Jess cleared his throat. He scoffed out a chuckle. “What, like, now?”

Ella laughed, shoving his arm playfully. She sat up and faced him, flushed and anxious, though her voice was even. “No. For one, my dad’s still awake. But, I just mean...we do pretty much everything up to having sex, but we’ve never had sex. We’ve been together for almost three months. I just figured we should talk about it.”

Shutting his book, Jess crossed his arms over his chest. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a talent for subtlety?”

She rolled her eyes. “My bluntness is at least half my charm.”

“‘Charm’ is a pretty strong word.”

Launching a teasing pillow at his face, Ella giggled. “I’m trying to be serious here, Mariano.”

“Okay, sorry. Go on.”

“Okay. So...sex.”

He bit his lip to fight off a smirk. “Yes?”

“Well, have you had sex?” she asked.

“Yeah. There was one girl back in New York. Tara. She was nice, I guess. But it wasn’t a Nora Ephron type deal or anything.”

“You like Nora Ephron?” she interrupted, brows furrowed. Not incredulous, only perplexed.

He narrowed his eyes momentarily but ignored the interjection. “I dated her when I was a freshman and then she moved to Albany. Then, your best friend Shane-”

“Fuck off.”

“Not a chance. But, the answer is yes.” Then, after a pause, he furrowed his brows. It occurred to him what a gray area that part of her past was to him. “Have you?”

She nodded. “Hm-mm. A couple times.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling shyly at the way he tilted his head. There was no judgement in his voice. “Right after my mom died, I went to a couple parties...Well, not parties. They were more like get-togethers. Anyway, I got super stoned. This kid Brian smoked with me and we just sorta…did it. There were a couple more parties that year. Rinse. Repeat. Eventually, I started working more and just stopped going.”

“And you never-”

“No, never got together with him,” she answered before he even had to ask. “I never had a ‘relationship’ with anyone. Never had sex with anyone else. It was a good thing, though, I think. Being with him. At the time, I felt so shitty. For just a little while, it made me feel better. He’s a nice kid. Plays for the marching band. Sometimes sex is just sex, y’know?”

“Yeah, sometimes,” Jess agreed. “But...with us?”

Running a hand through her hair, Ella felt her insides flutter at the look he gave her. It was almost….open? Not quite, but almost. “Well, do you wanna have sex with me?”

Swallowing dryly, Jess nodded and hoped he didn’t appear as flustered as he felt. “Yeah. Yeah, I do...Do you wanna have sex with me?”

“Yeah,” she said, nodding casually. It felt odd, talking so frankly with him. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. In fact, it was exciting. Would it feel different with a boyfriend? She bet it would.

He cleared his throat, doing his best to hold her hazel gaze. “Good, then. That’s good.”

“I think it is, yeah.”

Bringing a hand to his shoulder, she pulled him in for a short, sweet kiss. And Jess’s heart felt light, relieved. Sometimes, Ella was challenging, she was complicated. But, when it was just the two of them, without all the noise which surrounded their daily lives, it was just so easy. And he could remember no other person he’d ever felt so at home with, who understood him so completely. And when she pulled away, he could still feel the ghost of her lips on his own.

“Alright, I’ve got to finish this chapter,” she said, grabbing her book again and shifting next to him, her back against the mural and her head coming to rest on his shoulder. When she cracked open the pages to her marked place, Jess following suit, she sighed. “This book is excruciating. Why would anyone read this recreationally?”

“You really wanna talk excruciating, Stevens?” he wagered, eyebrows raised as he looked down at her. “Need I remind you of Finnegan’s Wake? And don’t even get me started on this so-called Christmas book.”

“It is a Christmas book,” she argued, gesturing down to the Betty Smith novel in his hands.

Jess shook his head. “Just because Christmas happens in a story doesn’t make it a Christmas story. This is the Godfather debate all over again.”

She sighed once more. “You're never gonna convince me The Godfather isn’t a Christmas movie. Give it up, James Dean.”

“Only like fifteen minutes of that movie takes place at Christmas, my god, how many times-”

.   .   .

Just before official closing, Luke came back from Doose’s with supplies for Thanksgiving to stock the back room. The diner was to stay open on Thursday, and Luke would feed traditional turkey dinner to whoever stepped through the door. The past two years, Ella had worked all day, eating with Luke, Lorelai, and Rory during down times. The year before, she’d also gone to her aunt’s house following her shift to see the kids. But, with Fiona moved in and engaged to her father, the obligations had changed drastically. She was still working the morning shift, but was due home no later than two. Her older brother was coming, along with her aunt, her aunt’s husband, and her nieces.

Cleaning the counter with lemony disinfectant, she watched her boss trudge through the diner with heavy bags to the stockroom. Luke declined her offer to help carry things, as she had known he would. Instead, she was to keep closing.  The clock ticked rhythmically on the wall, and the anxiety for the approaching holiday mixed in her stomach with excitement and pleasant nerves for what the evening was to hold. Jess had slipped out the door around lunch time with the blue vest in the pocket of his leather jacket, telling her he’d be back around nine. And he still wouldn’t budge and tell her where they were going for their ‘secret date.’ But it wasn’t as though she didn’t know why. He hadn’t been able to treat her during their first date, and every date since had been more of a casual hang-out, or a mutually-arranged affair. He still wanted to show her what was, in his opinion, the first date she deserved. So, she wouldn’t argue too much. When the bell over the door sounded, Ella smirked before she even looked up to see him.

“Ready to spill your guts, James Dean?” she asked immediately as he came and sat at the counter in front of her.

Jess scoffed. “Eager much?”

“Jackass much?”

He rolled his eyes. “Are you almost done?”

Nodding, Ella threw the rag in her hand into the dirty bin below the counter. She could hear Luke rummaging around in the back still.

“Hey Luke?” she called.

He came out with his hands on his hips, baseball cap in its rightful place as always. “Yeah?”

“I’m finished out here. Alright if I clock out?” she asked.

Luke eyed his nephew suspiciously, who looked back at him with his usual smug smirk. “Only if Walmart’s favorite stock boy doesn’t keep you out too late.”

The expression fell on Jess’s face and was replaced with furrowed brows, mouth set in a thin line. He’d managed quite a many few months keeping the secret from Luke, until he’d got his car. It was only after Luke accused him of prostitution that he finally came clean. And the teasing had been relentless ever since.

“Don’t worry,” Ella said, smiling as she went to the kitchen to clock out and hang her apron.

With Ella out of the room, Luke pointed a finger at his nephew and took on an accusatory stance. “No drinking, no smoking, no-”

“No drugs, no five-dollar street corner sex, I got it,” Jess interrupted begrudgingly.

Luke grunted in annoyance and rolled his eyes, but said nothing more as he went around to the cash register and started to close it out. Emerging from the back, Ella smoothed her hands over her simple black dress, then pulled her sleeves down over her hands nervously. Suddenly, she wondered if she wasn’t dressed for wherever they were going. She wished she had asked earlier.

“Okay, time to spit it out,” she said, rounding the corner of the counter and grabbing his hand to pull him up. They walked towards the door and she donned her peacoat, taking her shoulder bag, emptier than normal without all the school contents.

Jess smirked. “But what if a blindfold is part of the plan?”

“No fucking way.”

“Hey!” Luke piped up from the register at her language. The attempt at scolding was half-hearted, though.

Rolling her eyes with good nature, Ella followed Jess out the door. “Sorry. Night, boss.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Luke said with a small smile, waving a dismissive hand at the two kids.

Once outside, Ella could see her breath in the night and she was glad she’d worn her thick black tights. Her Doc Martens crunched the orangey piles of dry leaves noisily as they descended the front steps and made their way across the street to Jess’s car. Before they could get in, though, Jess stopped in his tracks and turned to her, leaning against the car doors.

“I’m waiting,” she teased, eyebrows raised impatiently.

After reaching in his pocket momentarily, Jess went to tuck a strand of hair which had fallen from her low bun behind her ear. Then, he revealed a set of ear plugs in his hand, and Ella’s brow furrowed though her smile widened in nostalgia.

“What’s up, Houdini?”

“Figured you might need these. Since we’re going to see the Distillers and all.”

“Are we?” she asked, taking the earplugs from him.

Nodding, Jess brought the tickets from his pocket and held them up for her to see. She broke out in a grin.

“Not bad, Mariano.”

“Yeah, I know you’re more into melancholia, but you were listening to my CD the other week. So, when I saw they were coming to Harford, I figured...” he trailed off humbly, shrugging. “And we’ve been together almost three months and I still haven’t seen those famous Eleanor Stevens dance moves.”

She chuckled, flushing slightly. He could smell her rosemary scent as she leaned closer and rested her hands on the back of his neck. “Don’t know if you’re ready for that. They’re deadly.”

“In more ways than one I’ve heard,” he quipped.

“Shut up,” she said. “This is awesome, Jess. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

And she brought him in for a kiss, smiling into it. Jess could feel his shoulders release their tension. He hadn’t known if she’d be happy. They were one of his favorite bands, and he’d heard rumors of their coming to town when she’d chosen them as her angry music weeks earlier. Though he wasn’t big on signs, he thought maybe the universe was telling him to share the experience with her. Let her in. It didn’t make him any less nervous, though. It was always there in the back of her mind, that worry she would realize what everyone else in the town already had. That he wasn’t good enough for her. But as he felt her hands in his hair, warmed by her touch in the cold November air, he couldn’t help but forget his fears for just a moment.

.   .   .

Mid-morning light streamed through the small window into Ella’s cramped bedroom. Her cacti sat on the dresser, soaking up the sunshine, as Jess and Ella slept soundly on the mattress. Wearing a big KISS t-shirt, Ella turned over in her sleep and faced Jess, his arm draped over her tightening slightly. A shirtless Jess lay beneath the whitish blanket next to her, snoring softly. His jeans and t-shirt were strewn near the bed, along with Ella’s dress. Still pumped full of adrenaline after the concert, Ella had crept through the house the night before to make sure everyone was asleep, then snuck Jess through her window. And their first time together was even better than she’d imagined. Sweet and a little awkward and wonderful, reminding her almost of their first kiss months before. And, afterwards, they’d stayed up talking for hours, with a fair amount of teasing from Jess over the t-shirt she’d decided to wear to bed. KISS was perhaps her biggest guilty pleasure.

Upon a soft knocking on Ella’s creaky white door, Jess began to stir. He cleared his throat and rubbed at his tired eyes before fully waking, becoming aware of his surroundings. Then, a voice came from the hallway outside.

“Ella? Fiona wants to take us to Doose’s to get Thanksgiving stuff!”

Sitting up slightly, Jess saw Ella was still deep asleep.

“Elle? Wake up,” he said, shaking her shoulder gently. It took at least thirty seconds before her eyes finally fluttered open.

“Hm?”

“You gotta wake up. Someone’s at your door,” he said quietly, hastily. Another knock sounded on the wood, and Jess glanced up, biting his lip.

Taking in a sharp breath, Ella nodded and her hazy eyes blinked harshly awake. The knocking on the door was persistent now, and her brother called her name a couple more times. She gestured for Jess to move to the corner near the dresser, out of view of the door, as she rushed over to open it. Poking her head out, she kept the door almost shut so only her face could be seen.

“God, Adam, knock louder, would you?” she snapped tiredly.

Adam took a step back at her irritated tone, squinting behind his glasses at her behavior. “It’s not my fault you’re too lazy to get up on time.”

“Didn’t realize we had an appointment scheduled,” Ella shrugged, trying to make her tone lighter.

Shrugging back, Adam began to walk off. “We’re leaving for Doose’s in fifteen.”

“Fine,” she grumbled, shutting the door loudly as he walked away.

“Wow, you’re not a morning person,” Jess remarked, a sardonic twinkle in his eye as he spoke from behind her. When she looked back, he was almost fully dressed already, buckling up his belt. “I gotta get back. Luke’s gonna be pissed.”

“Oh, fuck, you’re right,” Ella sighed, running a hand through her messy locks. She didn’t know why she hadn’t thought about it sooner. Sometimes Jess seemed so independent, so out on his own, she forgot how much Luke had invested in taking care of him.

Jess only shrugged. “My fault. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I’ll tell him I was reading at the lake and just dozed off.”

“You don’t have to do that,” she said immediately, shaking her head.

He came over to her and put an arm around her waist, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “It’s fine. He’ll be less mad at both of us. Win-win.”

“You think he’ll buy it?” she asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“I have my ways.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, whatever, James Dean.”

Chuckling, he pecked her lips and took one long look at her. Before he could help it, or worry about feeling stupid, he smiled down at her. Crooked and sincere. And Ella smiled back.

“I had a good time,” she said.

Jess nodded in agreement. “Me too. The best of times.”

Sighing lightly, she rolled her eyes. “How do you always manage to bring up Dickens?”

“It’s a gift and a curse.”

And even after he pressed one final kiss to her lips, disappearing out the window and down the street, she couldn’t seem to wipe the smile off her face.

[jkl-fff]

Blood & Aether

Who wants to see an excerpt from the novel I’m working on?    (illustrated magnificently by my good friend     and probable man-selkie @tysonoffire​) With luck, I’ll finish it before summer’s end.

Here’s part 1 of 3:

Here’s the text itself: Despite the warmth, Bastion wore his cloak as he strolled towards the lakeside grove. And he leaned heavily on his cane, too, not wanting to give any appearance of flight nor fright. He was just a doddering, old man taking a serenely oblivious promenade into a secluded area—nothing and nobody worthy of being feared, nothing and nobody difficult to subdue. If he could trick her into believing that …

Soon, trees screened the town wall completely from sight behind him, while bosky islets and undulating waterrises screened the far-off boaters from sight, too. Sounds became muffled that weren’t immediately close. Not ten feet to the side, Loch Scahan lapped against the rocky, rooted bank. It was as ideal—as isolated—a location to confront her as Bastion could wish for. Even if she came with lackeys, it would still be ideal, though he hoped he was right she would want to interrogate him herself once she caught up to him.

“Whenever that shall be,” he murmured to himself. He slowed his cane-hobbling pace, like a tired, doddering, old man taking care where he stepped. “Come now … Come n—”

“Dinnae ye think that’s far enough, Master Ecrivur?” she suddenly called out.

Bastion glanced back. There she was, some fifty feet back, with an unsheathed dirk in her hand and an affable smile on her face. She was alone, too, as far as he could tell. He half turned and said, “Why, Dame Runda! What brings Your Ladyship all the way out here?”

“Ye missed our appointment. Which filled me with—heh!—disappointment, I must sa—”

“What? My apologies, but I must confess I be a little deaf!”

Surprised, she took a few steps closer. Forty feet. “I said ye missed our appointment.”

Bastion leaned nearer on one hand, using his cane as a support. His other hand was hidden now within a fold of his cloak. “You say you brought me some ointment? Very kind, but you didn’t have to come all this way to do that. Your Ladyship could have sent it by the post.”

Exasperated, she took a few more steps. Thirty feet. “Nae, our appointment!”

Beneath the cover of his cloak, he drew a small pencilknife from a sheath on his belt, then carefully turned it so that he held it by the blade. The edge was against his palm now, cold and razor thin. He made himself squeeze down. “What? Could Your Ladyship speak up, please?”

Annoyed, she took a few more steps. Twenty feet. Finally close enough. “Mater Ecrivur, I dinnae ken what game ye think ye’re playing, but—”

Warm blood was trickling through his fingers. He let the pencilknife fall to the ground and passed his cane over to that hand in one quick movement, pressing his wound directly onto the gaudy-looking stone at the crux of its T-handle. His eyes were already shut in concentration.

“—my patience is fast nearing … What are ye doin—Gah!”

The stone blazed as brightly as a torch and as whitely as alabaster at purposeful contact with Bastion’s blood. Before him in the air, glowing the luminous blue shades of Water-Aether, a glyph took form at the speed of deliberate thought. Although comprised of symbols few apart from him could understand, the glyph’s total meaning was clear in his mind: much-water surge to-where my four-fingers-pressed-together point, ice form instantly at-where my full-fist points. It took little more than a second to compose the spell, less than another second for him to seal it by thrusting his bloody palm into the glyph. Aether, catalyzed and channeled through the mana in his blood, now shimmered like sunlight on choppy water.

“What fresh Abyss is this?!”

He opened his eyes and allowed himself one smile. Then, before Dame Runda could attempt to charge or to retreat, he pressed his fingers together in a flat hand position and swung it from the lake to a nearby tree. A great surge of water spouted out along the path he indicated, roiling white like river rapids! It struck her hard midway, swept her off her feet! A second time with his other hand, and then a third that ended in a hard point! She was slammed against the tree and pressed against it, unable to escape the force of the standing surge he commanded! Then, with his other hand, he made a fist at her, and the surge rapidly froze around her—a binding made of solid ice; only her head was left uncovered.

Bastion parted his fingers, but didn’t dismiss the spell; the luminescent glyph remained before him, and all unfrozen water fell to the ground. His hand continued to bleed slowly, too, but every drop was floating into the glyph … Not a problem he needed to worry about now. Instead, he replaced his pencilknife in its sheath, took his cane in his uninjured hand, and then resolutely approached the trapped retainer. There was no trace of the doddering, old man from before in his demeanor, no faltering in his feet nor his eyes.

And yet, Dame Runda chuckled to herself. “Ohohohooo … my stars … Oh, my stars …”

“Your Ladyship does not have long before hypothermia sets in and you freeze to death,” he briskly informed her.

[bladekindeyewear]

Boots Reads Homestuck Epilogue(s) Part 13 - Candy Page 23

==>

This is going well, despite all the weirdness... it might not be so bad by the time I get to the end of all this.  Maybe my stomach can stop clenching as much from the Meat poisoning.

Then again, that’s what I thought when I was up to four-fifths through Meat and thought things were going to be resolved before the end.

So.

Anyway.  Reading.

In fact, all she did was tip her head at him and blink a few times, her long eyelashes catching the light, making her eyes look like mirrors. It was disconcerting for reasons that he couldn’t put his finger on. It’s not like Roxy had ever been argumentative, exactly. He just seems to remember someone from his youth who was somewhat more contrarian in spirit than this person he’s married to now.

God damnit... hypnotized, basically dead Roxy is worst Roxy.  I need that fucking explanation soon.

If she doesn’t get upset after what he’s about to pull today, then...

John doesn’t know what he’ll do.

Gosh that’s horrible.  I wish I didn’t have to go back to Meat if I ever wanted any more Real Roxy again... please, PLEASE, if NOTHING ELSE gets fixed in this stupid fucking Candy arc, PLEASE HAVE ROXY BACK TO NORMAL BEFORE THE END

That... that would be just the fucking icing on the cake, wouldn’t it?  I was already upset about Dirk not getting his due.  I was traumatized over how Jane, Jade, and Rose were left.  But ROXY was fine.  Roxy, pretty much my favorite character next to maybe Jade, or a good number of the others.  If this timeline gives me an alternate cliffhanger to lean on that spares the others to leave HER to shit, then I’d basically be left with nothing to stand on!  It’d be fucking worthless almost.

My stomach isn’t clenching YET, but I’m starting to fill with dread.

JOHN: harry anderson, don’t tell your mother but... JOHN: we’re getting a new addition to the family today!

Pfffff

serious kidnapping

And who said John was just a blank slate with no will of his own?? Fuck you, Dirk.  You knew about this timeline and you STILL said it.

Dave and Jade materialize behind everyone, he in a pressed red suit, she in a glittering Space dress. They’re both holding gifts wrapped in spare printer paper.

Look, you two looking cute is just rubbing salt in the wound of the relationship you fucked over, Jade.  You should have waited to make sure Dave and Karkat FINALLY ACCEPTED THEIR FUCKING RELATIONSHIP before moving in and potentially pushing one of them out, WHICH HAPPENED.

Oooh, smart human babby Tavvy.  ...He isn’t going to want to leave his family situation, is he.  John’s off the mark isn’t he.

Dave ruffles Harry Anderson’s hair. It’s nice that Dave is so woke and great with kids, but that really does invite the question of why he and Jade don’t have any yet. There’s still something sad and wistful about Dave at the moment, as he pointedly avoids letting Jade take his hand while they’re led into the game room.

GAAAAHHHHH

Could we at least BE ALLOWED TO PRETEND THERE’S A POSSIBLE FUTURE WHERE THESE PEOPLE’S RELATIONSHIPS ARENT THOROUGHLY FUCKING MESSED UP?????

I KNOW THESE CHARACTERS ARE MESSED UP BUT YOU HAVE TO AT LEAST GIVE US HOPE

AND WHERE’S THE HAPPY POTENTIAL PAIRING FOR JADE??? IT SEEMS LIKE THERE’S NO POTENTIAL FOR REAL MUTUAL HAPPINESS FOR HER BESIDES JADE X COMA!!!!!!!!!!

X(

God damn it Jane can be creepy.

She gained his affection the same way she gains everyone’s affection: she fucking bought it.

UUuuuuuuggghhhhh

...pff stars vs enemies of the state

John, stop making this so stranger-danger.

JOHN: are you ACTUALLY happy about it? JOHN: about... everything going on here? TAVROS: I suppose,,, TAVROS: My mother tends to get displeased when i’m unhappy, so,,,

uuuugughghghuhh

TAVROS: It just seems like a thing that would eventually happen to me, does it not?

D:

Oh wow, callback to Dirkbro abuse.  THAT’S gonna set John off.

Oh wow, Tavros knows his situation is bad enough that he’s willing to GO for it. All he’s worried about is the security.  YEAH John!!  Do your Breathy thing and get him out of here!!!

Tavros takes in a sharp breath before spinning on his heel and stumbling toward his closet. John catches the ghost of a smile on his face before he turns and that’s all it takes to turn the pounding of his heart from terrified to thrilled.

AAaaaaAAAAAH THIS IS ADORABLE SOMEHOW

She twitches her dog-ears and raises her face. Her mouth is a neutral line, but her eyes are burning furiously.

OH NOOOOOOO

FUCK, Jade don’t stop it!!! She’s... she’s gonna put her foot down and stop this just so everything can be all candy-coated and good on the SURFACE without hurting people OPENLY even if she and Jane and all the others are DEEPLY hurting everyone else under the surface!!!! D:

JOHN: jade, i don’t know where you’ve been these past few years, but i don’t think things CAN get any worse!

Yes exactly

JOHN: but there isn’t one, because everyone’s been all... brainwashed by marriage, or whatever the hell happened over the last few years that made things be this way!

Hmmmmmm

JOHN: well, you’re nothing like the jade i used to know either!

D:

Alright, huge blowup. Let’s air out some feelings.

JANE: I let go! I was actually RELIEVED to hear he died!!! ROXY: uhh ROXY: janey wut

HAhahahaah YES let’s get all that dirty laundry OUT IN THE OPEN

......Okay that didn’t end as well as expected.  Or... well I guess I KNEW it wouldn’t end well, but I’d hoped otherwise.

==>

Wait, so Terezi and John’s conversation is “in the dream bubbles”? Is that just because he’s talking to her while she’s skirting the edge of the storm in the Void rocketways, or because John’s from a somehow doomed/irrelevant/side timeline?

(Why does Terezi always have to be dying.  She figured herself out and how awesome she is.  Stop dying.  And I don’t mean like the sad walking off in Meat, though I guess that kind of counts.)

JOHN: if she cared about you as much as you care about her, she wouldn’t have fucked off like this forever.

YES JOHN

LAY

ON

THE

TRUTH

(Ghost!Vriska is the only one who really deserves to matter anymore.  This “alpha” Vriska just sank deeper into her problems and delusions beyond being able to really redeem herself or recognize them.  That diatribe she gave her ghost self was horrible back when.)

Wait, wait hold on

JOHN: if she cared about you as much as you care about her, she wouldn’t have fucked off like this forever. JOHN: driving you crazy with doubt and uncertainty, making you chase her through infinite nothingness until you almost starve to death... JOHN: she would have at least given you the courtesy of closure!

Is... is Andrew talking about the comic here and his relationship with the readers

is this some sort of apology for not giving this closure, like, as if he were the vriska that launched himself into the sun over his own artistic ideals or

hmm

JADE: doomed is not a word i would use to describe the condition of those on this world. JADE: even if my work is unsuccessful, the stakes for everyone here have nothing to do with the issue of mortality. JADE: to frame the matter that way would be misleading. JADE: to the extent that it is my naturally endowed duty to defend the innocent from wanton acts of destruction, from degradation and dissolution, JADE: it is also my duty to tell the truth to those i protect. JADE: and the simplest statement of truth for all of you to know is this: JADE: we are the lucky ones.

Calliope lets out a long, thin sigh from between the teeth of Jade’s corpse. It’s more for effect than anything, as corpses don’t actually need to breathe.

JADE: we are the ones fortunate enough to live in a reality that is beyond the influence of the prince.

Geez, it’s like escape from Lord English’s influence all over again.

They won only for everything to just fucking start over, everything they struggled to stop?  That sucks!!!  >:(

Anyway, still reading... god damnit Terezi don’t fly off and die for no fucking reason.

JOHN: then what DID you want?! TEREZI: L3TS S4Y... TEREZI: 1 JUST W4NT3D TO G1V3 YOU TH3 COURT3SY OF CLOSUR3

Fuck.  Yeah, let’s just keep fucking over Terezi, another one of my favorite characters.  Yes she lives and goes to fuck off somewhere in Meat with the villain of the week, but FUCK, couldn’t we get a SLIGHTLY clearer picture of her potential happiness than just THAT?????

It’s like the whole purpose of these epilogues was just to remind us that these characters were too fucked up to ever be happy!!!!

Couldn’t we have at least been left to IMAGINE OTHERWISE?!?????

JADE: not until i am able to deal with the prince myself. ARADIA: and when will that be

The meteor is passing beyond the fall of night. Dead-Jade, standing half in light, half in darkness, looks up at the sky.

JADE: not soon enough.

Ahh.  I’m getting an idea of the Postscript’s circumstances, then.  That was alt!Callie in this black-hole-powered Jade body going from THIS Candy timeline to go chase after Dirk and help stop him like everyone else, giving her a more powerful card to play than just the adult Jade she was having guide the others. (Maybe she could have that adult Jade FUCKING WAKE UP AND ABLE TO HELP instead of keeping her in a coma. That would be a pretty fucking nice change of pace.  Too bad we have to just IMAGINE IT without any reassurance that she’ll be awake or okay for YEARS TO COME, HUH.)

Also that means that resistance fighting is gonna break out with artillery and stuff because Jane is apparently a dunpass in both timelines.  Fuck.

==>

Swifer, can you stop swifing?

KARKAT: HOW THE HELL DO YOU TWO TOLERATE EACH OTHER? KANAYA: Quite Thoroughly Enthusiastically And Often

Pffffff :D

...Oh my God MEENAH landed here???  All ring-of-lifeways from the other timeline?  I guess the Furthest Ring was outside the scope of those timeilnes so she could’ve fallen in any of them... huh.  Heck, maybe the same Terezi who experienced those conversations eventually met the John from the Meat side of the timeline too.  And she said John smelled younger than she thought he was, oh my GOD, it WAS that.  It was that exactly.  The Terezi we’re hearing was the same across both Epilogue-halves.  That’s actually fucking fantastic!!!

MEENAH: capisces?

Fuck that pun

(Also Meenah is talking about how they lost, but she was knocked away before she saw the conclusion of the fight, so.)

...Holy SHIT Meenah is really taking to this!!! This is adorable.  :D

==>

John’s having some canon/existential ditherthoughts, hm.

He’s been contemplating this melodramatically for maybe ten minutes when the sky rips opens above him and flashes violent waves of red and green across the landscape.

Hm.  So do the black hole wormholes have some tie to the cherubic portal device from Hiveswap?

It’s his father’s car.

Mhmm, that confirms all of it, really.  Same Terezi in both stories.

A vast cry of sorts.  :(

Heading out for a while; gonna start from Page 27 in the next post.  I feel pretty good, somehow.  The way these two timelines tied together with Terezi outside them makes it feel like it all may have ultimately meant something.

[joannalannister]

I'm not sure who to ask this question, and I tried Googling, but came up with no answers. Why is it that iron is so prominent in ASoIaF? There's the Iron Throne, Iron Islands, Ironborn, Iron Price, Iron Bank, Ironwood, etc. So just curious why that's the element GRRM chose to use/focus on so much. BTW, I love all your lovely blogs! 😊

Thank you so much! I love these kinds of questions! We would probably have to ask GRRM to know for sure why iron inspired him in ASOIAF, but we can speculate!

Iron features prominently in folklore, including in-world westerosi folklore: “A child’s rhyme echoed in his head. Oak and iron, guard me well, or else I’m dead, and doomed to hell.” Interestingly, this rhyme is not invoked by any highborn POV, only by Dunk. And Davos remembers something similar: “A knife in the heart, though…even demons can be killed by cold iron, the singers say.” Even lowborn Will of the Night’s Watch, from the AGOT prologue, takes comfort in cold iron.

Perhaps it’s only a smallfolk superstition, but I’m inclined to believe the smallfolk remember a truth the nobility have forgotten. Whether they remember or not, lords often build their gates and doors of oak and iron. For example, one enters the Great Hall of Winterfell by “wide oak-and-iron doors,” big enough to ride a horse through. More importantly, Winterfell is guarded by “massive oak-and-iron gates” though by the end of ACOK they’re hanging “charred and askew”. Combine this with @racefortheironthrone​‘s idea that Winterfell was built as an engine to fight the Others, and I think GRRM’s grand design might be getting a little clearer. All the stuff listed here is going to be important in the War for the Dawn:

“Winterfell…grey granite, oak and iron, crows wheeling around the towers, steam rising off the hot pools in the godswood, the stone kings sitting on their thrones…how could Winterfell be gone?” 

Winterfell isn’t gone. Just dormant. 

Winterfell lies dreaming, waiting to be reborn in oak and iron and granite. There’s magic in Winterfell’s walls. (More about Winterfell here.) 

I know you didn’t ask this part, but I think we need to explore the question of “Why oak?” before we tackle “Why iron?” Oak trees represent strength and steadfastness, endurance and long life. The oak is considered a holy tree, closely associated with pagan gods of Northern Europe, and GRRM is aware of this association. In King’s Landing, “The heart tree was an oak, brown and faceless, yet Ned Stark still felt the presence of his gods.” The Ghost of High Heart also associates oak with the old gods. 

“Oak-trees have always been regarded as great protectors and guardians of the virtuous.” A fitting tree for Duncan the Tall to be invoking. Arya herself is called an oak tree. The oak has a duality to it, with “deep roots [that] penetrate as deep into the Underworld as its branches soar to the sky.”  

“The Sanskrit word, ‘Duir’, gave rise both to the word for oak and the English word ‘door’, which suggests that this tree stands as an opening into greater wisdom, perhaps an entryway into the otherworld itself.” [x]

I don’t know if there will be a connection between oak and the Others, or if oak is just symbolically important in the War for the Dawn, but it will be interesting to find out. 

“Of all the trees in Britain and Ireland the oak is considered king” and we know what GRRM thinks of kings: “a king protects his people, or he is no king at all.” Oaks are a popular fantasy element. C.S. Lewis used oaks and other trees to fight alongside the Narnians in Prince Caspian and of course Tolkien had the Ents, some of which resembled oaks. I don’t think GRRM’s trees are going to get up and start walking around, but I think ASOIAF themes support the idea that even the trees oppose those who would seek dominion over you. The Others are certainly seeking dominion over the earth. The walls of Winterfell are going to fight against them, oak and iron and granite, and protect people. 

So, what about iron? Because you’re completely right to pick up on the iron motif. GRRM references iron from the very beginning. In the prologue of AGOT, when Wymar Royce battles the Other while Will climbs a tree (not an oak but something GRRM calls a sentinel … which is not a real type of tree but GRRM’s own fantasy brand of evergreen) … Will is mentioned to have “cold iron”. 

He whispered a prayer to the nameless gods of the wood, and slipped his dirk free of its sheath. He put it between his teeth to keep both hands free for climbing. The taste of cold iron in his mouth gave him comfort.

He’s unwittingly invoking oak and iron. And remember, the Others leave Will to be killed by wight!Wymar. Could the Others have killed Will? Did Will’s iron make any difference? idk, GRRM isn’t saying, but I hope we get more definitive information in future books. “Cold iron” in literature has historically meant any weapon designed to draw blood, but I don’t know if GRRM is making a distinction between iron and steel. 

*****

ASIDE: What is the difference between iron and steel? I didn’t know so I had to look it up: 

Steel is a mixture of several metals (this is called an alloy) but most of it is iron and often some carbon. Steel is harder and stronger than iron. Steels are often iron alloys with between 0.02% and 1.7% percent carbon by weight. Alloys with more carbon than this are known as cast iron. Steel is different from wrought iron, that has little or no carbon.

Something made of pure iron is softer than steel because the atoms can slip over one another. If other atoms like carbon are added, they are different from iron atoms and stop the iron atoms from sliding apart so easily. This makes the steel stronger and harder.

Changing the amount of carbon added to steel will change its properties:

Hardness

How easily it bends

Ductility: can it be made into thin wires

Strength

Is it magnetic

Will it rust (or corrode)

Steel with more carbon is harder and stronger than pure iron, but it also breaks more easily (brittle).

Iron is an element and a metal. It is the second most common metal on Earth, and the most widely-used metal. It makes up much of the Earth’s core, and is the fourth most common element in the Earth’s crust.

***

I’m out of my depth here, but I would like a chemist or metallurgist to discuss the potential carbon-content of Valyrian steel and relate that to the fact that all known life on Earth (and probably Terros - with the exception of the Others, probably) is carbon-based, and then tie that into ASOIAF’s life-affirming themes in the War for the Dawn. 

something something carbon as a life force in the Valyrian steel being anathema to the Others something something steel made with human blood sacrifice something something…

Has someone already written an essay about this? If so, please link me. 

*****

In the meantime, we can consider iron in folklore. Iron is believed to repel fairies. GRRM has said that the Others are like “the Sidhe made of ice” and the Sidhe are the fairy folk of Ireland. So when Westerosi invoke “oak and iron" to guard them, I think this is a remnant of the cultural memory of the Long Night. (I’ve talked about the Others here and in my tag for #the Others.)

(There are other scraps of cultural memory that recall the Others. For example, in TSS, Egg hears vicious rumors about Rohanne Webber from the smallfolk:

“Four,” said Egg, “but no children. Whenever she gives birth, a demon comes by night to carry off the issue. Sam Stoops’ wife says she sold her babes unborn to the Lord of the Seven Hells, so he’d teach her his black arts.”

Obviously these rumors about Rohanne were not true, but demons coming by night to carry off babies is eerily similar to the deal Craster has with the Others in exchange for protection.) 

What’s special about iron? Pliny the Elder, who lived in the first century, believed that iron could protect and heal people, and some of these ideas persisted well into the 20th century. 

I don’t know if the potential magnetism of iron is important but idk, the heroes probably have to go to the North pole, that might be important. 

Also, “iron can attract and conduct electricity, focus and release it, store it as magnetic energy, or disperse it by returning it to the earth. Iron can change form. It can be made molten, fluid, and malleable, and then set into unbending forms of our design.” Considering that ASOIAF is about rebirth and duality and transformation and shapeshifting (please see this post about Tyrion - please click), iron is thematically important to ASOIAF, to our malleability, our rebirth. 

Victorians believed that the first iron found was in meteorites. “Of course, even today, iron still seems magical in many respects. It is the most plentiful metal in the universe. All iron was initially forged in the hearts of stars, and only gifted to the cosmos when they exploded in supernovae. This stardust is in each of us; it is what makes our blood red.”

Consider:

Dawn, forged from the heart of a fallen star. 

The Daynes of Starfall are one of the most ancient houses in the Seven Kingdoms, though their fame largely rests on their ancestral sword, called Dawn, and the men who wielded it. Its origins are lost to legend, but it seems likely that the Daynes have carried it for thousands of years. Those who have had the honor of examining it say it looks like no Valyrian steel they know, being pale as milkglass but in all other respects it seems to share the properties of Valyrian blades, being incredibly strong and sharp.

The iron content in Dawn is probably important. 

***

(GRRM has said that, while the Daynes share the violet eyes of the Targs, they’re not the same ancestry. I’m guessing that Dawn and Valyrian steel are like that too, parallel in their formation but different. (There is a term for parallel evolution in biology but from completely different ancestors. Biologists, help me out!))

EDIT: @victorvontooms supplied the term I was looking for: convergent evolution. That’s how I think of Daynes vs Targs and Dawn vs Valyrian steel, both made to fight the Others but forged completely differently.

***

Also, Tyrion tells us:

Dragonbone is black because of its high iron content

(No one shows the dragon bone in ASOIAF as black!! But it is!! Dragonbone is black!!! 

^^Detail of art I commissioned from @bidonica, showing the dragonbone as black!! Will I ever stop screaming about this? No!! It’s my desktop, it’s so important to me!!! Not that I ever see my desktop through my tab forest but it’s the principle of the thing…)

Anyways, “Dragonbone is black because of its high iron content”. If that doesn’t set off the Others’ alarm bells, it should. I really think the Others dislike iron, not just Valyrian steel, and we have these giant high-iron content, fire-breathing beasts coming for them. 

In terms of the setting, I think GRRM might be invoking a lot of iron imagery to suggest humanity’s Iron Age, a period that extended into the early Middle Ages in Northern Europe. All this iron carries connotations of a time long, long ago.

TV tropes actually has a great little article on cold iron, suggesting that iron is part of some magic vs technology symbolism.

The Iron Age is generally understood as the period during which the technology to make iron items — particularly weapons — spread from the Hallstatt culture in western and eastern Europe during the 8th century BCE. […]

Clearly, the peoples of this extended period did not one night go to sleep in the Bronze Age and awaken the next morning in the Iron Age. There were considerable overlaps as the technology of iron developed and travelled throughout the European continent by way of trade. This also appears to coincide with a violent period of history, with hill forts springing up all across the British Isles, particularly in the southern regions. […]

The Britons had a reputation for being small in stature yet fierce warriors, and possibly adept at magic. They seemed to be able to appear and vanish at will from among the trees of the forests and among the hills. According to some early Roman accounts, the Britons would spike their hair with white lime and cover their bodies in swirling patterns of blue woad for battle, possibly to enable them to vanish into the pattern of clouds in the sky or reflected on the surface of lakes. This resulted in a belief that they could appear out of thin air and make their getaways via ‘portals’ in lakes and rivers. Some have suggested that this is where the myth of the fairy folk began. These ‘fairy folk’ who used ‘magical’ tactics were armed with bronze, which was no match for the iron blades of the invaders. Therefore, iron became known as the enemy of the ‘fairy folk.’ [x]

I’m not sure that the magic vs technology war applies to ASOIAF (idk maybe it does!) but what I would say applies to ASOIAF is a war between the Old Way and the New, obviously a reference to Ironborn culture, but something I think applies much more broadly to ASOIAF as a whole. 

Right now in ASOIAF there is a war between the Old Way of doing things by dehumanization, led by men like Tywin and Randyll and Roose, and the New Way of doing things by valuing people’s humanity, spearheaded by people like Jon and Dany and Brienne. 

So people paying the iron price in blood, sitting the iron throne … I think that’s all representative of the Old Way, something outdated and tired and without forward motion or progress. Something that is (hopefully) on its way out. 

Just as the early Britons’ bronze swords yielded to iron, I think we’re witnessing in ASOIAF the iron Old Way (metaphorically) yielding to … I don’t know yet…kindness? valyrian steel? idk, ask me when the books are done. 

Whatever it is, we have to be careful. Iron can be a force of good (repelling the Others), but it can be terrible too. We have to be careful. Because the iron is in our blood. The potential to dehumanize is inside all of us; as Professor Moody would say, “Constant vigilance!” Or as GRRM might say, the war is inside us. We’re all capable of great acts, and terrible ones. We have to choose. And we have to be careful. 

*****

“There are more esoteric explanations, like iron being seen as the lifeforce of the earth, or associated with lifeforce because blood smells like iron.“

“All iron was initially forged in the hearts of stars, and only gifted to the cosmos when they exploded in supernovae. This stardust is in each of us; it is what makes our blood red.”

The War for the Dawn is a war between life and death … a war between life and something worse than death. 

It’s a war for our humanity, it’s a war for the earth itself. It’s a war for our flesh and blood and bone. 

I said … way up above now … I said the trees are fighting for us against the Others’ dominion. Not the way Tolkien’s trees fight, but still they’re fighting. 

GRRM likes to trick casual readers into thinking his world is nihilistic … but deep down, it’s not. The Magic wouldn’t have saved Daenerys from the flames if it was truly uncaring. 

In this war, (almost) everyone’s pulling for us, I think. We’re all in this together. The weirwoods and the ravens and the Children of the Forest and all the elements of life, all the way down to the iron in our blood … it’s all rooting for us. Winterfell is rooting for us, with its fires deep within the earth and its life-giving waters rushing through its walls “like blood through a man’s body” and the earth is rooting for us, lending us its lifeforce of iron to oppose the Others. 

But we have to stand. We have to fight for it. 

*****

So there’s lots of possibilities right now in terms of what Iron means as a motif. Ask me again when we have more books and maybe I can talk more. 

PS - I think those bankers are gonna fuck people over in twow. Watch out for them. This might be my Lannister bias tho. 

EDITED TO ADD: 

@essayofthoughts replied to your post:

Iron swords were the first really meaningful weapons (bronze dulled too quickly) and would sometimes by ritually broken and sacrificed due to their value. An iron or steel sword that has been used and let get rusty, when polished will “bleed” the bloodiron back out. 

Oak and Yew have significance as life/death dichotomies in tree folklore. Without English Oak the British Empire and Navy wouldn’t have happened. Oak mistletoe is sacred bc Oak as a hardwood would almost never grows mistletoe, also ties into its status as kings of the forest. Oak once cut and aged is one of the hardest woods out there and even a modern steel knife can’t easily cut aged oak (speaking from experience; my home is made with century old oak beams). Oak also ties to dryads and hamadryads - life from trees in myth -and technically all dryads are of oaks. idk why but the dryads thing makes me think of the children of the forest

@nobodysuspectsthebutterfly replied to your post:

re the first war against the Others– the First Men didn’t have iron as such, they were bronze users. Iron and steel only came to Westeros in sufficiency with the Andals. (Possible proof of the theory that Ironborn are not First Men, but from somewhere else? As their islands are a great source of ore.) What little iron the First Men had was rare and treasured, almost magic to them probably. See Jon’s description of similar among the wildlings today (including the bronze-working Thenns).

Think of the First Men fighting the Others with their bronze, failing. Except for the few who have help from the CotF and are using dragonglass too. And the very few with their rare iron, they must have considered it magic– no wonder it became part of a crown! And then the Last Hero somehow got a sword of dragonsteel– even more magic–and saved the world.

Though interestingly the Others may hate cold iron, but it can’t kill them. See them checking out Waymar Royce’s sword before approaching him, it’s only regular steel. Iron defends, but dragonsteel, Valyrian steel, that’s the game-changer.

[yoshuriken]

Mr. Orange Juice

@homestuckss gift for @lostozian ! I saw you asked for dirk and terezi friendship fluff on earth c, but i haven't finished homestuck so i adapted it so i wouldn't write about something uninformed. They're detectives in a pseudo-noir au thingy. I hope you enjoy! :D

* * * *

“Yes yes, I haven’t seen him in two days. I know it’s not that long, but he didn’t show up to our date yesterday evening.”

“I understand. If he can be found, I’ll find him.”

Dirk read the address neatly lettered on the stationary again. It matched the metal number on the brick building in front of him. He knocked, and as expected there was no answer. So he looked under the mat for a spare key, and then the mailbox, but both came up empty. He looked up and saw an open window on the second story, but he wasn’t going to discard his badass trench coat to climb up if he didn’t have to. Finally he picked the lock cleanly and swiftly. The door swung open.

He climbed the narrow stairs to the main room of the apartment: a cozy living room. It smelled like fresh air thanks to the open window, and the only sounds were those that came from the street outside. Dirk approached the window. It’d be odd to leave a window open if you were going out, so maybe Captor was taken somewhere against his will? There was a thin layer of dust on the sill, except for a wide streak brushed away in the middle.

Suddenly a revolver clicked against his shoulder. “Tell me who you are and what you’re doing here, Mr. Orange Juice.” Breath whispered against the back of his neck.

Shit. “Sure, but can I see you first?”

“Nope, that wouldn’t be fair.”

“How so? Though I suppose someone who puts a gun to you and demands your business isn’t exactly keen on fairness anyway.”

“I love fairness. It’s the basis of law. Now, your name, and as you put it, your business?”

“Dirk Strider, PI. I’m looking for someone.”

“PI eh?” She stepped back so Dirk can turn around. The figure before him was wearing a trench coat much like his, but instead of pointy anime shades she had cherry-red ones. She kept the revolver pointed at him. “Either you’re lying or a loony, because I’m the one who’s supposed to be finding Mr. Captor, ya see? Unless you’ve been hired by someone else.”

“I was hired by Lady Peixes.”

“Were you now? What a coincidence, so was I!” She put her hands up in an affected shrug. “I don’t suppose you lick evidence too?”

“I--what?”

She grinned widely, much too widely for someone pointing a gun. “Don’t worry, it’s just a quirk of mine. How about you tell me what you’re really doing here?”

“I have her stationary in my jacket pocket, if you’d like to see it.”

“Sure.”

He slowly opened one side of his coat to show her said pocket, and fished out the stationary with Peixes’ handwriting before handing it to her.

She immediately licked across the whole paper, then nodded in approval. Dirk watched with a bemused expression on his face. “Checks out. Want it back?”

“Uh… no thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” She pointed the gun straight up and fired. But instead of a bullet, it shot out confetti with a loud POP. Dirk jumped and quickly recomposed himself. What a weird girl.

However, now that she was stripped of her weapon, it was time to turn it back on her. He opened the other side of his coat to reveal a katana strapped to his hip. “All right, now it’s my turn. What’s your name, and what are you doing here?”

She just laughed. “The name’s Terezi Pyrope. PI.” She said “PI” with an affected emphasis and smirk. “Like I said, I was hired for the same thing as you, to find Captor. Here,” she handed him a similar note on the same custom stationary. “By the way, if you really want to intimidate someone, it’d help if you actually drew your silly anime weapon.” She wasn’t looking at him anymore; instead she opted to start combing through a hutch.

Dirk turned the paper over in his hand. Yep, it was definitely from Lady Peixes. He noticed Terezi sniffing the contents of each drawer. And she did it so confidently, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to sniff other people’s dishes. “I wouldn’t call a sword silly.”

“It’s definitely silly. That doesn’t make it any less of a weapon though, if that’s what you mean.” Deciding the hutch had nothing of interest, she moved on to the writing desk. Between the shades, the sword, and the calm demeanor, she found this Dirk fellow to be one of the more interesting people she’d met on the job. Noteworthy. Dare she say… cool?

“Why do you think she hired both of us? Competition? Greater chance of success? But why not have us work together?” Dirk mused.

Terezi shrugged. “Who knows. The upper classes are weird. Afraid I’ll find him first?”

“Hell no.” Dirk decided to start on the opposite side of the room, at a bookshelf. “By the way, why did you call me Mr. Orange Juice?”

“Easy! You smell like orange juice, duh!” She looked up from the desks and grinned that wide grin.

“I--what?”

Terezi rolled her eyes dramatically. “C’mon, haven’t you figured it out? I’m blind! I smell things to see.”

Dirk blinked a few times. “I see. I suppose that explains the glasses. Not that I’m one to criticize awesome shades.” He smirked.

“Hell yeah! Shades are the best, categorically.”

“So why did you get into the detective business?”

“For fun. What better way to kick criminal ass than to snoop around and say hardboiled catchphrases?”

Dirk chuckled. “I couldn’t agree more. The hardboiled catchphrase is an essential part of every gumshoe’s arsenal. I also found detective work to be well-suited to my talents.”

“You did?? I would never have guessed.”

“What does that mean?”

“Anyone who hides a sword under their jacket is either a weeb, tryhard, or badass. All three make for a good detective.”

“Which one are you?”

“Badass, obviously!”

“Oh really?”

“I made you tell me everything with a toy.”

“Unusual brand of badass, but I concede the point. Hey, look at this.” Like the sill, the bookshelf has a thin layer of dust, but one book has a streak missing in front of it. Inside the front cover is a note, in the same Peixes stationary, but different handwriting.

They hand the note back and forth. Fish, Ice cream, Red potatoes, Eggs. A shopping list in a novel could just be a random misplacement, but they knew it could be more significant too.

A smile spread across Terezi’s face. It was the widest yet, which unsettled and excited Dirk. He knew that something was about to go down. “What is it?”

“The first letters of each item,” she said as she fished out a match from her pockets. “Spell fire.”

“Invisible ink.”

“Right on.”

Terezi lit the match and carefully burned the paper to reveal the writing. She took more time than necessary and blackened the unneeded corners for fun. Dirk raised an eyebrow in amusement.

Then she held the note aloft triumphantly. Below the faux list, there was an address. “Looks like a beach property,” Dirk said.

“Sweet! Let’s go!” Terezi shoved the note into her pocket and turned to leave, but Dirk stopped her.

“Hey, want to work together? Officially, I mean. It should make our work more efficient, especially since we were hired for the same job anyway. We can split the money too.”

Terezi stuck her tongue out. “Only if you can catch me!” She leapt out the window.

Dirk ran to the window and looked down. Terezi was starting up a bright red motorcycle. If that’s how she’s playing it…

Dirk calmly descended the stairs and exited the building. Terezi was now strapping on her helmet. He sauntered to Sawtooth, his jet black muscle car, and climbed in. It made significantly less noise once started up than Terezi’s bike.

“Nice ride, Strider. A car’ll never outrun my bike, though. Looks like the money’s mine.”

“Is that so? I may have done some work on her that casts doubt on your conclusion.”

“Guess we’ll have to see.”

“Besides, everyone will see and hear you coming in that. Even if you get there first, you’ll attract any hooligans that might be waiting.”

“Great! Remember what I said about kicking criminal ass? The main ingredient in that badass cocktail is criminals.”

“Well I’ve never missed a criminal-ass-kicking cocktail, and I don’t plan to start.”

“Better hurry up then, Mr. Orange Juice.” Her grin was as wide as ever. Dirk was beginning to wonder if it was stuck like that. After everything else just flat-out weird about her, he wouldn’t be surprised. At the very least, any ass-kicking involving her would be even more entertaining than usual.

Terezi pumped the gas and shot off like a rocket. Dirk followed as quickly as he could. Terezi looked back, popped a wheelie, and stuck her tongue out to antagonize him further, not that he was very antagonized to begin with. Mr. Cool and Collected might be a better nickname. It was fun to mess with someone so stoic, especially when he could actually keep up with her.

As they rode, both of them had the same two thoughts: this is the start of a damn good partnership, and today was going to be fun.

[worldofjonsa]

“You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

Ygritte is not the only character that can rightly be associated with “you know nothing”. We associate that line with Ygritte ALONE because she says it ALOT! But this might not be the only person that Jon has heard these words from, behind the scenes, and how Ygritte’s words are a reminder of someone, or someones, that could very well have said it to him too. (Just because we don’t get a POV narrative doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. There are MANY clues regarding other characters that we don’t get all the information about, but we get hints everywhere! So “You know nothing, Jon Snow” are words he very possibly could heard from Catelyn, the ONLY mother figure he’s ever really known (and he desired motherly affection from) and from Sansa, a sister who tries to live up to the image of her mother. The two most important feminine figures in Jon Snow’s life. An interesting thing is that we see Catelyn Stark use this phrase in ACOK before we ever hear it from Ygritte in ASOS. Here is the one from Catelyn Stark: ‘She opened her hands to look down at the scars across her fingers. His dagger’s marks, she reminded herself. His dagger, in the hand of the killer he paid to open Bran’s throat. Though the dwarf denied it, to be sure. Even after Lysa locked him in one of her sky cells and threatened him with her moon door, he had still denied it. “He lied,” she said, rising abruptly. “The Lannisters are liars every one, and the dwarf is the worst of them. The killer was armed with his own knife.” Ser Cleos stared. “I know nothing of any—” “You know nothing,” she agreed, sweeping from the cell. Brienne fell in beside her, silent.’ -Catelyn ACOK chapter 45 But the most interesting thing is, the FIRST time we see Ygritte says these words, they are in a different order, AND they are the chapter JUST before Sansa’s chapter where she is thinking these words. The FIRST we see Ygritte say it, she says Jon Snow’s name first. ALL the other times AFTERWARDS she says his name last. “Are all crows afraid of gooseprickles? A little ice won’t kill you. I’ll jump in with you t’prove it so.” “And ride the rest of the day with wet clothes frozen to our skins?” he objected. “Jon Snow, you know nothing. You don’t go in with clothes.” “I don’t go in at all,” he said firmly, just before he heard Tormund Thunderfist bellowing for him (he hadn’t, but never mind).” -Jon II ASOS THE VERY NEXT CHAPTER is Sansa’s POV: “Alyn said her favor made him fearless,” said Megga. “He says he shouted her name for his battle cry, isn’t that ever so gallant? Someday I want some champion to wear my favor, and kill a hundred men.” Elinor told her to hush, but looked pleased all the same. They are children, Sansa thought. They are silly little girls, even Elinor. They’ve never seen a battle, they’ve never seen a man die, they know nothing. Their dreams were full of songs and stories, the way hers had been before Joffrey cut her father’s head off. Sansa pitied them. Sansa envied them.” -Sansa II ASOS Do you think it a coincidence that the the very first time we see Ygritte use these words, it is immediately followed by Sansa thinking the same words? I don’t. No. Not coincidence. It gives a whole knew perspective to Jon’s thoughts before he gets stabbed at the end of ADWD. Jon flexed the fingers of his sword hand. The Night’s Watch takes no part. He closed his fist and opened it again. What you propose is nothing less than treason. He thought of Robb, with snowflakes melting in his hair. Kill the boy and let the man be born. He thought of Bran, clambering up a tower wall, agile as a monkey. Of Rickon’s breathless laughter. Of Sansa, brushing out Lady’s coat and singing to herself. You know nothing, Jon Snow. He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird’s nest. I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came with him to Winterfell … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … ‘ ~ Jon XIII, ADWD chapter 69 1. He thought of Robb, with snowflakes melting in his hair. (This is Jon’s last memory of Robb, when they said farewell before Jon left for the Wall. The last time he saw Robb) -Kill the boy and let the man be born. (Jon is associating Aemon’s words with his last memory of Robb. Why? This is why I think he does: “Allow me to give my lord one last piece of counsel,” the old man had said, “the same counsel that I once gave my brother when we parted for the last time......Kill the boy within you, I told him the day I took ship for the Wall. It takes a man to rule. An Aegon, not an Egg. Kill the boy and let the man be born.” -Jon II ADWD 2. He thought of Bran, clambering up a tower wall, agile as a monkey. (Here Jon doesn’t have ANY thoughts he associates with Bran) 3. Of Rickon’s breathless laughter. (Again, no thoughts in connection to Rickon.) But then: 4. Of Sansa, brushing out Lady’s coat and singing to herself. -You know nothing, Jon Snow. (Why does Jon associate Ygritte’s words with Sansa? Curiouser and curiouser...) Followed by: 5. He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird’s nest. -I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came with him to Winterfell … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … (These are the words from the Pink Letter from Ramsay Bolton who married fArya. Direct connection/association with his thoughts of Arya.) Wasn’t it Arya who Ygritte reminded him of? Not Sansa. Or is the reader missing all the subtleties of how Ygritte actually reminds Jon of Sansa, he just doesn’t mention her name in his thoughts. Ygritte’s singing, and tears, and weeping, and her red hair kissed by fire, these are all things that are associated with Sansa’s character!) Here are some book quotes: One was asleep, curled up tight and buried beneath a great mound of skins. Jon could see nothing of him but his hair, bright red in the firelight. On the ground the sleeper sat up beneath his furs. Jon slid his dirk free, grabbing the man by the hair and jamming the point of the knife up under his chin as he reached for his—no, her—His hand froze. “A girl.” He was so close he could smell onion on her breath. She is no older than I am. Something about her made him think of Arya, though they looked nothing at all alike. “Will you yield?” he asked, giving the dirk a half turn. And if she doesn’t? “I yield.” Her words steamed in the cold air. “You’re our captive, then.” He pulled the dirk away from the soft skin of her throat. -Jon ACOK chapter 51 Ygritte watched and said nothing. She was older than he’d thought at first, Jon realized; maybe as old as twenty, but short for her age, bandy-legged, with a round face, small hands, and a pug nose. Her shaggy mop of red hair stuck out in all directions. She looked plump as she crouched there, but most of that was layers of fur and wool and leather. Underneath all that she could be as skinny as Arya. -Jon ACOK chapter 51 “Sansa was a lady at three, always so courteous and eager to please. She loved nothing so well as tales of knightly valor. Men would say she had my look, but she will grow into a woman far more beautiful than I ever was, you can see that. I often sent away her maid so I could brush her hair myself. She had auburn hair, lighter than mine, and so thick and soft … the red in it would catch the light of the torches and shine like copper. -Catelyn ACOK chapter 55 ‘The wildlings seemed to think Ygritte a great beauty because of her hair; red hair was rare among the free folk, and those who had it were said to be kissed by fire, which was supposed to be lucky. Lucky it might be, and red it certainly was, but Ygritte’s hair was such a tangle that Jon was tempted to ask her if she only brushed it at the changing of the seasons. At a lord’s court the girl would never have been considered anything but common, he knew. She had a round peasant face, a pug nose, and slightly crooked teeth, and her eyes were too far apart. Jon had noticed all that the first time he’d seen her, when his dirk had been at her throat. Lately, though, he was noticing some other things. When she grinned, the crooked teeth didn’t seem to matter. And maybe her eyes were too far apart, but they were a pretty blue-grey color, and lively as any eyes he knew. Sometimes she sang in a low husky voice that stirred him. And sometimes by the cookfire when she sat hugging her knees with the flames waking echoes in her red hair, and looked at him, just smiling … well, that stirred some things as well. -Jon II ASOS She reminded him a little of his sister Arya, though Arya was younger and probably skinnier. It was hard to tell how plump or thin Ygritte might be, with all the furs and skins she wore. Do you know ‘The Last of the Giants’?” Without waiting for an answer Ygritte said, “You need a deeper voice than mine to do it proper.” Then she sang, “Ooooooh, I am the last of the giants, my people are gone from the earth. Tormund Giantsbane heard the words and grinned. “The last of the great mountain giants, who ruled all the world at my birth,” he bellowed back through the snow. Longspear Ryk joined in, singing, “Oh, the smallfolk have stolen my forests, they’ve stolen my rivers and hills.” “And they’ve built a great wall through my valleys, and fished all the fish from my rills,” Ygritte and Tormund sang back at him in turn, in suitably gigantic voices. There were tears on Ygritte’s cheeks when the song ended. “Why are you weeping?” Jon asked. “It was only a song. There are hundreds of giants, I’ve just seen them.” “Oh, hundreds,” she said furiously. “You know nothing, Jon Snow..” -Jon II ASOS Jon had never met anyone so stubborn, except maybe for his little sister Arya. Is she still my sister? he wondered. Was she ever? He had never truly been a Stark, only Lord Eddard’s motherless bastard, with no more place at Winterfell than Theon Greyjoy. And even that he’d lost. When a man of the Night’s Watch said his words, he put aside his old family and joined a new one, but Jon Snow had lost those brothers too. -Jon III ASOS She bit his neck and he nuzzled hers, burying his nose in her thick red hair. Lucky, he thought, she is lucky, fire-kissed. “Isn’t that good?” she whispered as she guided him inside her. -Jon III ASOS “There’s naught to eat in the dark but flesh,” she whispered, biting at his neck. Jon nuzzled her hair and filled his nose with the smell of her. “You sound like Old Nan, telling Bran a monster story.” -Jon III ASOS “Were you a maid?” Ygritte pushed herself onto an elbow. “I am nineteen, and a spearwife, and kissed by fire. How could I be maiden?” “Who was he?” “A boy at a feast, five years past. He’d come trading with his brothers, and he had hair like mine, kissed by fire, so I thought he would be lucky. But he was weak. When he came back t’ try and steal me, Longspear broke his arm and ran him off, and he never tried again, not once.” “It wasn’t Longspear, then?” Jon was relieved. He liked Longspear, with his homely face and friendly ways. She punched him. “That’s vile. Would you bed your sister?” “Longspear’s not your brother.” “He’s of my village. You know nothing, Jon Snow.” -Jon III ASOS “Jon grinned, reached over, and messed up her hair. Arya flushed. They had always been close. Jon had their father’s face, as she did. They were the only ones. Robb and Sansa and Bran and even little Rickon all took after the Tullys, with easy smiles and fire in their hair. When Arya had been little, she had been afraid that meant that she was a bastard too. It had been Jon she had gone to in her fear, and Jon who had reassured her.” -Arya I AGOT He woke to the sight of his own breath misting in the cold morning air. When he moved, his bones ached. Ghost was gone, the fire burnt out. Jon reached to pull aside the cloak he’d hung over the rock, and found it stiff and frozen. He crept beneath it and stood up in a forest turned to crystal. The pale pink light of dawn sparkled on branch and leaf and stone. Every blade of grass was carved from emerald, every drip of water turned to diamond. Flowers and mushrooms alike wore coats of glass. Even the mud puddles had a bright brown sheen. Through the shimmering greenery, the black tents of his brothers were encased in a fine glaze of ice. So there is magic beyond the Wall after all. He found himself thinking of his sisters, perhaps because he'd dreamed of them last night. Sansa would call this an enchantment, and tears would fill her eyes at the wonder of it, but Arya would run out laughing and shouting, wanting to touch it all. -Jon III ACOK So: Jon thinks that Ygritte reminds him of Arya because of her stubbornness and her tangled hair, and how skinny she is, but the things that Jon likes most about Ygritte is her singing, her tears, and he thinks of her red hair on multiple occasions. There really isn’t anything else that sticks out to him besides these two things during the time he is with the wildlings. Ygritte =Arya= tangled hair, skinny, stubborn When they looked nothing alike. But on an unconscious level: Ygritte =Sansa= singing, tears, red hair These are what Jon fell in love with. The ONLY things that stirred him. He was thinking of Sansa singing while brushing Lady’s fur. Singing. Then, you know nothing...

[mathes0n]

Aside from Aradia and Terezi are there any HS character you actually like?

ok, i know i joke about how no character in homestuck is good except aradia, but full honestly, heres a list of characters in hs that i actually like:

- p much all of the beta kids??? like dave was on thin ice for awhile but after we got a better idea of WHY he acted like he did, i got a soft spot for the guy

- i also p much like all of the alphas??? im eehhhh on dirk but i dont actively dislike him (i do dislike hal, though. idk why its just a gut feeling)

- of the trolls: i like karkat (like dave, i wasnt too sure on him until his character developed), tavros, and terezi. nepeta, kanaya and feferi are alright but i dont really have any investment to their characters. i also like my own personal versions of sollux and gamzee -- the canon ones are less good

- damara is VERY good. the other dancestors are kinda ehh too me. except latula she gets a thumbs up from me. also kurloz has a great design and i kind of love him based on that alone

- honestly id count AR/Aimless Renegade as one of my top 5 favorite characters; he was adorable and one of the only deaths in HS i felt honest to god torn up over. also WV and PM are good too. all three of them are dating

- uuuuuuh idk i cant think of anyone else worth listing off. ur always free to ask me my opinions about specific hs characters!

[spookyspaghettisundae]

The Lonesome Wreckage

Waves lapped repeatedly at the jagged edges of this hunk of broken plastic and titanium. The spacecraft’s wreckage was shored up against a rocky spire that jutted out of the water like a spearhead, forming a small artificial island. All around it was nothing but a vast, endless ocean.

A woman stood just on the edge of the ship’s wreckage. Something about her stoic pose lent her a majestic air, despite how strange she looked. Her skin was a white so pale that it looked unnatural. Wherever her body was not covered with bright yellow strips of torn cloth wrapped around her limbs and torso, the exposed spots of her skin were visibly littered with a disturbing amount of scars of varying shapes and sizes. The wraps around her knuckles showed dark spots with crusted blood, and she was barefoot. Her very short white hair swayed in the gusts of wind that swept over this ocean.

Until recently, most people had only known her as Inmate Zero-Zero-Zero-Zero-One. The escaped prisoner stared out over this vast nothingness, not budging an inch. Watching her there, even doing nothing at all, had been distracting Dirk from his efforts to jury-rig a communication amplifier from the wreckage. He wondered if she would get a sunburn easily with such pale skin and after having spent fifty years locked in a windowless cell within the maximum security prison of Avidya Prime, drifting through the dark void of space. His curiosity about how she appeared to be little over thirty years old despite actually being over one hundred still refused to subside. And how could she stand it, being scantily-clad in tattered rags like that? The ocean air was cold and the metal plating of the wreckage underneath them freezing. The deserter shivered just thinking about it and looked back down at the pile of scrap parts he was trying to solder together with his multi-tool.

“The faster you work, the sooner we might leave,” she said. Her voice was low, the words smooth.

She had noticed his long lapse in operating the multi-tool due to the lack of flying sparks and fusion sounds.

“Couldn’t you just fly off from here? You’re a witch, after all,” he said, grimacing.

“I could, and I can even survive in the void of space for longer than you’ve seen, but you’re useful to keep around,” she replied while turning around. The irises of her eyes contained a thin streak of blue and were otherwise a stark white—he would have described them as silver, like arctic ice. Her gaze was piercing, like it drilled all the way down through flesh and bone to pierce his very soul. “For now.”

The former soldier sat on the scorched hull of a spacecraft next to a pile of assorted junk parts. He looked uncomfortable. His head was shaven bald, and the expression on his face told her that he was not only over a hundred years her junior, but also deeply insecure. The powered armor he inexplicably still wore had had all of its imperial insignia deliberately scraped off of the intact parts, and it was severely damaged on others—his right shoulder and arm and the same side of his torso were exposed. That part of his body should have been torn off by the ship cannons that had blasted right through their escape vessel, but she had conjured a magic that kept his flesh and bone and organs intact. Mostly. Unlike her, he did not know that he still had some natural convalescing to do on his own, and it was probably for the best that he was not aware of it. In a way, he had been a corpse, even if only for a few seconds. It must have been painful. These thoughts triggered a thin and cold smile to creep across her pale blue lips.

“Oh, I see, you’re amused by all of this. Good. Good for you,” he said in an attempt to break the awkward silence and then groaned, while continuing to solder an emitter array into the makeshift amplifier he was putting together. He only did that to break the uncomfortably long eye contact they had kept. While working, he spoke again, with more fire in his voice and sarcasm dripping from every word, “And what use, pray tell, may I have to you, oh great sorceress?”

Maintaining her smile, she said, “For one, I need someone to tell me how to operate all contemporary devices and someone to tell me what has happened to this wretched galaxy in the past fifty years. You could handle both. What I saw of your ship told me that things have changed a lot.”

“Cruiser,” Dirk said, correcting her without looking up from the device. “They’re not called ships anymore, and this particular vessel is a cruiser.” He cursed as he accidentally showered the exposed skin of his right hand with stray sparks from the soldering process. “Was a cruiser,” he then said, correcting himself. He sighed and dropped the multi-tool and scrap parts, and they plummeted to the hull underneath them with loud, clattering sounds of metal striking metal.

With the sounds of hydraulics in his armored legs that accentuated their engaging and disengaging of joint controls, he stood up. The deserter walked over to the edge of the wreckage, knelt down, and stuck his bare hand in the water to cool it off against the sensation of burning pain. The smile faded from her face as she observed him doing so.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” she said to him.

“Computer readings said it was safe. Something off with this water?”

“No, not with the water. But I only have so much in me to keep you alive. And it’s just not a good idea to dive in here to retrieve your arm, should it get torn off,” she replied.

He rose to stand again and began to shake his hand dry while asking, “What?” No second too soon, as something fleshy and lumpy snaked out of the water with lightning speed as it swiped at where his arm had been a second ago. Dirk stumbled back a few steps, away from the edge, and the powered armor emitted some hissing sounds when it stabilized his movement and prevented him from falling down on his ass. Whatever that thing had been, the tentacle-like shape of it splashed right back into the water and disappeared into the darkness underneath the ocean waves.

She laughed when he burst out into a short tirade of profanities, mixed with incredulous questions about what that creature could have possibly been. Something about a disciplined soldier breaking down so easily was deeply amusing to her. Something about her laugh was genuine in a way he had not heard in years; something about it was infectious. Perhaps soothing.

Even before she had stopped laughing, he actively refused to show any signs of easing up and grumbled while he returned to the pile of junk he was trying to assemble into a functioning device and sat back down. He picked up one of the parts and resumed his efforts.

She sensed his denial and grinned before asking, “What’s your name, Imperial?”

“I am not affiliated with the Knights anymore, and I already told you, it’s Dirk,” he said, averting his gaze.

“I know you did. But I was concerned about escaping and surviving. I chose to ignore you.”

He clicked his tongue in frustration and trained his eyes on the device before removing the power supply again.

She asked, “I take it Shahan is still in power?”

“Yes.”

Soldering sparks began to fly from the device again.

“Is he still called the ‘golden child’ or some such nonsense?”

“Yes.”

“Does it bother you to know that some such as he or I can outlive you by hundreds, if not thousands of years?”

Dirk stopped soldering and looked up at her. He did not reply. She just stood there, several steps away from him, while the sun set in the purple sky behind her, a silhouette of a feminine figure standing out amidst the strange infinity of this ocean, stranded on some forsaken moon. It had gotten darker and the light from the sparks that his multitool had been casting were beginning to blind him. He was unable to make out her features, but he could still make out her icy eyes as they stared at him and paralyzed him.

“That your life is so fleeting, your mortality so palpable? Do you not even pause to question why?”

“No,” he said.

“You should,” she said, and was suddenly so close next to him that their foreheads were almost touching. Instead of feeling warm breath brush over his skin with those words, they were carried by a cold air that swept across his face like the winds of this ocean. He was mesmerized and must have lost time for her to have suddenly appeared so close, he thought. She began to hear those thoughts. He fidgeted uncomfortably and leaned back a few inches when he knew for sure that something or someone was invading his mind.

“St—stop that,” he stammered.

The sorceress smiled eerily but said nothing. She slowly rose to her feet from where she was kneeling in front of him, standing back up straight. Inmate Zero-Zero-Zero-Zero-One slowly began turning from him, keeping her gaze locked onto his eyes and continuing to probe his mind. She looked sultry to him, and his thoughts were racing back and forth in between confusion over how attractive she was while scaring the living daylights out of him and how to attach the power cell without damaging the actuator.

When she had turned fully and broken eye contact, he felt how that mental connection faded and she left his mind alone. She found it interesting how he truly had not once questioned how she did what she was capable of or how magic worked or why she or Shahan were immortal. Some part of him simply accepted these unnatural things. The residual thoughts and memories she had absorbed revealed to her that Dirk’s mind was still clouded with something like a drunken rage. How he had managed to break into the Avidya Prime prison and liberate her with no planning seemed more miraculous than anything. Perhaps his plan had worked by virtue of being so abysmally stupid. But he had done this recklessly suicidal thing in a single-minded attempt to exact vengeance on Shahan. This final thought amused her to no end.

The foreign thoughts dissipated, and she stared off into the sun setting on the horizon. The purple shades of the sky grew darker by the minute and with the cloud of his feeble-minded thoughts fading from her mind, the situation at hand grew clearer to her. Behind her, Dirk blinked and just stared at the back of her head, dumbfounded. He narrowed his eyes and began to understand fully what had just happened.

“Will you tell me what your name is now? After violating my mind, it seems like it’s the least you can do.”

A long silence followed and was broken by three syllables when she replied, “Kjalla.”

He had heard many of the other names like Scourge, Wandering Genocide, or Worldslayer. She was disappointed that people had not come up with any new ones in the meanwhile. But the stunned silence on his behalf suggested that he had never known her real name. Shahan and his lackeys must have been thorough in scrubbing her name from historic records.

“You shouldn’t dally,” she said.

He was about to ask what she was talking about before she spoke again, “When night has fallen, that thing down there is going to come up here and want blood. If it gets you first, I might be able to save you.”

She barely turned her head to look back at him from over her shoulder, glancing just from the corner of her eye. The silvery white of her iris chilled him to the bone. She whispered, “If it gets me first, well, you’re doomed. Right now, I don’t have the capacity to keep your body from falling apart until you are sufficiently healed if I need to save my own hide.”

His mouth opened because he wanted to say something, but the words never came. Instead, the serene texture of sounds of the waves lapping at their vessel’s wreckage was interrupted by a sharp splash. He could see the silhouette of something like tentacles—or rather, something that gruesomely reminded him of loose, disembodied intestines—as it whipped out from the ocean’s surface and wrapped around Kjalla’s body in an instant. Her face had displayed surprise, or so he thought, for it had happened too quickly. Before he could blink, she had skidded and slid across the cruiser’s hull and disappeared into the ocean water with another loud splashing sound.

In a trance-like shock, he continued to solder the scrap parts. Sparks fizzled from the adjoined pieces where the multi-tool fused them together, casting his shadow against the rocky spire behind him.

It felt like the winds had suddenly dropped in temperature. The cold sweat erupting from the pores on his forehead chilled him as the sun set fully. The purple sky turned pitch-black. How long had she been submerged? Seconds? A minute? Dirk felt a sharp pain flare up in his right arm. It throbbed, and he gritted his teeth.

His right hand started cramping up. He looked at it and watched with a growing sense of dread as blood began seeping from his fingernails.

—Submitted by Wratts

[coloursflyaway]

Every Little Thing Anticipates You [2/6]

Pairing: Dirk Gently/ Todd Brotzman

Rating: T

Words: 1.857

In a world where everything you write onto your skin appears on your soulmate’s as well, there are five times Todd writes Svlad, and one time Dirk writes back.

Chapter 1

Chapter 3

I don’t want to go, Svlad scribbles on the soft skin of his thigh, underlines the don’t, just so Teddy will know how much he means it. Lately, Colonel Riggins and the seemingly endless row of doctors he brings with him haven’t been pleased by his results in the tests they have him do. They are getting increasingly difficult, not just cards with hearts and crosses and dolphins, now there are hypothetical scenarios, murders and kidnappings and different kinds of state crisis, which he is supposed to solve by looking at the paper they have written the questions on for long enough, sometimes throughout the night. When he’s not quick enough, they give him jalapenos to chew, which turn his mouth into purgatory itself, make him put his feet in icy water. It doesn’t do anything but distract him, but Svlad has long since learnt that his opinions are not what the doctors want to hear.

He’s about to pull up his pants again, but then his skin starts to prickle in that familiar way; Teddy is replying and although Svlad knows he’s late for his daily session, he at least has to see what his soulmate wants to say.

I know. But once you’re done, I can tell you about how Amanda bit a girl at school today.

There’s a certain kind of warmth spreading in Svlad’s stomach and chest, the kind he has come to associate with Teddy and Teddy alone; he picks up the pen he stole from Colonel Riggins two weeks ago and scrawls, Great! Can’t wait! Bye for now! The amount of exclamation marks always makes Teddy laugh, or that is at least what the other told him a few months ago; ever since then, Svlad has made sure to use even more of them.

Hiding his pen again, Svlad gets up and pulls up his pants, tying the drawstring tight. He can’t be sure if Colonel Riggins would mind him having found his soulmate, but Svlad won’t risk that, not when it could mean he’ll lose Teddy. After all, he’s the only one Svlad has left, now after they have taken Bart away, and that before he ever could meet the girl face-to-face. If that means that he’ll have to spend another five years hiding his arms and legs, ask Teddy not to write for a few days when he knows that a medical exam is coming up, steal pens whenever he possibly can, he will do just that.

That’s why he makes sure he looks presentable now, that the trail of shuriken Teddy has painted across their collar bones is hidden, even ignores the tickling on the inside of his thigh that means that Teddy is replying. For a moment, Svlad allows himself a rare pleasure: a dream.

He dreams of getting out of Black Wing, away from the tests and the small room he lives in now, the hiding and the prodding. He dreams of going to America, to Seattle in particular, and he dreams of meeting Amanda, the little sister his soulmate writes so much about. It feels like he doesn’t have to meet his soulmate anymore, because he knows him so well already, and yet he dreams about that too, about Teddy picking him up at the airport, holding a sign with Svlad’s name on it. He dreams of hugging the other, feeling a living, breathing body against his, of finding out how Teddy smells, how his voice sounds, how his skin would feel against Svlad’s lips, should he dare to press a kiss to his cheek. He dreams of a life in America, of living with Teddy and getting a cat, eating pizza every day instead of only at his birthday, of buying his own clothes and going ice skating and waking up in a cosy bed with sunlight filtering through the curtains, feeling safe and happy and loved.

Usually dreams are meant for night time, when he can spend long moments painting the walls of their imagined apartment in the brightest colours, try to conjure up a face from the messy sketches Teddy drew in scars on his calf some months ago. But Svlad doesn’t have time yet for any of this, so a brief glimpse has to do for now, before he straightens and hopes that it will be enough to get him through whatever the day holds in store for him.

  “Svlad, we have been thinking”, Doctor Seitchek says and her voice is so gentle, so friendly that Svlad represses a shudder; this can’t be anything but a bad sign. There is a reason why she is his second to least favourite doctor in all of Black Wing. “And this is not working, you know that as well as we do. We thought that maybe the jalapenos would be enough, but they clearly aren’t. So we will try something new now. Take off your shirt.” “What?”

Svlad can feel the blood drain from his cheeks, his heart first stops, then starts beating thrice as quickly. His fingers curl around the hem of his grey shirt, as if he could somehow keep it there, hiding the scribbles in blue and black on his skin, the scar-like lines in between. He feels cold all over, terrified, and Doctor Seitchek doesn’t even flinch, only her smile grows tense, annoyed.

“Take off your shirt”, she repeats, pronouncing each word carefully, the vowels crisp and clear, and yet almost drowned out by the ringing in Svlad’s ears. He has been afraid before, terrified even, and yet it’s nothing against this, a bone-deep fear that pumps through his body with every beat of his heart, another ice-age starting in his chest, the pit of his stomach. It’s not a hunch, it’s worse than that; it’s a certainty. They are going to take his soul mate from him.

“Can’t you do it when I’m dressed?”, he asks, and no matter how hard he tries, he cannot keep the desperation out of his voice, his fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt a little bit tighter still. “It’s – it’s so cold.” “It isn’t”, Doctor Seitchek replies impatiently, steps closer, her eyes narrowing. “And I don’t have time for this, Svlad. Take. It. Off.” “No.” Of course it is futile; if they want to, they can make him undress, but for some reason, it feels important to resist, just to know that he has done everything he could to keep Teddy safe and with him. “Why?” Doctor Seitchek says the words like it’s an accusation already – she knows something is wrong, just cannot yet pinpoint what it is. Maybe, Svlad thinks and feels himself despairing, if what she thinks now is worse than what he really is hiding, maybe they won’t be as mad at him. “Svlad, what have you done?” “Nothing!”

“I won’t be mad at you, if you tell me now”, Doctor Seitchek tells him, her voice to sweet to be genuine, and Svlad cannot even speak, can’t answer. He just shakes his head, his knuckles protesting as he grips his shirt tighter, feels the fabric strain against his skin. “Please, don’t”, he finally whispers out, holding onto the sounds like they could maybe safe him. They can’t.

      He most likely will never speak again, Svlad thinks to himself after the door has shut; his throat is raw from screaming, crying, begging, until not even a whisper would come out anymore. His eyes are hurting, as if someone scrubbed them clean with sandpaper, but his tears have long since dried up, because Svlad spilt them all already, leaving him empty inside, a giant hole gaping in his chest and swallowing up all emotions. All the pens he hid under his mattress, the corners of his closet, taped under the sink, are gone now, every object he got for good behaviour removed from his room, his skin scrubbed clean and pink. Teddy’s words are still there, thin white lines, but Svlad knows that they’ll fade, like they always do, and knows that he won’t be able to reply anymore; they have made sure of it.

A distraction is what they called Teddy, unnecessary, Doctor Seitchek sneering at him when she found the little smiling daisy Svlad drew on his ankle the night before, the shuriken on his collarbones. Teddy is anything but that, Svlad would give his life to prove it, but of course that wouldn’t do either of them any good. And he cannot even tell Teddy, have the other reply with a quip or a quick doodle, a familiar It’s going to be fine, Svlad following the line of his hipbone, which always feels a bit like a caress when the words appear on his skin. The thought makes his eyes prickle with tears, although he feels completely dehydrated already, because not being able to talk to Teddy again, maybe never again, might just be the worst punishment in existence. Already, his soulmate’s absence is clawing at his heart, a quiet, cruel ache.

And Teddy won’t know what happened, will think that Svlad is dead, or in a coma, or even worse, doesn’t want to speak to him any longer. A tear rolls down his cheek, the pain in his chest multiplying until it is hard to breathe; he cannot let this happen. There are cameras in his room, at least there are now, so he will have to be quick; there’s nothing to write with, so he will have to be creative. He sits down onto the mattress, the ache momentarily easier to bear because he has something to do, a goal to achieve.

There is nothing left but the barest amount of furniture, the walls, the door… and him. It’s an idea like a sun rise after a seemingly endless night, a glimmer of hope, and that’s enough to try.

The pain is sharp when he bites down onto his thumb, but Svlad hardly registers it, because the ache in his chest is so much worse, instead bites down harder, harder, until he can taste salt and copper. When he pulls his hand away, there is blood spilling down to his palm, smearing pale skin a bright red, and Svlad writes tall, messy letters down his arm.

HELP THEY WON’T LET M

That’s when the guards come in.

      The door is slammed closed behind him, and Svlad is tired, impossibly tired and allows his body to crumple right where he is standing. They have washed the blood off his arm, and yet he raises it to the height of his eyes, ignores the white material of the mitten they secured around his wrist, making it impossible to get to the skin beneath, to write, and lets his cloth-covered fingers trace the new letters scattered across his arm, messier than he is used to, hurriedly scrawled onto skin.

What is wrong?

What happened?

Svlad, what is going on?????

Why aren’t you answering???

Did they hurt you???

Svlad???

Please answer, just so I know you’re okay

Please, I can’t lose you

Please

Please

I will find you, I swear, Svlad, I will find you and get you home

[justtideguard]

(Valid IC Content) Somewhere at some given time you are attacked! Either a gunshot from afar, a knife in the shadows, or just taking a wrong turn in the city. Your attacker is -extremely- skilled with disheartening endurance to damage; often shrugging off blows that would kill an Orc. Your attacker, whoever it is, would be coated in the least with chainmail, with various sheets of plate to cover their vitals. Their armor is black and gold... Good luck!

A long night as usual, this seemed to be a growing trend as of late as the businesses she was involved in began to pick up. Her last consult, the arms dealer in Old Town was...revolting, to say the least. The way he eyed and tried to paw at her the entire meeting brought a sickly churning to her stomach, but, it was the plan she’d hoped for. His reputation preceded him, and she dressed for the occasion, which as a result, resulted in her gaining the resources for the Company that she’d need, even if it did cost her some dignity. At least one thing was able to salvage the night, the dress she’d spent hours with the tailor for had finally been finished. She’d miss the wedding of Galleia’s father tonight, but now, now she was prepared to see hers at least.

Making her way around the corners, through the dark alleys she’d finally reach her inns’ doorstep along the back side of a dilapidated exterior staircase. Dress over shoulder she reached for the doorknob with a quick quirk of her head. Quarter turn. She always left the doorknob at a full turn with the lock, having to use a piece of thin bark to keep it jammed that way. Opening the door slowly she held it at a crack for a moment, the light of a nearby lamp post finding it’s way through the opening for her. With a sudden swing of the door she’d push it all the way inside showing the room bare, save for all of her papers and little things. Paranoid, probably someone mistaking the room for their own was all.

As she made her way in she’d shut the door behind her, latch it and toss the dress onto her filthy cot. With a few steps she made it over to her desk and reached for the first drawer, within, a few matches lay waiting sprawled out across the bottom of the tray. With a quick strike of the match she went to lower it to light her candle before the glint caught her eye. Through the dirt-caked mirror behind her desk she saw the shine of gold and steel behind her. Before she could turn, she was out of breath, the air being torn from her lungs as she dropped the match, extinguishing itself as it fell to the floor. The assassins’ garrote tightened about her throat as he began to pull her backwards up into the air to hold her elevated in her strangulation. Legs kicking wildly and fingers fighting to grab hold of the chord, she couldn’t slip through it’s restraint as her eyes welled with her face going red.

“I’d hoped you would be more of a challenge.” The man said through idle grunts to keep her both restrained and elevated from the ground. “But I’ll make due before the others.” As everything began to twist and haze over in her vision, Tide clawed backwards at the man’s face to no avail as she couldn’t think from the oxygen deprivation. In her last breathing moments she was able to remember something from earlier in the day, and by the Light, the man who taught her had forgotten the blade which might save her. Fumbling for the dirk that lay tucked in her belt she was finally able to grip it. With white knuckled hold her eyes shifted aside, and through the tears she spotted her target. Full force, drive it the fuck through. Using all she had left she pulled the knife back and plunged it through the man’s forearm, seeing it through one side, and out the other. The assassin’s grip immediately loosened before dropping her to the ground, leaving Tide choking and gasping for air as she fought to unwind the wire around her neck.

With a pained, yet determined grunt the assassin tore the blade from his arm, seeming unconcerned by the blood pouring out as a result as he reached down to Tide. Pulling her up by the scalp he began striking her repeatedly in the ribs on either side. Strike after strike she felt her ribs splintering. Like a twig beneath a mans boot, her ribs crunched and snapped each time the man punched behind those plated gauntlets. With a cry out in pain Tide fell limp in the hands of her assailant before he carelessly tossed her towards her window. Looking up she could see it through the light of the moon shining through on her windowsill, maybe her only salvation; A button.

Forcing herself to stand she grabbed the button and braced herself against the wall as she watched the assassin step forward again. Drawing a knife from his side he’d twirl it between his fingers before raising it over head with each step forward. Without any safety left, Tide did the only thing she could. She pressed the button with a firm slam of her palm and turned to throw her weight against the window. As she began to fall the at least twenty feet downwards, a beautiful plume of fire and chaos erupted out of the window she’d flown from. The explosion rang out deafeningly as Tide hit the ground like a rag doll, papers and embers falling down like leaves to greet her. Blinking up to the sky her eyes felt heavy, but she knew she couldn’t sleep yet. Shards of glass remained jutting out of her arms, legs, and anything else that seemed inconvenient for the time really. The last thing she could see floating down from the room was the tattered remains of her new dress, scorched and in shreds as it blew into one of the nearby gutters.

Knowing she could not rest, but feeling as though she could barely move through the pain, she couldn’t stay here. With painful yells and obscenities Tide was able to finally bring herself to stand with the aid of a nearby cart she was forced to crawl to. Limping and stumbling every few feet she pressed onward, looking for salvation, or something, anything, to stop the bleeding and the pain. What felt like hours passing of her restless trudge through the empty city streets finally resulted in her reaching the Cathedral Square. As she neared the fountain she could go no further, her body would not allow it before leaving her to collapse onto the cobblestone path. Arms sprawled out and bleeding to death she prayed to anything that would heed the call, the Light, Shadows, the Balance...please send a priest, a druid...someone. Whether she deserved saving, or would receive it she did not know before her eyes finally fell too heavy. Maybe just a little rest, just for a little while.

[testifytime2-blog]

Okay but here’s how my Kingdom AU works:

- Skaia was originally one Kingdom, but because of “An Event”, the kingdom split up in a civil war that’s still going on, and became Prospit and Derse

- Derse is a really harsh place. Very cold, barely any light at all - and when there is light, it’s too dangerous to go outside. Derseites have incredibly pale skin and hair because of this, and in some cases (like Dirk’s) it’s so pale you can see their veins under their skin

- Prospit is a very forgiving and warm place. Lots of sun, the perfect climate for growing food. Prospitians are all dark skinned. Their only struggle is during the winter, because their winters are very harsh to make up for the perfect living conditions throughout the year.

- The guardians are known as the High [class]. So Bro’s the High Prince, and Dirk is the Low Prince to differentiate between them. They’re thousands of years old and the most distinctly coloured out of everyone to show for it (the Derse guardians are so white they’re basically colourless; the Prospit guardians are so dark they’re verging on pitch black). The war started when they were teens; at first, only two of them would fight and two would rule (Bro and Alpha Dave being the fighters for Derse and Grandma English and Grandpa Harley being the fighters for Prospit). This changed when the kids came along; all four guardians raised all four kids till they were old enough, and then left for war, leaving the kids in charge

- Dave was a spy sent to kill John. He couldn’t do it. He tried to warn John instead, and ended up staying in Prospit because he didn’t want to keep fighting in the war

- Dirk and Jade are the main fighters for each kingdom. If the Prince or the Witch show up, each side shits their pants. It’s just common knowledge that unless you have your respective leader when the other one shows up, you’re fucked.

- Dave and John are moirails. They do cute things like pause time and dance in the air under the moonlight.

- In Prospit, it’s a common practice to give your weapon to someone you deeply love or care about, be it a friend or a lover or a family member, as a symbolic show of this caring. In Derse, you only do this for lovers, since being a more militant nation, not having your weapon on hand at all times is deeply more significant.

- Mom and Dad kinda defect from the war when they fall in love. Alpha Dave, tired of fighting, works with Alpha Rose to try and save as many innocent lives as they can before Bro slaughters whole villages. Alpha Dave is on very thin ice with Bro because of this, since he suspects Alpha Dave might defect as well.

- A ceremony takes place where the main rulers of each kingdom (Dirk and John) have to interact with each other for a month, then take part in a symbolic ritual where they drink a certain amount of coloured liquid representative of the other from bowls to indicate the amount of trust they hold for the other nation. In that month, they kinda maybe fall in love. Thus, during the ceremony, John surprises everyone by drinking all of the liquid in the bowl. Dirk fucking blows everyone’s minds by doing the same, and declares that the stupid dang war is over (since he’s spent time with John and realises that they’re not really sure why the war’s even being fought? And that Prospit really isn’t that bad?)

- The rumour come out: the war started cus Bro and Grandpa Harley were supposed to do the ceremony when they were kids. Being something of childhood sweethearts, Bro drank all of the liquid in his bowl without a second thought. Grandpa Harley didn’t drink a drop of his. Humiliated and heartbroken, Bro left, and came across a demon who offered to mend the heartbreak. Bro agreed, and lo and behold, Lord English puppeteered him by cutting him off from most of his positive emotions, leaving him with only the rage he felt at the betrayal. Ordering him to seek revenge, Bro then slaughtered the Prospitian’s guardians, and declared war. Grandma English readily accepted. They’ve not stopped fighting since; Grandma English refuses to stop till Bro’s dead, Bro refuses to stop till Prospit is burnt down.

- Kids are dumb: Grandpa Harley was totally going to drink every damn drop of the liquid in his bowl, but nerves had made him tense up, and after Bro - who struggled with emotions and didn’t always portray them that well even in their low-key courtship - had taken him by surprise by drinking every last drop of the liquid in his own bowl, Grandpa Harley was just kinda frozen in place. He blames himself for the war considering if he’d drank from the bowl like he’d wanted to, he wouldn’t have accidentally turned down Bro and led to him getting possessed by a demon.

- Stuff happens, there’s a final confrontation; Lord English fully possesses Bro to fight and try to kill everyone. Stuff happens idk and Bro is killed. Nanna Egbert brings him back to life on the condition that Alpha Rose can promise he won’t be a murderous asshole if she does. Alpha Rose promises that he won’t (since she explains that he wasn’t actually that much of a colossal cockbag when he was a kid, just kinda stoic, and that the whole “possessed by a demon” thing was like 90% of the reason he did the thing).

- Happy ending kinda: Bro’s brought back with a shit tonne of regret. He works towards mending bridges and coming to terms with the stuff he did while possessed. He and Grandpa Harley make up; it’s really cute and they hold hands and everything is great. The guardians agree to step down and let the kids rule Skaia, with Heir John and Prince Dirk being the High Rulers of the joined kingdom. The end.

Things I need to work on: how do I add in the trolls so I can have that John<3<Equius romance be a thing, and the scene where Nepeta and Dave bond over thinking their respective moirails are dead, followed by the tearful reunion when it turns out they’re not. Additionally, other romances for the characters?

[blaperile]

Homestuck Epilogues - Meat - Page 14 (Epilogue 3 Page 1)

[imperfectapollo]

AO3 Version 

Chapter One

Happiness is like a scratched record. It fills you with a good feeling, then skips.

Dave felt like all the walls were getting closer and closer. He didn’t even need to look at Davesprite to know that he felt that way too. The others voices had been long drowned out by clashes of metal, commands to “get up and keep going. I’m not raisin’ some weak lil shit Dave. Get the fuck back up”. He could almost feel the sharp metal that was stained crimson, dragging along his chest and back slowly, small nonlife-threatening flicks to his neck to remind him to keep moving. The treat had always been there. Lose Bro’s game and the sword could easily enter and leave his body and Dave had known that if that happened, his guardian would not be apologetic. He’d leave him to die or survive.

A hand on his shoulder had him spinning around on instinct, hand quickly moving to slap the person whose touch had jerked him out of the dark hole known as memories, when his wrist was held carefully. One look up had his mind screaming, slowly melting down. What was Bro doing here? Why was no one stopping him? Why wasn’t he attacking? Is this another mind game? A voice in his head whispered something simple. Dirk. That’s right. The worried young adult in front of him was Dirk. Not Bro. they look the same but they don’t act the same. The one in the background baring similar looks had to be Hal right? He was safe in here. Slowly the ringing died down and he could hear them.

“-ay?”

“I…I what?” Dave couldn’t remember the last time his voice had been so quiet.

“I said are you okay?”

“I yeah…Yeah I am. Sorry.”

“No need to apologize.” Dirk finally let him go and ran a hand through his hair. “So your brother is back?” He couldn’t help but feel guilty. Fuck he thought he was over this. He knew he hadn’t been the one to hurt Dave and that there was no way he could ever do so.

Dave sighed and collapsed on his bed. He knew that this had been coming. Fuck he wouldn’t be surprised if Bro had been the first one that the game returned. That he had just been waiting biding his time to come back into his life and ruin it all. All of the confidence he had slowly worked on during the game was shattering before his eyes. Where he had felt stable and grounded a few minutes ago, he now felt like he was walking on a tightrope, swaying in the breeze with no hope to keep himself balanced.

A hand waving in front of his face slowly brought him back to reality again. He shook his head, trying to stay focused on the here and now. Not the past. The past could go fuck itself. Sure it was coming back to haunt him, but maybe if tried, he could ignore it all? He could…Pretend that it wasn’t happing. That’s what he had done to survive before the game had even latched onto him.

He felt like throwing up but he was above that. He couldn’t appear so weak. Yet his face must have given him away, for a bucket was shoved in his hands. Just in time as well because he started retching. After chugging the water that had been handed to him, he gasped for air, apologizes forming on his tongue, only for them to be stopped by a hand covering his mouth.

“Don’t you dare apologize. You did nothing. Now hear me out. He might have only seen you. He might have seen us all. but there’s three of us. Three Dave’s. we all have different fighting styles. We can use that against him. We have an advantage. Plus, we have everyone else to back us up. We’ll be fine. We’ll kick his ass. Got it?”

Dave couldn’t help but nod. The fire in Davesprite’s eyes told Dave that the former sprite meant every single word that came out of his mouth. When his mouth was free, Dave swallowed back yet another apology. Instead he took a breath, counted to ten and let it go slowly, recalling all of Rose’s tips. “You’re right. He can’t hold any power in this universe. We can beat him. We have the skill, all we have to do is wait for him to show his face.” He felt like someone else had taken over his body and was speaking for him.

It was Hal who stepped forward. “Dirk and I will go work on the security. No harm in boosting it.” Sure he had access to the system and he could do it wherever he wanted, but he knew that Dave would need space. He could see it, no matter how much the other thought he was hiding his feelings. He was glad that no one else was bringing it up.

Roxy looked up and thought quickly. “I’ll like go message the others to let them all know the situation and that operation ‘Kick asshole guardian’s ass’ is now a thing.” With a smile, she quickly retreated to her room, despite the fact that her phone was in her pocket the whole time. She pulled both mothers with her, leaving only the three Dave’s in the one room.

After a few awkward beats of silence, D cleared his throat and grabbed the box that held the items that had scared his alt selves. “I say we burn this trash.” Sure burning Cal’s hat would probably piss Bro off, but judging by what the others had filled him in on, the man deserved to have everything he cared about destroyed before he himself was slowly and painfully killed. D had never met him but he wanted to kill him.

Dave nodded. “Yeah. Let’s take it out back. I don’t want the smoke to fill up my room.” Thus, with support from the one he called his twin and his older brother carrying the box, the three existed the house.

It was killing Dave to be in the open like that. He felt like Bro’s eyes were on him the second he stepped out of a place that he found safe. The apartment back in Texas had never been home. It had been hell on Earth. The meteor had been his first home and Earth C was his second. So the fact that the man who had made his life hell was now lurking around his safe planet was killing him.

“I’ll give you the honour kid.”  D’s words shocked him out of his small trance and Dave clumsily caught the lighter thrown to him, making a mental note to see if he could sneak some cigarettes from D later. Surely smoking would help calm him down right? He shook his head as Davesprite nudged him forward.

After taking a breath, he held the small flame to the cursed hat, waiting for it to catch aflame. After a short time, he watched as the smuppet began to burn. It caught…Way too quickly for Dave’s liking and so he bent ever so slightly and focused. Sure enough, among the sound of crackling flames, he heard a faint hissing noises. With wide crimson eyes, he spun around to run back towards the others, ordering them to get closer to the house but by then, it was too late.

Dave had no idea how many cherry bombs had been stuffed into that smuppet but it must have been more than what use to be hidden in the ice dispenser back in the original apartment. No wonder the smuppet burned so quickly. It was thin with enough stuffing to hide what it contained.

The three of them instinctively dived for the ground when the explosion happened, the others running out of the house, swearing at the scene. It wasn’t until someone was over him, that Dave registered that his leg had been hit with burning felt and that he was now sporting a burn on his leg. At least his quick movement towards the ground had eliminated any chance of his jeans to catch alight.

The feeling of his original guardian’s eyes on him felt stronger so he repressed any pained noise, instead just repressing it for later. Dave could speak to someone about it later. For now, he just had to make sure that everyone knew to be careful with any packages, fuck any mail they got. Dave had just been lucky that he had heard the hissing in time.

[brinycapers]

Day 62

The gang decides to rest for a while, but they are awakened by the elf that they had left as a guard, Gimli. Seems as if he had tried to steal their mask.

The “comedy/tragedy” mask image is used as the universal symbol for theatre; it represents the two effects of wine: joyous, Bacchic revelry, and a dark, sorrowful harvest.

This mask fits over the character's nose and mouth. The bulk of the item is a cloth packet holding a porous, spongelike substance. It requires a move action to put on or remove.

A huge argument played out with Gimli finally agreeing to go into the tunnel beneath the ground. This triggered a trap:

A cloud of clammy, thin mist appears in each corner of the room for 20' The mist is too thin to have any effect on vision, but the necromantic energy infused within it hampers the living.

Nobody stood anywhere near the corner of the room, however.

The tunnerl smells like earth as if it were recently dug.

Gimli entered the tunnel. He looks down the tunnel. The tunnel goes straight ahead. He can not see the end of the tunnel as the blackness seems to go forever.

After a few tens of feet, he gets to a spot where he can not see anymore. He comes back and searches above him. He finds what appears to be a trap which smells like sulfur. When he messes with it, the trap goes off and he's buried.

Buzz thinks to dig him out and he and the others work frantically to free the elf.

They manage to get the elf out alive where Buzz revives him.

After that the gang goes outside where they find a crowd of blind Jerren. The Jerren are stoning a few nymphs who are tied up. The gang declines to stone the nymph and they talk their way out of it. They also talk a few Jerren into coming with them in order to help them in the sewers. They find an entrance in the sewer and have the Jerren go in first. The Jerren almost sink totally into the muck, but they swim into the darkness.

After a while, the gang follows them into the sewer system.

You stand in water that's 2' and is murky. The sunlight shines through the grating illuminating everything 15' away. The corridor is made of stone and 5' wide.

You hear pathetic screams in voices that could only be from tiny evil creatures. Yet, their plaintive cries are so sad, you almost feel pity for them.

There are 3 paths here.

Once in the sewer:

There is text here as if it were chisled into the wall by an artist. [Gnomish. The text looks like it's scrawled out by someone less skilled, but the text is still readable. The text goes it goes all the way down to the water line, the last line is slightly below the water.]

"Welcome, traveler to our humble abode; may your journey be safe, and your life be long. Here are some of our greatest treasures given at no cost. Our only wish and satisfaction is for you to find the true treasures in life: truth and wisdom.

To live is to suffer, to suffer is to find some meaning in living...Thus in the depths of truth, one could never delve in vain; you either reach a point deeper today, or you will be training your powers so you can go deeper tomorrow...In every real man, the child is hidden that wants to play...One must still have chaos in oneself to give birth to a dancing star."

A terrible stench pervades the entire sewer network. Living creatures in the cloud become sickened.

The gang follows the sewer through twisting paths. They find a dead end.

There's a bookcase here. If it's searched, there's a book called The Muscle Change Classic. The other books are of the history of Miya Jima.

The Bookcase Cliché looks to be just that: a swiveling floor-to-ceiling bookcase of the sort one generally sees in old movies. Torches are conve- niently placed on either side of the bookcase, and twisting either one of the sconces will cause the bookcase to make a very fast 180-degree turn on its platform. Perhaps the delvers will catch a glimpse of a passageway behind. An identical bookcase — previously the “back” of the other one — now rests where the original was.

The gang pulls the torch and sends the crocodile through the door:

Unfortunately, the second time the bookcase is activated, without a safety switch known to the book’s owner being thrown first, one half of the “bookcase” sprouts spikes just before it pivots in the middle directly onto the other half.

The gang manages to disable the trap by stacking books in the way and pulling the torch.

Next, Fanga steps on a pressure plate with an audible "click". He waits there. After a quick moment some dead bodies swing into view. Hanging from the ceiling are tiny bodies, mostly stripped of their skin. Fresh blood oozes from the little corpses.

Then there's the jarring sound of twin violins which are playing different songs.

Then the walls open all around the players. There's clearly something under water as well.

The attacks come hard and fast spreading both paralysis and disease.

The violin causes many difficulties until the gang plugs their ears with wax.

Early on, Fanga gets paralyzed. The crocodile begins to kill whatever is under the water. The rest of the gang fends for itself in the water fight.

Finally, Dirk manages to pull one of the creatures out of the water.

Gnomes stand 3 to 3½ feet tall and weigh 40 to 45 pounds. They have blood coming out of their mouths and nose dripping into the water. Their hands have been twisted into claws with webbed fingers and when they open their mouths, they bare razor sharp teeth. Their clothes were once colorful; now they wear dirty rags. Their eyes shine with inhuman hunger.

Strangest of all if their complexion, however. Their faces appear to be bleached white. Their eyes and mouth are surrounded by bright blue circles, their lips and nose are ruby red. They have green afros.

After killing all the undead gnomes, they go after the violin player. They find her in a dark corner. Donkis shoots three beams that fry her, but her violin is unscathed.

Wears a black hoodie where her face is not visible. When one looks at it, her face is concealed until one pulls back the hoodie. Once revealed her face is bone white and his lips and nose are bright red.

She holds a violin so black that it looks flat.

Someone takes the violin, but it has bad effects:

Within a few moments of acquiring the violin, a good player will feel ill but not enough to have a mechanical penalty.

The violin is evil but the user will think that the violin is good and won't get rid of it. It feels cold to the touch, but not as cold as ice.

Then Donkis picks it up with mage hand, and he, too, falls under the violin's curse.

Next, the gang leaves the sewer and heads back to the treehouse where they were staying. Enroute, they pick up Justine, a female gibbering criminal.

Back at home, Donkis manages to put down the violin. Lotus goes for it. Buzz blasts the violin, but it's intact. The rest of the group stands down while Lotus uses mage hand to pull the violin toward her.

An evil nymph plus and evil magic artifact; what could possibly go wrong?