#Maker take the wheel

[lizzybeeee]

Warden Evka: "None of us signed up to kill Gods."

Me:

[publiccollectors]

Wurstelprater in October New Public Collectors publication! Available for $9.00 here. Public Collectors publication #81 takes a trip to an amusement park in Vienna just days before many of the attractions closed for the season. From the back cover:

When the Vienna Art Book Fair’s Director Marlene Obermayer invited the publishing imprint I co-run, Half Letter Press, to participate in the 2023 edition of the event, she generously booked a hotel room for me. Last time the fair was held in 2019, the hotel was a short stroll to the fair. This time it was about a 25 minute walk. She explained, “Its not the same like last time but also a really nice one (next to the famous PRATER).” I wondered why I had never heard of the Prater and meant to look it up before my trip. In the frenzy of packing books, I never got around to that. Instead I found out when I arrived. 

Founded in 1766, the Prater includes a massive amusement park (Wurstelprater) filled with dozens of garish rides, an enormous Ferris wheel, tests of strength and skill, bizarre sculptures and gnarly ride facades covering every surface, and a variety of restaurants and other delights. You don’t have to pay to get in—there’s just a fee for whatever rides and games you want to enjoy. You can walk through the park any time, including before it opens, which I did on the way to and from the fair every morning and evening. At night it’s a whole other reality with dazzling lights, pounding music, and rides whipping bodies in every direction, testing any visitor’s ability to hold in their wurst. As one YouTube video-maker commented, the Prater “feels like a carnival on steroids.”

These photos were taken in the third week of October, just days before most of the rides would shut down for the season. The Wurstelprater is a fully immersive experience that could never be fully documented in all of its countless details. Anyone thinking this booklet might ruin the surprise of visiting for the first time should know that I have barely scratched the surface. 

— Marc Fischer / Public Collectors

[makerandbean]

wough… I don’t think I put enough purple in perhaps, and maybe a bit too much white, but we’ll see how it spins up. thinking of doing this is a fairly chunky single and then plying it with a very thin bit of rose (i.e. I guess probably essentially viscose?) fibre that i have that’s white and silken and glossy. I think that might have a fun effect…

third and fourth batt i carded with the guild’s drum carder (second one did not meet my high standards or personal taste and got snagged by someone else who loved it instead). i was going for a night sky vibe here, but maybe too much white…?

[vivmaek]

POETRY FOR YOUR MOON SIGN

✰ my masterlist poems written by someone who has the same moon sign as you <3

☾PISCES☽

Edgar Allen Poe, A Dream Within a Dream

“Take this kiss upon the brow! / And, in parting from you now, / Thus much let me avow – / You are not wrong, who deem / That my days have been a dream; / Yet if hope has flown away / In a night, or in a day, / In a vision, or in none, / Is it therefore the less gone? / All that we see or seem / Is but a dream within a dream.”

June Jordan, You Came with Shells

“You came with shells. And left them: / shells. / They lay beautiful on the table. / Now they lie on my desk / peculiar / extraordinary under 60 watts.”

Toni Morrison, It Comes Unadorned

“it comes / Unadorned / Like a phrase / Strong enough to cast a spell; / It comes / Unbidden, / Like the turn of sun through hills / Or stars in wheels of song. / The jeweled feet of women dance the earth. / Arousing it to spring. / Shoulders broad as a road bend to share the weight of years. / Profiles breach the distance and lean / Toward an ordinary kiss. / Bliss. / it comes naked into the world like a charm.”

☾AQUARIUS☽

W.B Yeats, A Coat

“I made my song a coat / Covered with embroideries / Out of old mythologies / From heel to throat; / But the fools caught it, / Wore it in the world’s eyes / As though they’d wrought it. / Song, let them take it / For there’s more enterprise / In walking naked.”

W.B Yeats, The Lover Tells of the Roses in His Heart

“All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old, / The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart, / The heavy steps of the ploughman, splashing the wintry mould, / Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart. / The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told; I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll apart, / With the earth and the sky and the water, re-made, like a casket of gold / For my dreams of your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.”

Louisa May Alcott, The Lay of a Golden Goose

“Oh! Be not rash,” her father said, / A mild Socratic bird; / Her mother begged her not to stray / With many a warning word. / But little goosey was perverse / And eagerly did cry, / “I’ve got a lovely pair of wings, / Of course I Ought to fly.”

☾CAPRICORN☽

John Milton, Sonnet 19

“When I consider how my light is spent, / Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, / And that one talent which is death to hide / Lodged with me useless, through my soul more bent / To serve therewith my Maker,”

Jala al-Din Rumi, The Guest House

“This being human is a guest house. / Every morning a new arrival. / A joy, a depression, a meanness, / some momentary awareness comes / As an unexpected visitor. / Welcome and entertain them all! / Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows, / who violently sweep your house / empty of its furniture, / still treat each guest honorably. / He may be clearing you out / for some new delight. / The dark thought, the shame, the malice, / meet them at the door laughing, / and invite them in. / Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent / as a guide from beyond.”

Gwendolyn Brooks, a song in the front yard

“I’ve stayed in the front yard all my life. / I want a peek at the back / Where it’s rough and untended and hungry weed / grows. / A girl gets sick of a rose.”

☾SAGITTARIUS☽

Lewis Carroll, A Boat Beneath a Sunny Sky

“In a Wonderland they lie, / Dreaming as the days go by, / Dreaming as the summers die: / Ever drifting down the stream – / Lingering in the golden gleam – / Life, what it is but a dream?”

Dante Alighieri, From “Inferno”

“It’s the pain / of the people down there that empties my / face. / It’s pity / that you’ve mistaken for fear. / And it’s the long way / that pushes us now. / Let’s go.”

Victor Hugo, Tomorrow, At Dawn

“Tomorrow, at dawn, at the hour when the countryside whitens, / I will set out. You see, I know that you wait for me. / I will go by the forest, I will go by the mountain. / I can no longer remain far from you. / I will walk with my eyes fixed on my thoughts, / Seeing nothing of outdoors, hearing no noise / Alone, unknown, my back curved, my hands crossed, / Sorrowed, and the day for me will be as night.”

☾SCORPIO☽

Sarojini Naid, Autumn Song

“Like a joy on the heart of a sorrow, / The sunset hangs on a cloud; / A golden storm of glittering sheaves, / Of fair and frail and fluttering leaves, / The wild wind blows in a cloud. / Hark to a voice that is calling / To my heart in the voice of the wind: / My heart is weary and sad and alone, / For its dreams like the fluttering leaves have gone, / And why should I stay behind?”

Shel Silverstein, Dreadful

“Someone ate the baby. / It’s absolutely clear / Someone ate the baby / ‘Cause the baby isn’t here. / We’ll give away her toys and clothes. / We’ll never have to wipe her nose. / Dad says, “That’s the way it goes.” / Someone ate the baby.”

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Aftermath

“When the summer fields are mown, / When the birds are fledged and flown, / And the dry leaves strew the path; / With the falling of the snow, / With the cawing of the crow, / Once again the fields we mow / And gather in the aftermath.”

☾LIBRA☽

Maya Angelou, Caged Bird

“A free bird leaps / on the back of the wind / and floats downstream / till the current ends / and dips his wing / in the orange sun rays / and dares to claim the sky.”

Emily Dickinson, Good Morning – Midnight

“Good Morning – Midnight – / I’m coming Home – / Day – got tired of Me – / How could I – of Him? / Sunshine was a sweet place – / I liked to stay – / But Morn – didn’t want me – now – / So – Goodnight – Day!”

Elizabeth Barrett Browning, My Heart and I

“You see we’re tired, my heart and I. / We dealt with books, we trusted men, / And in our own blood drenched the pen, / As is such colours could not fly. / We walked too straight for fortune’s end, / We loved too true to keep a friend ; / At last we’re tired, my heart and I.”

☾VIRGO☽

Robert Hayden, Those Winter Sundays

“Sundays too my father got up early / and put his clothes on in the blueback cold, / then with cracked hands that ached / from labor in the weekday weather made / banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. / I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking / When the rooms were warm, he’d call, / and slowly I would rise and dress, / fearing the chronic angers of that house, / Speaking indifferently to him , / who had driven out the cold / and polished my good shoes well. / What did I know, what did I know / of love's austere and lonely offices?”

Jack Kerouac, How to Meditate

“Thinking’s just like not thinking- / So I don't have to think / any / more”

William Faulkner, Study

“Muted dreams for them / for me / Bitter science. Exams are near / And my thoughts uncontrollably / Wander, and I cannot hear / The voice telling me that work I must, / For everything will be the same when I’m dead / A thousand years. I wish I were a bust / All head.”

☾LEO☽

Walt Whitman, I sing the Body Electric

“I sing the body electric, / The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them,”

Oscar Wilde, The Ballad of Reading Gaol

“Yet each man kills the thing he loves, / By each let this be heard, / Some do it with a bitter look, / Some with a flattering word, / The coward does it with a kiss, / The brave men with a sword!”

Ralph Waldo Emerson, Friendship

“A ruddy drop of manly blood / The surging sea outweighs, / The world uncertain comes and goes; / The lover rooted stays. / I fancied he was fled, – / And, after many a year, / Glowed unexhausted kindliness, / Like daily sunrise there. / My careful heart was free again, / O friend, my bosom said, / Through thee alone the sky is arched, / Through thee the rose is red; / All things through thee take nobler form, / And look beyond the earth, / The mill-round of our fate appears / A sun-path in thy worth. / Me too thy nobleness had taught / To master my despair; / The fountains of my hidden life / Are through thy friendship fair.”

☾CANCER☽

Shakespear, Sonnet 147

“My love is as a fever, longing still / For that which longer nurseth the disease, / Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,”

Robert Frost, Acquainted with the Night

“I have been one acquainted with the night. / I have walked out in rain – and back in rain. / I have outwalked the furthest city light. / I have looked down the saddest city lane. / I have passed by the watchman on his beat / And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain. / I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet / When far away an interrupted cry / Came over houses from another street, / But not to call me back or say good-bye; / And further still at an unearthly height, / One luminary clock against the sky / Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. / I have been one acquainted with the night.”

William Blake, Auguries of innocence

“To see a World in a Grain of Sand / And a Heaven in a wild flower / Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand / And eternity in an hour”

☾GEMINI☽

Rudyard Kipling, Blue Roses

“Half the world I wandered through, / Seeking where such flowers grew. / Half the world unto my quest / Answered me with laugh and jest. / Home I came at wintertide, / But my silly love had died / Seeking with her latest breath / Roses from the arms of Death.”

John Keats, To Sleep

“Save me from curious Conscience, that still lords / Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole; / Turn the key deftly into the oiled wards, / And seal the hushed Casket of my soul.”

Lord Tennyson, The Eagle

“He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, / Ring’d with the azure world, he stands. / The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; / He watches from his mountain walls, / And like thunderbolt he falls.”

☾TAURUS☽

John Donne, Air and Angels

“Twice or thrice had I lov’d thee, / Before I knew thy face or name; / So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame / Angels affects us oft, and worshipp’d be;”

Audre Lorde, Recreation

“my body / writes into your flesh / the poem / you make of me. / Touching you I catch midnight / as moon fires set in my throat / I love you flesh into blossom / I made you / and take you made / into me.”

Margaret Walker, Lineage

“My grandmothers were strong. / They followed plows and bent to toil. / They moved through fields sowing seed. / They touched earth and grain grew. / They were full of sturdiness and singing. / My grandmothers were strong. / My grandmothers are full of memories / Smelling of soap and onions and wet clay / With veins rolling roughly over quick hands / They have many clean words to say. / My grandmothers were strong. / Why am I not as they?”

☾ARIES☽

E.E Cummings, Love is more thicker than forget

“love is more thicker than forget / more thinner than recall / more seldom than a wave is wet / more frequent than to fail”

Mark Twain, Genius

“But above all things, / to deftly throw the incoherent ravings of insanity into verse / and then rush off and get booming drunk, / is the surest of all the different signs / of genius.”

Paul Laurence Dunbar, Ships that Pass in the Night

“Out in the sky the great dark clouds are massing; / I look far out into the pregnant night, / Where I can hear a solemn booming gun / And I catch the gleaming of a random light, / That tells me that the ship I seek is passing, passing.”

[cottonlemonade]

When He Babysits His Niece

word count: 1278 || avg. reading time: 5 mins.

pairing: post-time skip!Atsumu x chubby!Reader

genre: fluff

warnings: a whisper of spoilers

synopsis: Atsumu finally has the opportunity to hit on you

The Official Version of Events

You stood in line waiting for your turn. It was a pleasant midsummer afternoon and your usual way home brought you through a little park. Children were yelling and laughing as they zipped in and out of couples going for a stroll or people walking their dogs.

A playful breeze tugged at your hair when the elderly woman manning the dorayaki cart told you she‘d have to prepare a new batch and it would take a moment. As the batter sizzled away on the hot stove you fished your phone out of your pocket.

With your mind on the movie night you had planned with your friends that evening, you checked the takeout menus of your usual places to see what you could be in the mood for when suddenly a little black haired blur in a pink tutu over jeans wooshed by and hid behind you, giggling wildly.

"Uhm, hi.", you said, uncertainly.

The little girl gave a tiny bow, said "Hello.", before grabbing another handful of jacket and hiding her face in the folds.

You scanned the people nearby, trying to make out someone who belonged to the child.

"Where are your mom and dad?"

"Kobe."

Well, that might present a problem. This was Osaka.

"Did you come with friends?"

The little girl shook her head at this absurd idea.

"No, my uncle."

"Kaidaaa!"

A young man, visibly distressed, jogged along the path, craning his neck left and right, calling the name over and over.

The girl, obviously “Kaidaaa”, giggled again and hid around the corner of the cart, her bright blue sneakers still very visible.

You waved the young man over, pointing subtly to the mischief maker.

When he reached you, he doubled over, catching his breath and with the most relieved expression you had ever seen on a person he just said, "Ya take Hide and Seek way too seriously."

"Yer just real bad at playin‘.", the little girl said matter of factly and with an added shrug bit into a steaming red bean bun the cart lady must have snuck to her. You pressed your lips together to stop yourself from laughing at the man's offended look.

“I really like your tutu.“, you said to make conversation and Kaida smoothed it out proudly.

“It‘s for my birthday.“

“Oh, it‘s your birthday?“

“No.“ Wow, this girl gave anyone a run for their money. “My birthday was last week, but uncle couldn‘t be there so we celebrate this weekend.“

“Ah, I see. That‘s very nice of him.“ The guy gave you a half smile, obviously very satisfied with himself.

“He got me a scooter!“, she told you excitedly, “And the wheels glow in the dark!“

“That‘s so cool!“

“Well, I wanted to getcha a pony“, her uncle said, picking his niece up like a cat and dangling her in front of him, feet swinging like a pendulum while she still nibbled on the rest of her dorayaki, “but yer dad said something about that being impractical.“

Uncle and niece made a tsk sound and said “so lame“ in unison. It was obviously a thing between the two of them.

“How many did you want, dearie?“, the elderly lady asked while she generously spread the thick dark red paste between two fluffy pancakes.

“Five, please.“, you said, then quickly raised your hands and added, “They‘re not all for me! I‘m having some friends over later.“

The guy set down his niece. “Too bad.“, he said with that half smirk again, “I was gonna ask if ya wanted to join us for some ice cream.“

You felt your heart do a little flip at the prospect. You couldn‘t remember the last time you got flirted with, let alone by anyone nearly as handsome as him.

When the lady handed you the paperbag with the pastries the guy said, “Ya think, I could get yer number? We could get some ice cream tomorrow?“

His niece got very bouncy at the idea and put her hands together in a plea, giving you the biggest puppy dog eyes.

“Please excuse her.“, the guy said, putting his large hand on her face and pushing her gently behind him which she found hilarious, “She doesn‘t get fed anything otherwise.“

You laughed and after a second thought nodded. Once you put your number into his phone and paid the lady, you waved goodbye to the both of them, grinning from ear to ear.

As you walked off you heard her ask, “Did I do good?“ and when you turned around he quickly swooped her up around the middle and carried her away as if she didn‘t weigh more than a pillow, calling over his shoulder, “I‘ll call ya later, byeeee!“

________________________

What actually happened:

“How come ya don‘t have a wife?“, Kaida asked as she linked a dandelion with a daisy, “Is it because yer hair looks funny?“

Atsumu stopped in the middle of braiding her ponytail.

“Oi, yer on real thin ice, pipsqueak.“, he said threateningly, his desired effect somewhat diminished a second later by the flower crown she placed on his “funny lookin‘ hair“.

She crawled into his lap and posed for a silly selfie he immediately uploaded to his socials, joining the many - many - previous pictures just like this one.

Putting his phone away again he snuggled her closer and together they relaxed in the shade of a tree for a while. Then he suddenly perked up.

He watched you walk past them and get in line at a street cart a little further down the path.

This was perfect! For weeks he had been trying to get your attention! But no matter how cool and stoic he looked while stretching for his morning runs or how often he exposed his abs when pretending to wipe sweat off his face after a jog, you never noticed him. To be fair, he had gotten a bunch of other admirers this way but he had his eyes set on you so what did he care?

A plan quickly formed in his mind.

“Hey, Kai. Do me a favor?“

“No.“, she mumbled, curling up against his chest.

“Come on. Whaddaya want? Name yer price.“

“Can we order pizza for dinner?“

“I was gonna cook for ya, princess.“, he said with a definite pout in his voice.

“That‘s why I want pizza…“, Kai noted coldly.

He sighed. “Fine. Pizza.“

“And fries!“

“And fries.“, he muttered absently. Atsumu didn‘t take his eyes off you, all but biting his lips at how good your curves looked in those jeans. What he wouldn‘t give to put his head on your soft pudgy tummy after a long hard practice.

“Throw in some gummibears and ya‘ve got yerself a deal.“

They shook on it and Atsumu detailed his plan. She listened excitedly.

____________________________________________

> once you’re dating, Atsumu slips Kaida snacks and money whenever she calls you “aunt”

> Osamu tells the story of the dorayaki cart at every family gathering and eventually at your wedding when he is making his toast as the best man

> Atsumu asked Kaida 100% to help him with his proposal

> Kaida is the flower girl at the wedding

> later she will loudly sigh how she so wishes for a little cousin since her parents don’t plan on giving her a sibling

(Atsumu: “YES, OF COURSE WE’LL GET YA A COUSIN!”, you: “We’ll think about it.”, your husband: “So it’s a yes.”, You, laughing: “I’m thinking, Tsumu!”)

> he’ll “borrow” Kai even more often from then on to show you what a great dad he would be and eventually Kai gets her wish when you and Atsumu walk in at Christmas holding your twins

a/n: thanks to @makkir0ll for spinning the post story headcanons out of control, so I just had to add some! 🌟

[yesihaveaobsession]

Memory Loss

Alastor x female reader

Summary: The reader (you) somehow gets your memory wiped and can't remember ANYTHING, so Alastor is chosen to "babysit" you as the others go find a cure.

A/N- For those Supernatural fans out there "Regarding Dean?" Anyone?? Anyways enjoy. ALSO, I ONLY SKIMMED THROUGH SOO SORRY IF IT MAKES NO SENSE

Something had happened. It was either when you had to defeat that very powerful witch in the battle a couple of hours ago, hexing you, or it was just to piss off Alastor with a prank by the Vees. Either way, it led to damage, not towards the hotel but to you. Your memory was completely wiped out, and you didn't know anyone at the hotel, where you were, or who you were.

After a group meeting, which you had no idea had happened, Charlie and Vaggie volunteered to go find answers or even just a cure. Angel was at Valentino's studio, and Husk was nowhere to be found (probably passed out drunk in a closet somewhere), leaving Alastor to "babysit" you until Charlie and Vaggie returned.

"Charlie, Husk, and Vaggie are on the hunt for a cure," Alastor said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "In the meantime, it looks like you’re stuck with me!" Now, Alastor isn't one to babysit, and even though you're a grown adult, you had the mind of an infant at that moment.

You blinked at him, tilting your head in confusion. "Who are you again?" you asked as you sat on the couch in the lobby, tense, on high alert, and most of all, afraid. But your eyes were filled with curiosity as you looked at the strange tall man in front of you.

Alastor's smile widened, and he chuckled softly. "I'm Alastor, darling." He saw the wheels turning in your head as you tried to process his name and his face, trying to remember.

Hours passed with no sign of Charlie and Vaggie, and Alastor didn't want to wait any longer, so he took up the challenge, taking a more hands-on approach. He disappeared and reappeared with a pen and post-it notes. You tilted your head like a puppy trying to understand.

He began labeling everything in your room with brightly colored post-its: "Bed," "Mirror," "Closet," "Lamp," and even "Door." You watched with wide eyes as he methodically placed each note, explaining their purpose with an amused grin. You followed him around the hotel like a lost puppy, listening as best you could. Finally, you stopped in front of a door. With one arm behind his back clutching his microphone, he used his free hand to gesture to it.

"See, my dear? This is a door. You use it to enter and exit rooms. Quite ingenious, don't you think?" he teased, his tone light but his gaze attentive to your reactions. You followed his explanations with innocent curiosity, nodding earnestly at each one.

Just in case Charlie and Vaggie didn't arrive by daylight, he brought you over to the kitchen and showed you how to use the coffee maker, which was labeled with a colorful and bright neon sticky note. The word "coffeemaker" was scribbled in the radio demon's handwriting. The buttons on the machine were also labeled, and he even wrote down the steps.

All the concentrating and thinking made you tired. He sat in his armchair, reading a newspaper with an old tiny radio playing soft jazz quietly on a small table next to him. You had fallen asleep on the couch and woke up sometime later to find he was missing. Getting up and pretty much getting lost in a place you had once known, you heard humming and figured it was him. So you followed it, and it led you to the kitchen. You forgot you were in there earlier.

Alastor was preparing dinner in the kitchen. You stood close by and then peeked your head in, watching his every move. "What are you making?" you asked, your voice filled with innocent wonder.

"Just a little something to keep us energized," Alastor replied, glancing at you with a fond smile. "Would you like to help?"

You nodded eagerly, stepping closer. He handed you a knife, standing behind you and guiding your hand as you chopped vegetables. Your concentration was intense, and Alastor found it adorable how seriously you took the task. After you finished dinner and cleaned up, which he helped with, it was delightful. Charlie and Vaggie returned with a cure, and your memory soon went back to normal.

[marlinspirkhall]

The Un-Maker

To the uninformed, you are nothing more than a necromancer. You wear their sigil on your chest; the chief mage insists on it- after all, he can read magik better than most. He is the first to discern the true meaning of your gift, years before even you do.

His own magik is significantly strong- though, like him, it has withered with time. By and large, the other mages ignore you. After all, you are only a svvein.

The first time you leave the magery, he gives you a cloak. It's dark purple- the robe of a novice- which is a generous assessment at best. You can barely resurrect a magefly.

His eyes sparkle, then grow serious. “Take it,” he insists. “It will help you blend in.” Of course, you take it only to humor him- blending in comes naturally to you. It might be your only skill.

You perform small tasks in the village, basic magecraft which is little more than a conjurer's trick. You un-break a wheel. You un-graze a knee. When you pass, the best blacksmith in the village watches with baited breath.

You un-forge his sword.

•

While hiding from the smith, you crouch behind the stables. You won’t realise for many years, but the gate you closed on the way in prevented the escape of a horse. The horse- who dreams of the apples in the nearby grove- snickers sadly to herself.

There is a boy at the magery who wears red. Red, the robes of a master. He holds himself with the confidence of someone older, but both of you are five-and-ten.

One night, he lifts a heavy staff above his head, and performs a summoning spell: the most powerful of all magecraft. In an instant, the sky trembles, and rolls with dark clouds. The old masters rejoice, and sing his praises in the downpour, of a boy so powerful that even lightning obeys his command.

You shelter at the edge of the courtyard, and watch without envy.

He's the first to leave, when the war comes.

•

In the coming weeks, you wander the village. You are the only teenager left now that the others have gone, but there are still children to babysit. There are still bloody noses and scraped knees to un-attend to. By now, the villagers know your gift well- that strange, backwards magik you perform without intention. When your mere presence stops an axe falling on his head, even the blacksmith learns to forgive you.

But then, the war comes for the innocents, too.

Families flee Vale-Meg'ed with oxen, horse and handcart. The mages buy them time, and instruct you to leave with them.

“I want to help,” you say.

“Svvein-”

“Perhaps I can un-make the war!”

The chief mage smiles a grim smile. “It will not obey you.”

“But we haven't tried-”

“No.” He wheels on you, his eyes fury and fire. “Take this, and flee.”

It's his first-hewn staff: a spindly thing he carved as a mageling. It's little more than a bolt of wood, but you feel its weight when you touch it. Your hands tremble, and the old mage drives it into the ground afore you.

Sparks flicker.

“Go!”

When you stumble, the staff catches you.

You flee. You trip on your robes, drive the staff into the path, and watch dust fly where sparks ought to instead. You drive the staff down again and again, but it leaks no more magik.

In the distance, storms rage over Mages' Hill. Thunder crackles, and lightning flickers back and forth. Two dark clouds loom beside each other, fighting for dominance.

•

There's a body on the road out of Vale-Meg'ed.

You can't help but slow down. You've seen dead bodies before, of course– they used them for practice at the magery, even those that you couldn't resurrect– so you know what they look like.

For the first thirty seconds, this person is definitely deceased. Then, they gasp, and sit bolt upright.

You scream, and they do too.

Once the shock of not being dead has worn off, they cough soundly, and offer you a swig of water from their flask. Not knowing what killed them, you shake your head.

They down it, then cough some more. “Young svvein. You are but a novice?” They say, seeing your simple robes.

“I–” you say. “I didn’t–”

“Why, magikst most powerful!” They declare, as they check their wounds. “I thought I was going to lose my leg.”

You stare at them in silence as they reach for their purse. “Svvein, I know not why you've saved my life- and I have few coins to give- but accept my thanks.”

You take their silver, if only to preserve your cover, and help them to their feet. They accompany you to the end of the road, where the path splits. Then, they give thanks, and head towards Mages’ Hill.

It’s silent now, but the fires are still burning.

You turn away, and touch the embroidered sigil on your chest: the necromancer’s coil. You wonder if the chief mage knew more than he let on.

•

True necromancing is a complex task, often requiring a pack of mages. Death has compounding interest. The more injuries, the more mages are required. The longer dead, the longer the spell must prevail. Ordinarily, necromancers work long, arduous hours to resurrect a single person. Those who have an understanding of the mage’s art are shocked to see only one of you.

“Where are the others?” someone asks, as you pass them.

“They... Went to lunch,” you say.

“That's unheard of.” They stretch, and crack their back. “The first thing they do is always to collect payment.”

“This isn't your first time being resurrected, is it?” You realise, with a sinking feeling.

They grin toothily, and accept a discount, in exchange for not asking too many questions.

•

In the coming weeks, you un-kill many people along the battlefield. The bodies you pass wake up more often than not, always coughing and spluttering. That which once was jarring becomes routine. Some scream in fright, others clutch at long-healed wounds. Others jolt at the sight of a mage, and cower in your presence.

“Get away, get away!”

Beside them, a cracked mage-staff lies in the mud, snapped cleanly in two. You decide to forgo payment.

You make a living this way for a while, drifting from battle to battle like a vulture. It pays little- the soldiers that die are never the best-equipped, and you get there long after the looters do. Still, those who find themselves alive are invariably grateful to do so, and reward you as well as they can. It's enough to buy you board at the tavern most nights, if not a meal, too.

With time, the war moves on from the valley, though it rages in the distance. You are older now, broader of shoulders, and the First-Hewn staff is older, too. It grows brittle in your fingers.

Before long, it is broken.

You stare at it for a long while, for you are not in the business of breaking things. Still, breaking is a kind of un-making, you suppose. It falls to pieces with nothing more than a whisper, and you mourn it: the First-Hewn staff of an elder holds great power. That it is freed from your possession is a bittersweet relief.

For the first time since the war came, you think of the man who forged it. They say in the early days of war, Mages' Hill was razed to the ground. You haven’t returned to Vale-Meg’ed since.

That night, you rent a room at the tavern, and weep.

•

It's impossible to blend in without your staff, so you attempt to carve your own. For seven suns and seven moons, sparks fly, and lightning pummels the forest. You abandon the task.

The trees are scarred and pockmarked, and the ground will never be the same, yet not a single beam struck you.

For a week, you remain in the valley, but your purse-strings are tight, and the taverns are fit to burst. With little choice, you venture out into the marshland. You out-grew the purple robes years ago, and you’re dressed simply: in a linen shirt and trousers. For now, you are simply a traveller, and you don't intend to continue your grift. Without a staff to speak of, you hardly look the part of a necromancer anymore.

•

Battle does not suit the marshland. It makes the swamp reek worse than usual, and the reeds are soaked with blood. When you trawl for treasure, you find bodies instead.

Bodies who wake up confused, and ask you what's going on.

You sigh, and help them out of the mud.

You wade through the bog for a while, stepping on stones where you can. There's a strange smell in the air; acrid, like burning. The tips of the reeds are signed.

A soldier lies in the dirt, facedown. You roll her over so she doesn’t choke when she wakes, and begin to move on your way.

Her dark eyes open, looking up at the sky. She coughs, and you offer her your water-skin.

She refuses to take it. “I have nothing with which to pay you.”

“The water is a courtesy.”

“And the undying?”

You shift your feet. “That wasn't me.”

She leans back on her arms, and peers up at you sluggishly. “You have no staff.”

“Well-noticed.” You offer a hand.

She doesn’t take it. “There is one other mage who summons without a staff. This war is his design.”

“I am no summoner.”

“Yet you summon the dead.”

You watch her mutely.

“Have I revived you before?” You say at last.

“No, but I've heard of you. You travel alone, and revive villeins when others raise kings.”

You bristle, and take a step backwards. “Your payment is commuted,” you say, and retreat as fast as the mud will allow.

It is not fast at all.

“Wait!” She curses, and coughs furiously. There's a rending, and the slap of footsteps.

You turn. This time, when you offer herr water, she drinks.

“I'm Merra.” She hands the skin back, and wipes her mouth.

“I'm no-one,” you say, which is true enough. You fasten the skin to your belt, and, again, walk away.

Merra keeps pace with you. “I heard you were once a Svvein.”

You remain silent, heading back across the marshland to see how far she will follow. This is the path you cleared earlier– free of bodies– and you retrace your steps where you can. Merra follows all the while, and her sword creaks at her belt.

“Have you no business to attend to?” You say, at last.

“No more than you,” she says, with a smile in her voice.

“I have my living.”

“Then attend to it,” she says. “You think I haven't noticed you're avoiding the dead?”

“Necromancing is a hallowed ritual,” you say.

She scoffs. “Which is why you perform it in galoshes.”

You look down. “There's nothing wrong with my galoshes.”

“Most mage-shoes are hidden by their robes,” she muses. “But I'd imagine mage-shoes are made waterproof by enchantment.”

“That would be a waste of enchantment.”

“And what of your robes, or lack thereof?”

You grunt. “The war destroyed Mages' Hill.”

“Yes, many years ago. But I have seen robes since, and mages too.”

“And what of their magikal shoes?” You ask.

She purses her lips, and surveys the landscape. “There were bodies here, Necromancer. Did you resurrect them all?”

You say nothing.

“It's just past noon,” she reasons. “And this swamp was full of the fallen. How did you recall them all in one morning?”

You glance at her. “How can you be sure I revived you on the same day you fell?”

“As surely as I know there are no maggots in my mouth and nose.”

“Perhaps you have them on the brain.”

You spy the valley up ahead, and slow your pace. You're not eager to return to the villages, with their heroes and veterans and small opportunities; but you can't cross the marshland with Merra- there are too many bodies. Tentatively, you turn onto the village path.

“What killed you?” You enquire, as you walk along.

Merra gives you a look.

“It must have been significant,” you say. “For not all undying know they are so.”

She falls silent, and so do you.

•

You encounter a body on the way into Vale-Egar.

It's a maimed thing, old, bloated, and past its prime. Ordinarily, you wouldn't worry about it- you never seem to wake those who are too far gone- but, today, you pass it with a kind of trepidation. When nothing happens, you let out a breath.

“He looked like a noble,” Merra says, as you hurry past.

“Nothing noble is found in Vale-Egar, especially not by the side of the road.”

“Is that why you won't resurrect him?”

“No,” you say. “It's because he won't come back.”

•

The next body you stumble upon is more intact: a young man with a gaunt face who might as well be sleeping. He's hunched over and leaning against the wall, a tin clutched in his frozen hand. You don't wonder how it stays there- you know better than anyone that rigour mortis begins in the fingers.

As you pass, some colour returns to his face. You hurry Merra along.

The next person you pass is alive, and welcomes you to the village with a smile.

You have no coin with which to pay, but it's no matter. The presence of Merra's sword is payment enough, for there is a bed for all warriors in Vale-Egar.

“That explains why it's so crowded,” you say, as you untie your shoes and leave them at the foot of the bed. You offer to sleep on the floor, but Merra won't hear of it. Apparently, she's got it into her head that she owes you a life-debt. Tonight, you are too tired to argue, so you lay down beside her.

For a long while, she watches you.

The room in this upstairs tavern contains five beds, all of which are crammed with people. You lie on your back and listen to their breathing. This is the closest you've been to the living in a while, and so many, at that. You recall the last time you were around people, of the dormitories on Mages' Hill.

You can feel Merra's breath on your cheek.

“You said not all undead know they are so,” she says.

“Yes,” you murmur.

“So, that beggar outside-?”

“He was merely sleeping.” You move to roll over, but she catches you by the shoulder.

“Credit me some intellect.” She peers down at you. “It was fast; faster than any magecraft I've seen. How did you do it?”

The others in the room are all sleeping soundly.

“I know not how,” you say, in a single breath.

•

In the morning, you leave the village.

“You have no staff,” Merra says, again.

You watch her for a moment. All these years, the staff was your only companion, and now, you have another.

“I haven't the skill to make one,” you admit.

“So, you are no mage.”

“No.”

“And yet you raise the dead.”

•

Over the coming days, Merra accompanies you across the marshland, and the dead spring up in your wake. There's no coin to speak of, but the soldiers pledge fealty to you. You tell them you already have a knight, and a fine one, at that. Merra smiles, as a knight clad in well-made plate armor shakes his head and walks away.

“Have you seen her fight?” Asks another, dressed in mail.

You bristle. “No, but neither, sir, have you.”

He offers her his armor, but she won't take it.

“I travel light.”

•

As you traverse the valley, the marshland turns to grass. You encounter fewer bodies, and those you find are too degraded to wake.

The horizon alights with a flash, and Merra freezes. Thunder roils over the hills.

“You never did tell me what moved you to fight,” you say, quietly.

“I had a quest,” she says, simply. Her hair whispers in the wind, and you nod.

“Then you are bound to it.”

She looks at you with pleading eyes. “But I was dead.”

You shake your head. “It doesn't work like that.”

Thunder resounds.

After a day's travel, the once-lush grass turns to scorched earth underfoot. You stop in your tracks.

“This is Vale-Meg'ed.”

•

Amongst the rubble, there is but one field undisturbed by ash. It's the stable where you hid from the blacksmith all those years ago. Most unusually of all, the gate which you closed has since remained intact.

The horse stands alone in the field, her tail flicking back and forth. She's much older now, and has a grey streak on her nose, but you'd know her anywhere.

“You survived the war,” you comment, as you reach for her mane. She huffs, and hoofs at the dirt. You raise an eyebrow, and turn to Merra. “Could you open the gate?”

She opens it, and the horse races through the ruined grove. You follow behind.

Merra gasps. Right before your eyes, the charred treetops flourish and bear fruit. The horse gallops towards them, and you sprint to catch up.

You chuckle, softly. “Do you forgive me now, mare?”

The horse scarfs down her apples, and allows you to pet her mane.

•

You sleep in the rubble of the magery, and Merra takes first watch. The next morning, you are woken by the sun.

“You didn’t wake me,” you say.

“No,” she says, as she watches the sunrise.

You fall silent. This is her quest, not yours.

•

You spend the day on Mage’s Hill. Merra prepares barricades, and whets her blade. Somehow, you feel as if you've known her a lifetime.

You search the ruins one last time, and are not surprised when you find it, in the remains of the novice quarters.

It is a first-hewn staff. The wood crackles beneath your fingertips.

The ruins are painted orange by sunset.

•

Past nightfall, you remain alert. You sit a few paces from Merra, twisting the staff in your hands. There's a familiarity about it you cannot place, a raw power which stings you if you hold it tight.

The wind picks up suddenly. Too suddenly.

“This is magewind!” She yells.

You jump to attention. It's been many years since you've felt anything like it, but it chills you to the bone. All you can picture is that night on Mages' Hill, on the eve of war: a staff, held aloft as red robes billowed in the breeze.

Tonight, a mass moves upon you: denser than storm itself.

“Merra!” You cry, as the gale sweeps her aside. She catches hold of one of the barricades; hefty chunks of stone which buckle under the pressure.

You run for her, but the wind picks you up like a ragdoll. You fall, and scrape upon every rock as you’re dragged dowhill. You are drowning in wind itself, the breath rivened from you faster than you can draw it. Your clothes tear, then your flesh. You thrust the staff forwards, blindly, and puncture an air pocket. You push down, and pressure slaps you back. You tumble again and again, until at last you make contact with the ground.

You lie, spread-eagled on the floor.

A numbness overtakes you. You grip the staff so tight that it flares with energy.

The sky above you dances. Merra lunges at clouds, and purple lightning arcs around her. A shadow flits through the smog, impossibly light and fast.

The shape moves upon you: dark, tattered robes, deeper than blood, deeper than red, but unmistakably the same robes from all those years ago, held together by magiks. His boots- made of a fine, red leather, have similar weatherproofing, and your eyes dart to Merra.

“Face me,” says the storm.

Your head tilts back to observe him. It hurts to watch, this splicing-together of mage and fury. You try to turn away, but the wind holds you fast. You see Merra from the corner of your eye, silhouetted against the storm.

The Summoner moves upon you slowly, as if he isn't used to walking. “You’re no mage,” he says, at last.

On the hill, Merra drives her sword into the clouds, but The Summoner ignores her. He circles around you. Far too slowly, the feeling returns to your legs.

“Years ago, when the battle was won and there were less bodies on the battlefield than there should be; I heard the strangest whispers from the valley.” He speaks in a low voice, barely above a whisper, but the breeze carries every word. “They spoke of a novice, who summoned the dead.” He turns his attention back to the top of the hill, where Merra is fighting shadows. “You have resurrected one of mine.” He raises a hand. “It’s time to correct that mistake.”

Lightning connects with the tip of Merra’s sword, and the flash lights up the mountainside.

“Mer…” you twitch.

Soil cascades from the heavens, and you hold the staff aloft. “Heed me,” you say. “Heed me!”

It might as well be a twig.

The Summoner laughs. “You cannot resurrect ash.”

You roll onto your front, too weak to stand. For the first time in your life, you attempt to use your powers with intention. You draw runes in the dirt and chant long-forgotten spells, as The Summoner watches with cold amusement.

“You don't know our craft. The magik you do have is little more than a parlour trick.”

“I knew enough to thwart you,” you wheeze.

“Can you undo this, Pretender?”

He unfurls his palm, and the storm rages louder than before. It howls and howls, and lightning blasts the ground until Mage’s Hill is cratered.

Earth is loosened. Stones and rocks turn to vapor, and become part of the storm.

You crawl towards the place where Merra was standing, though you know it is useless. You might as well be crawling through mud in the swamp where you found her. There's an uphill climb past jagged rocks, and another fall would kill you. You have never had to un-make your own death. You wait, as the land continues to slide.

The hill remains un-mended. This cannot be undone– but you can still fight.

“This staff was yours,” you whisper. You haven't seen it since you were three-and-ten, but you recognise it's power.

“Yes.” He holds out a hand, and it flies to him. The staff cracks with energy, and he weighs it in his palm. “I have surpassed the need to bind my magik to the physical realm. But you… You cannot even cast an illusion.” He tosses the staff back to you, and it lands in the dirt.

You make no attempt to pick it up.

“You saw that first summoning spell on Mages' Hill, and were powerless to stop me then. What makes you think you can stand against me now?” His hand forms a fist.

For the first time in your life, lightning makes no effort to avoid you. It arches out of the sky, and bears down on you again and again. You lie in the dirt. You know there is no escape, for this is the mage who commands the four winds as he pleases.

You should be dead, like Merra.

The Summoner’s voice booms, magnified tenfold by the storm. “All that I call for comes to me but The Dead. You have hidden that power from me for too long!”

You open your eyes. A flash of silver runs down the hillside, too small to be lightning. You steady your breathing, and fix your gaze on The Summoner.

“You are no chosen one,” he bellows, as the light flashes again.

“No,” you gasp. “But she is.”

He turns, as Merra strikes true. It's a killing blow, perfectly aimed for the heart, but the storm coalesces around him, and the sword is ejected from his chest. Red blood whips around him, the same colour as his robes, as the heavens bend towards Merra. With a yell, she drives her sword into the ground, and the sky detonates. The energy flows through it once more, illuminating her skeleton, but she stands strong.

She grabs The Summoner with both hands, tearing his robes. He holds out a hand for his magestaff, and you close your fingers around it. It drags you through the dirt until you fall beside him, and you grasp his foot.

You have never needed to fight before, and you're not suited for it. Your attempts to trip him are met with a single kick to the forearm, as the wind tears at you. The lightning which rains down upon you hits all three of you indiscriminately, but The Summoner only grows stronger from each strike. He holds his arms out, bathing in it, as Merra wrenches her sword free.

The blade swings in a wide arc. It hits him at the same moment the lightning does.

For a moment, they are bound together; Knight and Summoner both. They fall as one unit, and crumple to the ground.

Merra smoulders. You struggle towards her. Your back stings; patches exposed to the open air as rainwater falls into the cuts.

Though it feels like an age, you reach her. The Summoner lies mere inches away, motionless.

You place your hands on either side of Merra’s head, and call on a power you have no control over.

With surprising strength, her hands push yours away.

“You must leave this place,” she whispers. “Leave, or he'll never die.”

You grasp her hands with your own. “But you will live.”

Her laugh is a death rattle. “He has killed so many. What's one more?”

You shake your head, and force yourself upwards. Your arms tremble with effort; your legs won't respond.

The Summoner does not stir.

“Leave,” Merra utters.

You fall at her side. “I cannot.”

•

You're not sure for how long you lie there. It could be days, it could be mere hours.

The storm passes on, though the skies remain grey.

The horse trots towards you, and, at last, you find the strength to sit up.

“Merra,” you say.

She looks up.

The two of you struggle to stand, sliding in the mud as you do.

You stroke the mare. The grey streak has disappeared from her nose, and Merra notices it too. She scratches her ears, and you let out a breath.

“A fine steed,” you say, “For an immortal knight.”

She looks at you with wonder. Neither of you know if it is true.

No one has ever died in your attendance before, and you've yet to see if it's possible. As you leave the crater which was once Mages’ Hill, ash falls upon you, followed by light rain. Merra tenses, but says nothing as she climbs onto the horse. She helps you on, and the horse moves in a direction of her choosing.

Neither of you turn to see what becomes of The Summoner’s remains, but the rain doesn't follow you for long. There begins a light sunshine, and the horse gains to a canter, as Merra hugs her mane for balance, and you cling to Merra for yours. She laughs, and spurs the horse onwards with a shout.

The three of you ride towards Vale-Egar.

[rotworld]

2: Spare Parts

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

it seems like you end up stuck next to the same unsettling doll maker every year you attend the sheralothian festival of the arts. if you didn't know any better—if you didn't know him so well—you might assume it was just coincidence.

original work. suggestive but not explicit; contains extremely ambiguous consent, implied/briefly mentioned gore, dollification, fantasy plague.

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It’s no easy feat to reach Laurel Grove from the capital. The road is rough and pitted, hateful to wagon wheels. It twists through the mountains and descends into the treacherous fog of the Mistwalk Valley. Bandits, emboldened by newly thawed trade negotiations and a glut of incautious, overencumbered merchants, stalk the spaces between the trees. From caravan to campsite, a flock of apprentices have zealously guarded your crates of precious cargo. You’re tired, all of you, eager for beds, blankets and a proper meal, but also restless with anticipation. At the Sheralothian Festival of the Arts, you’ll make more money for your workshop in a few days than you will for the rest of the year, attracting new patrons and securing new contracts. 

The first of your apprentices to spot the sparkle of magic hollers in unabashed delight. The tapestry is a seamless weave of physical and metaphysical components, a shimmery material that blooms with sweet-smelling flowers in the daylight and sparkles luminescent beneath the moon. These adornments wrap around the trunks of trees and dangle from the canopy in thin ribbons, forming a path that guides you across bridges formed of mossy, gargantuan tree trunks and through leaf-canopy shaded streets. Laurel Grove, the Evergreen City, gradually unfolds all around you, not carved into the forest but melding with it.

One of your apprentices rushes off to secure a room at Fiora Falls, an inn tucked behind a waterfall. Another finds boarding for the horses. The rest follow you to the meadow fairgrounds where a ring of tents, stalls and tables has sprung up in a wide circle. You are late arrivals, having traveled further than most. Your fellow artists and craftsmen are happy to see you, exchanging embraces and well-wishes. A space has been saved for you not far from the meadow’s entrance. The apprentices get the crates open, setting up shelves, tables and a canopy. The display on your left belongs to Veta, a woodcarver from the south. She has amber eyes and thickly muscled arms littered with old scars. She waves when she sees you. On your right—

“There, there, darling. Don’t be nervous.” 

You freeze. All of your joy and excitement withers and dies because on your right is Medraut. 

You consider leaving. You shouldn’t. Can’t, really. But the thought occurs to you. Packing up, turning around, and making the long journey home without a single sale. You take a deep breath and let it out slowly. No. He won’t ruin this for you. You focus on helping the apprentices, unpacking fresh flowers, minerals and round jars packed full of colorful dust. Your pigments are the finest in Sheralothia. They’re on temple ceilings and canvases hung in palace halls, staining the palettes of the world’s most renowned painters.

Greta, one of the newer apprentices, glances around in awe at the works of leatherworkers, glassblowers and luthiers from distant lands. Inevitably, her gaze is drawn to Medraut and his eclectic display: heavy tomes. Bows and ribbons. Syringes. Small bowls of cosmetic pigments. Cloudy vials of condensed magic in both smooth liquid and thick ichor. Sewing kits. Everything is arranged around a life-size doll at the front and center, sitting stiffly upright with stocking-clad legs dangling off the edge of the table. It’s undeniably beautiful. Dressed in an asymmetric frilly ensemble, its dainty hands are folded one over the other in its lap, nails neatly trimmed and painted. It has a listless expression, lips pursed and painted orchid purple, neither smiling nor frowning. Glassy lavender eyes are accentuated by long lashes and dabs of glittering blush on the cheeks, half-lidded gaze staring at nothing in particular. 

“Hush now,” Medraut murmurs. He tucks a stray lock of hair back into place, looping it behind the shell of the doll’s ear. He caresses its face with the back of his hand in slow, soft strokes, the way one touches a lover. “Yes, I know. You dislike the spotlight. But you’re perfect.”

“Greta,” you say sternly. She flinches, scurrying back to your side with a sheepish expression. “Guests will be arriving at any moment and we’re not finished setting up. Let’s not get distracted just yet.” 

“Of course!” she stammers. You offer a smile to reassure her when she rejoins the other apprentices, sifting through pigments and materials to find the most eye-catching objects worthy of display. She’s soon drawn into a gossip huddle with the others, voices lowered, nervous glances thrown around. You don’t stop them. Better she hears it now, however twisted by hearsay and urban legend, than later. You try to focus on preparing for the start of the festival but you keep stealing glimpses at the neighboring tables. 

Medraut is deceptively delicate-looking, willowy with bony fingers and slender wrists. He’s cut his hair since the last time you saw him. Shoulder-length now, no longer spilling halfway down his back. He still favors the lavish fashions of the nobility; white silk, billowing sleeves, an obsidian brooch affixed to a lace jabot. Everything he does is graceful and deliberate, from the simple act of movement to the precise way he handles the goods arranged in front of him. He keeps returning to the doll, fussing over it, smoothing out creases in its clothing and refluffing drooping bows. Each time, his hand lingers. A squeeze of the shoulder. A stroke of the hair. A slow slide of the palm against the hollow of the throat, unabashed lust in his eyes.

Not unlike the doll, there is an uncanny, ageless quality to his features, a lack of anything that could easily identify him as young or old. That’s just how it is with mages. He could be thirty or three hundred. There’s no way to tell just by looking. You hear the apprentices discussing it. Trading rumors and throwing out guesses. His portrait hangs in the Hall of Gratitude in Twillisp Castle, his smile forever enshrined along with the other advisors King Kirgar maintained during his reign several centuries ago.

“You’re pulling my leg!” Greta hisses. “He can’t be that old!”

The others insist, “He might be even older.”

“He’s from Ithyr, you know. Some of the oldest mages in the world live there.” 

“Lived, anyway.” 

“Oh,” Greta says, her eyes wide. “Ithyr? To the west? Isn’t that where…” 

“Yes. I think that’s why he’s…like that.” 

You share a table. Tall, long and draped with black cloth, this flimsy barrier is all that stands between the two of you. Medraut has already placed a few odds and ends on the side closest to him. Combs and hairbrushes. Perfume bottles. An assortment of scalpels in different sizes, spread out on a velvet cloth. You gather a few of the larger, more inelegant minerals you haven’t had the chance to cut and grind into fine powder, lining them up down the center of the table. You try to do this quietly but Medraut turns the moment you place the first stone. He approaches the table, his smile widening. 

“Medraut,” you greet him curtly.

“My dear friend,” he says, the same sensual murmur he spoke into the doll’s ear rolling off his tongue. The slow, undisguised wandering of his gaze up and down your body makes you uneasy. His eyes are stark silver in pools of black sclera like twin moons, the pupils somewhat misshapen; common in survivors of arcanapox. “It seems I have the pleasure of your company again this year.”

You hum in acknowledgement. “I wonder how that keeps happening.” 

He tilts his head, glancing at something behind you. You step to the side to block his line of sight and he chuckles softly. “Hm. Bloodshot eyes. Unsteady gait. Shaky hands. You work your poor apprentices hard but you work yourself hardest of all. Would you like to sit down? I brought a chair.” 

You place the last stone more heavily than you need to, slamming it down at the end of the table. “You don’t cross this line,” you tell him. “You stay on your side and I stay on mine.” 

“Now, now. There’s no need for all that. But if it will put your mind at ease…” He shrugs, leaning against his half of the table with his arms crossed in front of his chest. “Really, do you think so poorly of me? Your apprentices are precious, but I’d never steal one away. No matter how lovely they’d look in something other than those dreary robes and aprons you’re all so fond of.” 

“I’m glad to hear that,” you say, utterly unconvinced. 

The slow trickle of the festival’s first guests thankfully diverts his attention. Medraut’s display draws in many curious onlookers and he’s all too happy to explain the history of Ithyrian dollmaking. He comes out from behind the table to stand beside the doll, demonstrating its posable limbs with gentle, coaxing touches. You shouldn’t watch. You have plenty to do. But you keep looking. Keep glancing over and finding him increasingly shameless. Running his hands through the doll’s hair. Stroking its arm. Kneeling once to tighten the laces of its boots and sliding his palm up and down the curve of one long, ball-jointed leg. Up and down. Up and down. Slipping beneath the fluttering edge of its skirt…

You get a few potential customers, too, excitedly chattering patrons of the arts looking for fresh new pigments to supply their preferred painters. A few recognize you from previous years. One particularly discerning man asks if a particular jar of dark dust is used in the creation of “mourning blue,” a rich color becoming increasingly popular in the frescoes of the capital. You’re still not accustomed to being recognized like this, approached with awe and praise. Your whole world is the workshop, turning rocks and plants into colors worthy of royal portraits. 

One of your apprentices demonstrates a technique with mortar and pestle, dropping a fistful of flower petals into the bowl. The others stand towards the back and whisper amongst themselves, furtive glances aimed at Medraut. 

“How bad was it?” 

“Oh, it was dreadful. Haven’t you seen The Death of the Deathless?”

“Gods, that awful thing? I couldn’t bear to look at it!”

“Shhh!”

Silence. You can feel them staring at your back for a moment before the whispers start again, even quieter now.

“It’s true. Our teacher was there when it happened. They apprenticed in Ithyr.”

“They were there? How did they survive?” 

“Arcanapox only kills mages. Still, it makes us pretty sick, too. That’s why they have that tremor in their hands."

“Of all things, they painted that?”

“When you see something so awful, you make sense of it however you can.” 

“Eyes like hot wax. Eugh.” 

“But that was a long time ago, wasn’t it?”

“Mages don’t handle death well. It’s too strange to them.”

“So that’s why…?” 

“Yes, to help them grieve.”

“No, that’s just how it started. What they do now, it’s…well, it’s certainly not the same.”  

A finely dressed man in a striped, high-collared doublet approaches Medraut’s table with a broad smile. They know each other. Medraut’s face lights up and they greet each other with half-bows, left hands flicking to the side as though to cast a minor spell; a mage greeting. They speak in hushed but excited tones and you should not be eavesdropping, should not care what they have to say to each other. You rearrange the pigments, sorting them alphabetically. You can’t help yourself. You glance over at them again.

The doll is staring at you.

You nearly drop the jar you’re holding, fumbling with the lid. It hasn’t moved at all except for its head, turned towards you. You swallow nervously, bending to pick up the lid of the jar. The doll’s eyes lower, then follow you back up when you stand. You look away, heart pounding. 

“How long did it take?” you hear the man ask, sounding awed.

Medraut laughs softly. “Quite some time, but I enjoy the process. This one especially.” 

You look at the dirt beneath your feet. The dangling tablecloth. The line of stones. Medraut’s beautiful hand sliding beneath the doll’s arm. Cupping its elbow. Stroking its wrist with his thumb. Sliding their palms together, lacing his fingers with its stiff ones. His face is flushed and his smile is the sort born of fevered delirium, a man dreaming of something impossibly sweet. 

“He’s stunning. Simply breathtaking. And the eyes…”

“A fresh set,” Medraut assures him. “I used the portrait you left with me for reference. A perfect match, isn’t it?”

“Yes. This is everything we wanted and more, Medraut. I can’t thank you enough.” The other man grasps the doll’s hand and brings it to his lips, kissing each finger reverently. “Everything is as it always should have been.”

“As it will forever be,” Medraut says, quiet and solemn. For a moment, neither of them speak. They bow their heads, eyes shut tightly as though willing away an unpleasant memory. Medraut snaps out of it first. He clears his throat, his smile returning. “Let me bring you the case.” 

‘The case’ is a large, wheeled box with a handle at the top. The exterior is polished leather, while the inside is ruched white velvet. Like a display case, you think. Like a bed. Like a coffin. Medraut picks up the doll like it weighs nothing and carefully sets it inside, arranging it on its side in a fetal curl. Stray ribbons and folds of fabric are tucked in. One last kiss is pressed to its forehead. The case closes, zipped and latched and locked shut with a key Medraut passes to the man. You can’t look away as he leaves, watching the case rattle through the dirt and grass and far away, vanishing beyond the meadow. You think about it all day. You’ll probably have nightmares about it.

Sunset signals the end of the festival’s first day. You’re exhausted, eager to get off your feet. When did you eat last? You dismissed the apprentices for lunch in turns and they offered to bring you something. Offered, but you said no. Too frazzled by all the people to eat, all the talking you had to do. A sudden wave of dizziness sends you stumbling, careening right into your own display.

Strong, beautiful hands catch you. You are held against silk ruffles. A warm chest. A quickening heartbeat. Medraut lowers you gently to the ground, cradling your head in his lap. The world is blurry but you can tell he isn’t smiling anymore. He wipes the sweat from your brow.

“Teacher!” You hear Greta and the others, your apprentices frantic and wailing. Medraut keeps them at a distance, barks at them not to crowd around you. You rarely hear him so sharp-tongued and terse. He tells them where to find a healer, sends them off for food and water. You breathe shakily, feeling worse than you realized. Medraut shushes you, his thumb catching a tear at the corner of your eye.

“My dear friend,” he whispers. 

“Put me down.” You try to squirm away from him but you don’t get far. Medraut turns you over, burying your face against his shirt. “Medraut, I’m serious.” 

“You need me,” he says. His voice quivers slightly. “You need me, and you long to be cared for. Treated like a precious, delicate thing. Here I am, my dearest one. Let me take care of you for just a moment.” He rubs your back, pressing his fingertips into muscles you didn’t realize were sore. You don’t mean to relax against him. You want to fight, to push him away, but he hums an old song you haven’t heard in decades and you remember damp summer evenings in Ithyr. The hiss of the ocean and the caw of seabirds. The chalky scent of magic pigment, the way it fizzled on your fingers. Stargazing on your back in a field, your hand joined with another. How you looked at the sky but he only looked at you, spellbound. 

“Do they still hurt?” you ask him. 

“My eyes?” he says. You nod weakly. “No, dear. Not for a long time.” He strokes your head, gentle, sliding pets that make you feel like young and impulsive again. “I wish you would come to Ithyr again. Stay this time. Do you remember that seat in the bay window? You would sit there for hours with your canvas, watching the tide come and go. You would sit there, so very still.” You shake your head and it’s a lie. Denial and avoidance. Of course you remember. “I want to see you there again,” Medraut whispers, stroking along your spine. “In the sunrise. In the moonlight. As you always should have been, forever.” 

That’s how they find you when the apprentices return, still in Medraut’s embrace. Curled up like a sick child crying for relief, wrinkling his shirt with your grasping hands. Only when the healer comes do you manage to pull yourself away. Medraut lets go of you slowly, one finger at a time. You assure him repeatedly you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine. You see him helping your apprentices pack up the pigments, their looks of wary acceptance, leaving his own section abandoned. There is a large box underneath one of his tables. A leather case, shut tight but unlatched. Empty, then. No doll inside. His personal mage seal is stamped on the side. 

It’s the same one he brings every time, year after year. Empty, save for desperate dreams and wishes that this time will be different than all the others. That you will finally say yes.

[trulybetty]

what have I done

pairing: frankie x f!reader word count: 4,050 warnings: angst, piv, wrap it up folks, there's an established relationship of sorts here so it's already been discussed, reader has no physical descriptions. summary: you finally realise what frankie means to you, but is it too late? ao3: linked

what have I done.

Now wasn’t the time to be self-conscious. 

Clutching your phone in your hand and trying to peer around the crowds of people huddled in line for security you looked desperately for his familiar frame. You didn't have a ticket, the impulse of your decision meant the airport’s barricades were as close as you were going to get.

The security clearance lineup was busy despite the hour. You fought to focus as the crowd swayed and jostled. The sound of luggage wheels clicking on the tiled floor bled into the noise of early morning conversations, some excited for the journey ahead some tired already of the grind of work ahead. Anxious anticipation pulsated through you, urging you to continue searching through the sea of faces as you bounced on the balls of your feet.

You were almost ready to give up, turn on your heel and head home. But with a break in the crowd, so small and so quick, there was no mistaking that glimpse of his silhouette. His broad shoulders, his unruly mop of hair - everything. 

He stood near the security checkpoint, emptying the contents of his pockets into one of the grey plastic trays that he'd plucked from the stack beside him. He appeared calm amidst the chaos that surrounded him.

Yet panic flooded your chest, and heat prickled under your skin. 

It was now or never. 

Steeling yourself you clenched your hands into fists. Your nails dug into the flesh at the heel of your hands. The sting ran up your arms and it gave you a reprieve from the worry of your nerves. 

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. 

Before you could think it over any longer and before the nerves won out and had you walking back to the short-term parking lot. You shouted his name as loud as you could to be heard over the thrum of the airport's buzz. 

Then the world around you fell still. 

Hush swept over the security lineup. There was a shared intake of breath that seemed to take place between you and those around you. Your heart, beating so hard and so fast, it was the only thing you could hear as the thud thud thud pounded in your ears. 

Frankie’s head snapped up, his eyes searching until they locked onto yours. The shock on his face was palpable, mirrored by the surprise of those in line who turned to see the cause of the commotion.

For a moment, you were frozen, the gap between you feeling like an insurmountable distance. Then, impulsively, Frankie stepped out of line, leaving his belongings behind. The security guard called out to him, but he quickly threw back a plea of few words but didn’t hesitate, his focus entirely on you, surprised to see you there.

As he approached, you noticed the uncertainty in his eyes, a vulnerability that you hadn’t seen in him before. It was as if he was bracing himself for rejection, yet couldn’t stop himself from hoping.

When he was finally in front of you, the noise of the airport faded into the background. It was just the two of you.

The moment stretched, suspended in time. People around you resumed their activities, but the two of you remained locked in a silent exchange. You saw the questions in his eyes, the confusion. For he had bared his feelings to you, and in response, you had offered quiet and uncertainty.

“You're here,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

You nodded, struggling to find the words that had seemed so clear earlier that morning. The epiphany of waking up alone, with only the company of Frankie's admission of his feelings for you, a ghost that lingered in the still of the room. The house was quiet, with no familiar sound of the coffee maker or socked feet padding down the hallway - noises that had become a comfort in the past days of his most recent visit. 

You had been caught off guard by his declaration of love.

But you would be lying if you said you hadn't expected it was there. Hiding in plain sight this whole time. Bubbling under the surface, on the tip of his tongue on more than one occasion. Each time you'd suspected he was going to say something, you'd swiftly changed the subject or found a way to leave the room leaving him hanging with unspoken words in a state of confusion. 

But it was easier that way, safer. The occasional fooling around after a few drinks, the sudden bursts of affection that you both indulged in, those were manageable. It was a dance you had become skilled at, the art of keeping things casual, of never allowing yourself to be vulnerable. Those moments were pockets of escape from the realities of your lives, was an arrangement that worked for both of you.

At least you had thought it had.

It seemed that while you were comforting yourself with quiet ignorance of your feelings, Frankie was growing more confident in his feelings for you.

“I–” you started faltering, stumbling awkwardly over your words rethinking everything you had planned to say on the drive to the airport. 

It had been so much easier, formulating the words, reciting the monologue in your head. You'd been piecing together from the moment you'd left your home. But now, standing in front of Frankie it all felt like it wasn't enough.

The weight of your silence hung heavy in the air, and Frankie's hopeful expression began to waver. His eyes flickered with a mix of disappointment and resignation as if he had braced himself for this outcome. You could see the gears turning in his mind, preparing for rejection, the flicker of hurt in his eyes.

But then, something inside you shifted.

The fear of losing him, the realization of your true feelings, it all peaked at that very moment. It was after all what had jolted you out of bed. Caused you to frantically search for some half-decent clothes and your car keys before racing out of the door.

You finally found your voice, though quiet and cracked, “I'm sorry.”

Frankie's face fell, and the small hope that had flickered in his eyes extinguished. He took a step back, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of your apology had physically pushed him away.

“I thought…” he trailed off, his voice barely audible.

You reached out, your hand trembling as you gently touched his arm. “No, Frankie, let me finish,” you pleaded, desperation creeping into your voice. “I'm sorry for not saying anything earlier. I'm sorry for not acknowledging what,” you gestured at the space between the both of you frantically, “this is.”

Frankie's eyes filled with a mix of hope and apprehension. He reached out tentatively, as if afraid you might disappear if he touched you too forcefully. His fingers brushed against yours, sending a jolt of electricity through your body.

You sighed, “I'm fucking this up, this all sounded a lot better in my head on the way over here.”

Frankie's lips twitched into a small smile, the vulnerability in his eyes gradually replaced by promise. “It's okay,” he said softly, his voice filled with understanding. “I've been fucking this up too.”

You stared at him, your mind aswirl with both relief and confusion. “What do you mean?” you asked.

Before he could answer you, a voice over the loudspeaker announced the final boarding call for his flight. The moment was interrupted, the reality of the situation setting in. Frankie glanced back towards the security checkpoint, the impatient TSA agents waiting on him, torn.

You took a deep breath, knowing what you had to say. “Go, catch your flight. We’ll figure this out, I promise.”

He looked at you, a myriad of emotions crossing his face. After a moment, he nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Okay. We can figure this out together, right?”

“Sure,” you assured him as you took his hand in yours, giving it a firm squeeze.

He looked down at your joined hands and then with one last lingering look at you, Frankie turned and hurried back to his belongings, rushing through security.

You stood watching long after his head had disappeared out of view. Suddenly the departure of Frankie and the void of not knowing whatever this was now between the two of you. Whatever evolution had taken place in those split seconds had created a void, taking you out of the comfort of what you were and into something unfamiliar, something you felt you'd never get to experience again - something you didn't think you deserved.

Pulling the sleeves of your cardigan down over your hands for comfort, you tucked yourself away from the crowds and the flow of pedestrian traffic that had picked up flooding the security lineup. Your head was spinning, replaying the fleeting conversation. Such a small interaction that carried such a heavy weight that settled on your shoulders and made it harder for you to catch your breath for fear of tears.

As you made it back to your car, dodging the reuniting couples in arrivals, and happy families walking hand in hand back to the parking lot the reality of what had happened started to sink in. It wasn't about casual flings or unspoken feelings anymore. Frankie had revealed his heart to you, and you'd reciprocated, albeit in a clumsy manner.

The drive home didn't help, the journey feeling like it took twice as long. Each passing mile only made the void feel bigger, the hollow of your chest ache more. You'd just figured out what you wanted and now he was gone. The silence of the car, unable to bear the sound of the radio, amplified the cacophony of thoughts running through your mind.

Pulling into your driveway you grabbed your phone from the passenger seat and glanced at the screen.

A text message from Frankie.

Your heart skipped a beat, in conflict with the dread that you felt at the pit of your stomach. You unlocked the phone and read the message. It was short, quintessential Frankie, but held so much promise.

Two weeks.

It was exactly two weeks later when you felt the warmth of his body slip into the bed beside you. Arms around your waist pulling you into an embrace that brought his name to your lips whispered in quiet reverence in the silence of the night. 

Frankie.

The key you had pressed into his hand at the airport, your spare key, he had used it to let himself in at that late hour. Unable to entertain the notion of waiting to see you any later than that very moment. The darkness of the room enveloped you both as Frankie held you tightly, his breath warm against your neck.

For the past two weeks, communication between the two of you had been limited to sporadic phone calls and text messages as you negotiated work schedules and time zones. It was a constant dance of longing and uncertainty, as you both navigated the intricacies of your newfound connection. But now, with Frankie lying next to you, all the doubts and anxieties melted away.

You turned in his arms, burying your face in his chest, inhaling the familiar scent you had missed so desperately.

Frankie kissed your forehead softly, his touch sending shivers down your spine. “I couldn't stay away any longer,” he murmured.

“That's what the key was for,” you responded as you nuzzled yourself into the crook of his neck.

His laughter rumbled through his chest, the sound vibrating against your cheek. “Even without it, I'd still have found a way in, I know where you keep the spare.”

The silence of the room, filled only by your shared breathing was a comfort. His fingers traced circles on your back as a contented sigh escaped your lips as you revelled in the warmth of his embrace. 

“I missed you,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

His grip tightened around you as if trying to convey just how much he had missed you too. 

He dropped a kiss to your shoulder, his stubble grazed at your collarbone and despite the rough feel of it against your skin, you shrugged your shoulder into him to encourage him further. Groaning at the loss of his lips against your skin you looked up and against everything that was you, you pouted.

Another laugh escaped Frankie's lips, he pulled you tight to him, his lips finding yours for the first time since the airport. The night was late, and the room dark, but behind your eyes which fell closed in delight at the touch of his lips to yours, there were floods of colour bursting forth.

It was a moment that was equally suspended in time as it was filled with urgency. The anticipation that had built over the last two let go with the held breath you'd been holding onto since you left him letting way for those unspoken feelings you had spent so long pushing down. Every touch, every kiss was wave after wave pushing out the doubts and fears that had lingered in the depths of your mind.

Looking him in the eyes, you reached up and cupped the side of his face with your hand. He stilled, his arms caging you in on either side of your shoulders. The moonlight that slipped through the gap of the gauzy curtains cast shadows over the room but a slither hit his face and the warmth of his dark brown eyes radiated more than you could put into words. At that moment, you wondered what you had done to deserve something like this, someone like Frankie. 

You traced the outline of his lips with your thumb, savouring the tenderness of the moment. 

You lifted your gaze to meet his, examining his eyes for any hint of uncertainty or reluctance. Yet, all you saw was an abundance of love and unwavering determination. It was evident, without a doubt, that the past two weeks apart had only solidified his beliefs.

As he leaned down to capture your lips, you held your breath in anticipation. You weren't sure what you had done to earn the care and attention of the man above you, 

but you were grateful beyond words. His kiss was gentle yet passionate, a perfect blend of longing and tenderness. It felt like coming home after a long journey, like finding the missing piece of yourself that you never even knew was lost.

Frankie pulled you into a warm embrace, your heart skipped a beat. He smelled the same as always, faintly sweet with a hint of warm spice. His arms wrapped around you pulling him closer to him. Your hand rested on his chest, you could feel his heart racing, as was yours. The warmth of his breath danced across your neck sending shivers down your spine.

Your fingers, without even thinking about it, laced into the curls at the nape of his neck and tugged eliciting a growl from him as he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, taking in the scent of your skin. He kissed you there. Softly and slowly before trailing more kisses down to your collarbone.

A moan escaped your lips as he nipped at the sensitive skin. Goosebumps rose on your arms and involuntarily you arched your back to give him more access, inviting him to continue. His hands slid up and down your sides, tracing the contours of your body underneath the thin fabric of the t-shirt you wore.

His kisses moved up your shoulder, to the crook of your neck, and your ear before meeting your lips in a tender but passionate kiss. His lips were soft and demanding all at once making your head spin as he explored yours patiently.

With his mouth on yours, you could taste familiarity on his lips. But it was mixed with something new - something that hadn't existed between the two of you before. It was intoxicating and made you quickly lose yourself in the moment completely. 

He paused for a moment, his breath lingering at your ear as he whispered, “God, I want you more than anything. This is real isn't it,” you heard the waiver in his voice, the disturbance of confidence, the genuine fear that possibly you might have changed your mind, “I don't know if I could be okay if this isn't it.”

You tucked an errant curl behind his ear, you knew he'd be alright without you. That he could go on. But the difference now was that you couldn't imagine going on without him. It wasn't just physical, though the last two weeks had been torturous, you'd missed the way his touch set your skin on fire and his kisses were enough to make you forget everything. It was more than that. It was the way he was able to see through you, through the walls you built up. He got you in a way that no one else before him had.

You inhaled deeply, feeling like you were standing on the edge of a cliff. Your heart raced with anticipation and your body was unsure whether to fight or flee. You were a work in progress, and changing habits overnight was not an option. But what was not in question, was your feelings for the man above you.

“It's real Frankie,” you managed a nod, “it's real,” you whispered as your fingers traced the curve of his shoulder, his bicep and forearm where your fingers found his and entwined together.

“Tell me,” he murmured hoarsely as his forehead dropped to touch yours, “tell me what I can do.”

Something about his request made your heart swell over with love for him again. This was Frankie, he wanted to know, to do, whatever it would take for you to feel safe, loved and at home in his arms. Swallowing you tilted your head so you could get a better look at him. Just enough so you could take in his face basking in the moonlight. His eyes were dark beneath the shadows, traces of darker circles hinting that the last two weeks hadn't been as placid as he'd made them out to be. His eyes and his face were set with serious concern - but his lips, they were turned up in a soft smile as he watched you think.

It was sweet and maybe a little adorable at the same time. It was also taking everything in you not to kiss him again. Instead, you smiled back at him, “I just want you, Frankie, just you. All of you.”

His lips crashed into yours and you felt something start to knit together inside of you. He wasn't going to fix you, you didn't need him to, but something about the acknowledgement of your feelings for him was soothing. His mouth and hands moved with urgency. He rolled onto his side, bringing you with him, his lips never leaving yours. His one hand cupped the side of your face, while the other tugged the t-shirt you slept in up and over your hips.

His fingers greedy, in one swift move he’d pulled your panties aside and sunk his fingers into your already waiting folds and the two of you moaned at the sensation. You at the feel of those calloused fingers working their way to curl and tease you. Him at the feeling of your warmth and receptive sounds you made as he found a rhythm that had the two of you humming with electricity.

“God, you feel good, Frankie,” you breathed out, arching your back again in response to his touch, which pushed his fingers just that bit deeper, just that bit further that had you biting your lip in anticipation of what more was to come.

He wrenched his lips from yours for a moment, only to kiss down along to your collarbone and the hollow of your throat, his nose nudging at your jaw tilting your head up, his breath hot against your skin and despite the warmth that coursed through your belly, you couldn't help but shiver.

“Tell me, baby,” he murmured, his voice raspy as he nipped at your jaw, his teeth sinking softly into your bottom lip, just enough to elicit a satisfying moan at the delightful sting.

You gasped as he drew his fingers out slowly as he continued to tease with a slowed pace that filled you with an ache that left you needing more. Your hips buckled with the need for him to sink his fingers back in, but he was on to your move and pulled away further despite your moaned pleas. 

You watched as his eyes locked onto yours, the hunger evident within them. A shiver ran down your spine again as he slowly traced a path with his fingers down your arm, your side, and over your hip, as he pushed your panties down and off of your legs despite him now pressing you into the mattress. You felt his breath against your skin as he leaned in to whisper, "Are you ready for me?"

Your heart pounded in your chest as you nodded, unable to speak past the lump that formed in your throat in anticipation. His lips met yours in a soft kiss that was in conflict with the want and need that had built up between you. Frankie's name was a soft caress on your lips as he positioned himself between your legs, the warmth of his body enveloping you.

In that moment, you knew that this was something real. Something that felt like it was meant to be. The anticipation of what was to come left you breathless, your heart pounding in your chest as if it couldn't wait any longer. As he sunk into you, that moment of connection you knew it, this was the feeling you'd been pushing aside all those other times. Keeping it to just fast and dirty sex, no feelings, but this? This right here? This was a whole other level of intimacy between the two of you. It was no longer just about the physical need, but the emotional connection that had long been brewing deep between the two of you.

Your breath hitched as his hips found their rhythm, and your hands tangled in his hair, the knot twisting tighter and tighter.

“Frankie,” you moaned, your voice breaking as your climax neared.

His eyes never wavered from yours, the corner of his mouth twitching into a half smile as he picked up the rhythm, the heat and tightness of your body driving him further to the edge.

The way his voice had grown more tender, the way his lips brushed softly against your skin, the way his hands sought to touch and hold you closer with every passing moment. It wasn’t long until his name was a sweet plea on your lips as yours on his as your orgasm crashed over you. His pace didn’t falter and continued in his rhythm until he too found his release. His rhythm faltered for just a moment before he came to a stop, his forehead pressed against yours before he collapsed to the side of you.

Your breaths ragged and hearts pounding in your chests, your thighs pressed together as the aftershocks of your orgasm echoed through your body. He kissed the side of your neck, his breath warm and heavy against your skin.

“You okay?” he murmured, his gravelled voice full of concern.

You nodded, finally finding your voice and replied, “I’m good,” you pressed your lips to his in a slow, lazy kiss.

He smiled against your lips, relief washing over his face. “I was scared I'd fucked this up.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” you murmured, stroking his hair.

The silence was a blanket over the two of you in the quiet of the room. Everything had shifted and yet somehow everything still felt familiar, like coming home. There was no returning to the way things were, the line was crossed. While two weeks ago you weren’t exactly sure you wanted this kind of connection, now you weren’t sure you could ever let him go.

[lizzybeeee]

DATV Spoilers - The Story We Lost

Posted earlier that I was compiling a list of lore/story threads that have been dropped with DATV's handling of Southern Thedas. The sheer number of things means that I've made this into two parts - this one focusing on all the story threads that have been effectively dropped.

Spoilers for the game ahead, of course.

If you've played the game then you'll know that Southern Thedas - everything from the past three games - was basically swept away by the blight.

A double blight should have catastrophic consequences for the entirety of Thedas, I don’t deny that, it’s nothing short of a mass extinction event – the absolute worst case scenario for all of Thedas.

However, waving away the fact that Southern Thedas - specifically every area you ever traveled to and interacted with in previous games – is gone, devastated by the blight, in a codex entry and line of dialogue makes it abundantly clear that BioWare is attempting to clean the slate so that they can move forwards with the game series with no ties to the previous ones.

The Warden, Hawke, and the Inquisitor effectively accomplished nothing.

As I put it in another post: I never expected them to consider every decision in game outside of the three options they gave us, but I certainly didn’t expect them to go scorched earth on the possibility of ever seeing the results of those decisions either.

How the lore has been handled in this game, summarized to “the elves did it” and “there’s been a shadowy organization in the shadows pulling the strings on everything” is absolutely devastating to the franchise.

The lack of care with which this was treated just bleeds, “There, we’ve answered all questions and finished with this era of Thedas. Moving on now.” At the same time, this destruction absolutely obliterated whatever story threads remained from the first three games.

Could BioWare bring these threads back? Yes, I suppose. But it doesn't change that it was so carelessly thrown aside in the first place.

If they didn't want people to care about their decisions and the impact they made on the world, perhaps they shouldn't have made that a feature of all the previous games.

-------------------------------------------

Story Threads/ Plot Points that were dropped:

Limited my points to what was in the Dragon Age Keep and what points were brought up frequently in codex entries, conversations, etc...

Edit: I never expected all of these points to be answered in DATV - this is just a list of what was effectively brushed to the side through very bad handling of lore and story.

-------------------------------------------

Dragon Age: Origins

What is the line of succession in Ferelden?

Things are looking very grim for Ferelden's succession and the Theirin/MacTir line if nothing is done. And nothing was done. The entire plot of DAO literally culminated in resolving this issue, yet no one seems to have learnt a thing from it?

- Anora ruling alone is unmarried with no heir - Alistair ruling alone is unmarried with no heir - Ruling together they have no heir - Alistair and a Cousland Queen have no heir - Anora and a Cousland King-Consort have no heir

The only potential candidate that can fit into several of those world states is Kieran.

Fergus Cousland, according to lore, is the second closest to the throne that is confirmed to be alive in DAI - potentially the brother in-law to the King/Queen of Ferelden.

Ferelden's succession with Alistair as King hinges on whether or not the Warden was able to cure the blight. Alternatively, it is hinted that he may be more resistant since he has dragon blood in him from Calenhad.

The potential implications of Kieran being the bastard son of the King of Ferelden.

Kieran being used as a political pawn to depose Anora using the Theirin bloodline.

DAI took away whatever destiny Kieran had with the Old God soul – that didn’t mean that BioWare had to take away everything else too. Regardless, it doesn't matter. Outside of Redcliffe, the rest of the land has fallen to the Blight - it's unlikely that any of this will ever be brought up again.

2. Did the Warden find a cure?

Unknown. Irrelevant.

Ferelden ended up blighted. Denerim fell. If Ferelden rises from the ashes, it will be without any sign of their influence. Any mention of them will likely be their title alone - no mention of their accomplishments.

3. General Questions about the Landsmeet

What happened to Anora if Alistair is named King? Who rules the teyrnir of Gwaren following the blight?

What happens to Alistair if he's exiled? We know Teagan finds him in DA2 but what happens after?

If Leliana becomes divine does that mean that Connor Guerrin is potentially an heir to Redcliffe?

4. Companion Plot Threads

Morrigan's sisters - the many daughters of Flemeth.

Shale's quest to reverse the process of becoming a golem.

Whatever the hell Nathaniel Howe was going on about when you run into him in DA2 in the blighted thaig.

What, if anything, Avernus leaned from spending a literal age or two studying blighted blood.

5. Zevran's Crusade against the Crows

RIP Zevran's one-man crusade against the Crows and their child slavery ring.

DATV messed up immensely by portraying the Crows as more of a ‘found family’ rather than the horrifically abusive organization it was set up to be.

The very same organization that preys on the weak and disenfranchised - honing them to be tools for the nobles/powerful of Thedas - are now the heroic freedom fighters of Antiva.

The literal decade he spent hunting down the Crows and their leaders is up in flames. No mention in DATV whatsoever.

Wasted a perfectly good opportunity to have a schism in the Crows, with Zevran at the helm of kicking out the antaam, taking in Crows who are are sick of what's happening.

6. The Dwarves of Orzammar

The impact of Bhelen/Harrowmont's reign - ruthless progression verses strict traditionalism

The rumours of an uprising of the casteless dwarves in DAI

Will we ever hear of noble House Brosca or Queen/Lady Rica? Nope.

Will we ever hear of the son that Aeducan can have with Mardy? Nope. (RIP Duncan Jnr - I still love you)

The Anvil of the Void and potential links it may have to the Titans.

No more fine goods direct from Orzammar

The entire caste system has been simplified by Harding in DATV to effectively be: 'surface dwarves' and 'deep roads' dwarves.

7. The Magisters Sidereal / Awakened Darkspawn

According to a codex in the Descent: one went mad, consumed another, and the final magister fled into the Deep Roads.

Corypheous + Codex Magister + the Architect (most likely) = 4/5 magisters remaining? Possibly?

Reminder that it's hinted that there's an eighth Old God that was struck from the records of Tevinter.

The Architect and his Awakened Darkspawn.

No, it was all the elves. They're all dead now anyway. Thanks BioWare.

8. The Guardian and the Urn of Sacred Ashes

"Where did you come from, where did you go? Nobody in Thedas will ever knowwwww."

-------------------------------------------

Dragon Age 2

Dragon Age 2 was pretty self-contained, with most things being tied up in Trespasser or DAI. The worst of the plot points abandoned relate to the companions in the game and the lack of closure/answers about them.

General Questions:

Kirkwalls, apparently, endless line of 'provisional' viscounts and constant political instability since Varric ran off to go after Solas.

According to DA: Absolution the Red Templars are still in Kirkwall...yet the show is set after Trespasser - when Varric is viscount? When he mentions that they threw a parade when getting Meredith out of the Gallows?

Aveline, Varric, Merrill and whoever remains of the Kirkwall crew apparently just allowing red templars take over the Gallows?

What happened to Petrice if she lived?

What happened to Feynriel if he went to Tevinter?

If Hawke lives following DAI - where are they?

I have a whole list of lore that's also been brushed over: the Sundermount, Corypheous, the Band of Three etc... I decided to put them in Part 2 since I feel they fit in more with 'lore obliterated' rather than 'abandoned plot points'.

2. Companions

Merrill's Eluvian:

Merrill spent years fixing an eluvian with a piece of string, a potato, and some gum - managing to actually do it.

And it meant nothing.

Eluvians are now a fast travel hub - all mysticism and awe at this marvel of magic are completely gone. Whatever sacrifices Merrill went through to save her sliver of elven history is meaningless.

Imagine if Merrill's eluvian aided in the fight against Solas - if having it intact gave you an advantage against him. Imagine Merrill weeping as Bellara fixes every other single eluvian in ten seconds with her magical omnitool.

Fenris and Slavery in Tevinter:

DATV utterly trivializing slavery in Tevinter is abominable.

Disregarding everything Fenris went through, everything he ever thought for, and making it something barely touched upon in DATV is insanity.

You wouldn't know there was slavery in Tevinter if the Shadow Dragons didn't drop a line or two about it. Limiting the conflict to "oops the venatori are being mean again" is absurd.

Fenris' entire story of going to help free the slaves is diminished because no one wanted to show the ugly, dark side of Tevinter in DATV.

DATV has retroactively made this choice for him to be so unfulfilling.

Where is Anders?

What happened with Sebastian's crusade against Anders? Was he ever captured? Was he executed? Are you telling me that no templars ever pursued this man fanatically after what happened in Kirkwall?

Does his fate vary if Hawke was friends/romanced him?

Varric appointing a new Viscount’s Keep healer called ‘Banders’ who just happens to sleep in the same room as Hawke and their children call him ‘daddy’ lmao

Does his fate vary according to who is Divine? Vivienne hunts him down, Cassandra puts him on trial, while Leliana pardons him?

How does he react to Leliana abolishing the Circles? How much does he weep when the rebellion fails and the mages are destroyed? This man instigated the starting event for DAI and drove most of DA2's major plot and he's just...gone.

The Hawke Siblings:

From DAI we know that Warden Bethany/Carver are safe, but what happened to them if they're in the Circle?

Give us Knight-Commander Carver and First Enchanter Bethany Hawke, you cowards! Have them dismantle the Gallows and be the shining examples of human decency we know they are.

What happens to them after DAI and the Mage/Templar War is concluded? In a world that can embrace or reject them - how do they find their place?

Varric

Trespasser gave him a satisfying conclusion - he's viscount, he's in his shit hole of a city, he's surrounded by the people that he loves and cares about. He has the chance to truly build up Kirkwall after all the shit its gone through.

It just feels so bitter, so meaningless, that they gave him the end that they did in DATV. Varric should never have been the one to go after Solas - the only reason it was him was because he's a popular character in the franchise and was used to draw others in.

Why not Cole?! Who was literally mentioned in Trespasser as being on hand to help his friends - who has the ability to get through to Solas in a way no one else could?

No proper send off - no acknowledgement from those who loved him as to his fate...Varric was reduced to a marketing gimmick to draw people in who wanted to see if he died or not. Despicable.

Isabela

Isabela's story was brought to a close in DAI - she became an admiral, got a fancy hat, helped the Inquisition, and kept in contact with those she loved/Hawke if defended from the arishok.

Imagine bringing her back in a terrible outfit, having the most sex/gender positive character outright insult another for their choices, and making her part of the group that steals cultural artifacts from others.

The tomb of Koslun and Aveline would like a word with you?!

Edit - Thanks to bunnyiscthulhu for reminding me that Isabela's mother sold her to a man who became her husband...yet she does nothing when Taash's mother is outright forcing them into a life they don't want. Isabela, who believed that everybody should be free - that no one should be forced into a life they don't want, just...lets it happen to another person?

-------------------------------------------

Dragon Age: Inquisition

What's going to happen to the Red Lyrium that's popped up across all of Thedas?

Ferelden, Orlais, Kirkwall - all areas are reported to have red lyrium on the surface.

What happens to the Red Lyrium in Suledin?

DAI speaks about how they can never stop the spread of red lyrium, only slow it – animals, insects, organisms - whatever life is in the ground is all susceptible to becoming blighted by red lyrium. Suledin Keep in particular was utterly devastated by the Red Templars - what happens to life there?

2. What happened to Corypheous' Inner Circle?

What happened to Samson? How long did he live *if* he’s given the chance to help Cullen? Can something good come from his cooperation?

What happened to Calpernia?

Looking at previous concept art for DATV she was a companion - freeing slaves, gossiping about Samson & Corypheous. Just...what a waste. Any potential insight we could have gotten into Corypheous is gone.

3. The Mage / Templar War:

How does the world vary if you conscripted vs allied with either?

How do the remnants of what faction was not chosen fit into this new world?

How does the world deal with abominations and weird magic shit now? Is an alternative to the Order made if it's wiped out in DAI?

How is Cullen's templar clinic doing? If the templars still exist, how is Divine Victoria changing/adapting the Order to better support mages/templars?

4. Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts:

How do Orlesian politics reflect who was made ruler?

Is Gaspard looking to expand into Ferelden once more? Are the elves being brutalized under his rule like they were by his chevaliers? Does he do away with the grand game like he threatened in DAI?

How does this differ if Briala has collared him? How do his supporters feel that Briala has his balls in a vice?

Do Celene and Briala stay together? Do things improve for the elves and for the culture of Orlais at large?

Do improvements for the elves mean that Solas' arguments to his elven agents are less persuasive?

If Florianne is alive what the hell is going to happen to her? How quickly does she fall on her blade after being forced to wear flat shoes for the rest of her life?

How quickly does shit fall apart if you get all three to cooperate lmao

Friendly reminder that DATV sets up that all of Orlais, except for the Winter Palace has been overrun by the Blight - and that a coup from the Venatori is inevitable, likely resulting in any ruler dying.

5. What is the line of succession in Orlais?!

Why does every noble family in Thedas have no contingency plans for if their head of government dies?!

Part of why we needed to resolve the leadership problem in DAI was because there was no clear, direct heir if Celene died!

Celene has no heir Gaspard has no heir

Florianne planned to frame Gaspard, meaning that there was no clear heir to the throne - Orlais was already in a civil war, the council of heralds/nobles would have all campaigned in their own interests...that was why this was so important!

Orlais shortsightedness and pride in their nation being the greatest in Thedas led to them almost falling in a single night!

6. Here Lies the Abyss:

What are the ramifications of having the Warden's exiled verses remaining in the south?

Trespasser literally states that there's a schism in the Order because some Warden's believe they should touch grass more often and not listen to some bloke up in Weisshaupt for what they do down in the south.

Perfect opportunity to have the wardens remaining in the south mean something! Greater numbers in the south means that there's a greater chance of holding against the blight - while greater numbers in the north can effect if Antiva/Tevinter end up blighted in the first attack!

How does public perception towards the Wardens/King of Ferelden change when they learn they were exiled for committing human sacrifice to demons?!

Give us a warden coup and First Warden Alistair / Blackwall, you cowards!

7. The Well of Sorrows:

What was the point of drinking Mythal's bathwater?!

It's been set up as something that changes you. Bound to Mythal forever?!

Retroactively, Solas feels like he's going mental about nothing! One of the few times he ever breaks - he begs you not to - and...for what? Nothing.

DATV does not acknowledge that in the slightest. Such a waste and disappointment of what was made out to be an impactful decision in DAI.

Imagine if the Inquisitor drinking from the well made us forced to fight against them during the fight with Solas - imagine if Solas, in a world state who hated the Inquisitor, used them as a puppet! Just like the envy demon in DAI - and no one notices until its too late. Imagine Mythal herself, wanting Solas to go through with his plan - (or one of the other evanuris) using an Inquisitor/Lavellan he loved as a puppet - imagine the horror he feels as another one of his friends is reduced to nothing more than a mindless slave of the evanuris once more. Imagine the devastation as he watches Lavellan lose all sense of self - perhaps swaying him to, maybe, not go through with his plan?! Imagine having Cole come back to help save the Inquisitor - or Solas begging Rook to save them.

8. DLC Implications:

What happens if Hakkon is not slain? What happens to Southern Ferelden and the Avaar?

How does the rest of Thedas react to the truth of what happened at Red Crossing and the Dales? How do they react to learning that Inquisitor Ameridan - First Inquisitor and leader of the Seekers - was a dalish, elven mage?

What happens if you do not save the mines in the Descent DLC? How badly is Orzammars economy crippled? There are already rumours of riots occurring within Orzammar - it this enough to push the caste system over the edge?

9. Elven Uprising and the War with the Qun:

The elven uprising that was implied to be occuring all over Thedas as a result of years of oppression, systematic abuse, and Solas’ influence.

Where are the agents of fen'harel?!

No, instead lets have him chill in the Fade with no contingency plans, agents, or support of any sort. It was set up that Solas was planning to use this rebellion as a smokescreen for his plans - the elves, all rebelling for good reason, rallying to his cause while Solas planned to restore the world that once was. The rest of Thedas would only see an elven uprising, not knowing the true face behind it until it was too late!

The war between Tevinter and the Qun?!

Everyone conveniently forgetting that the Qun literally attempted to assassinate every noble family in Thedas? Why was there no exalted march because of this? This should have destroyed any accord between the chantry and the qun. There would absolutely be blood for this – Tevinter could have attacked the Qun and all of Southern Thedas would have applauded - no one would have differentiated between extremist qunari and the normal qun, especially not after Kirkwall.

The implication at the end of Trespasser that we could convince Solas to abandon his plans? Him saying that he welcomed giving us the chance?!

The difference that the Inquisitors friendship, love, or hatred could have in either convincing Solas to take another path or damning him to go ahaead with his plan, no matter the cost?

Have our decisions in previous games matter! How we treated the elves - if we worked to better their lives or put them in their place - can be used to convince him that the world can change! Have the ripple effects of these decisions be seen when the elven gods return, blighted - does the world turn against the elves, hardening Solas, or does the world defend the elves from those who would blame them?

Why was Sandal in the Crossroads?! Where is Bodahn?!

10. Divine Victoria!

How does the world of Thedas change with Leliana, Cassandra, or Vivienne at the head of the chantry?

How does Tevinter react to having a mage divine?!

Do relations change between both nations because of this?

Leliana allowing elves, dwarves, and even qunari to join the Chantry! Leliana also allowing members of the chantry to get married if she's romanced by the warden.

What happened to the Seekers? Are they being rebuilt?

Does the chantry inform the masses, the rest of the mages, that they can CURE tranquility?!

If either Leliana or Cassandra was romanced - what are the implications that may have on the chantry?

-------------------------------------------

No wonder the writers insisted that none of the past choices would have an impact on Veilguard - they literally went scorched earth on everything we ever did.

Ferelden is blighted - any legacy of the warden is gone.

Kirkwall is destroyed - any impact Hawke had is gone.

The hard won peace/order of the Inquisition was rendered meaningless since every single place that you went to and helped is now destroyed by the blight.

Orlais' ruler will likely be assassinated by the venatori who are plotting a coup with the nobles - making whomever you chose obsolete.

AND IT WAS ALL THE WORK OF THE MAGICAL ILLUMINATI FROM ACROSS THE SEA???

[petermorwood]

I was wondering if you could answer a question about armor, especially the solid/articulated types - how much did it need to be personalized or fitted? I ask because I often see people criticizing fantasy/gaming armor for being too heavy or cumbersome, but rarely for perfectly fitting everyone between five and seven feet tall regardless of whether they're built like Legolas or Gimli.

So I'm curious about whether and what kinds of armor might have been mass produced vs what needed to be customized. Was it easier to produce broadly applicable armor or to recruit your army by height and weight?

Non-custom-fitted mass-produced armour ("munition grade" as some modern repro makers call it) started becoming more common when workshops where everything ran on muscle-power became ones whose hammers, grinders and polishers were powered by a water-wheel.

Making armour to fit a range of average sizes now took less time, effort and wages, so could be sold for less and be afforded by more people.

It would have been made in the period equivalent of S, M, L and maybe XL, with buyers either paying extra for custom adjustments, or DIY-ing for better fit with padded liners to make it snug or extra holes punched into straps for more space.

*****

Top grade plate armour on the other hand was almost like a second skin - a common term is "exoskeleton".

This post from a few years back has a lot more information, including what was done to ensure a good fit when the wearer couldn't be measured in person: for instance sending close-fitting garments or even wax model limbs to the armourer.

It definitely wouldn't have fitted anyone but the original owner anything like as well. In particular, if a non-original wearer was longer or shorter in arm or leg, the armour's knee and elbow joints might pinch at distracting moments or simply not flex through their full range.

"Is increased protection better than reduced mobility?" was a question where the wrong answer could prove fatal.

*****

Perhaps that's why medieval art shows a lot of partial armour being worn:

arm-harness - sometimes just vambraces on the forearms, often all the parts from gauntlets to pauldrons (hands to shoulders);

brigandine - a cloth or leather jacket with small metal plates riveted inside; this wasn't concealed armour, the rivets arranged in rows or patterns were an obvious decorative feature;

haubergeon (or byrnie, though that's more a Saxon / Viking term IMO) - a short-sleeved, short-bodied mail shirt, usually worn under something else;

plackart - front or sometimes front-and-rear lower-abdomen torso plates;

poleyns - knee-guards, worn on otherwise unarmoured legs.

The one thing everyone wore is the first thing Hollywood armour leaves off - a helmet - while the archer below has not just a helmet, haubergeon, brigandine and poleyns, but also something equally important, a brayette or breech...

...which is a pair - or at least the front half where It Matters Most - of well-padded mail and indeed male underpants.

Full plate armours had full plate ones which were even more emphatic. Boob-plates may be (mostly) fantasy, but obvious gendered armour was A Real Thing.

*****

Flexible armour like mail, scale and lamellar wasn't tailored for fit; being flexible it didn't need to be. That said, if the size was really wrong one way or the other, it could be reduced or enlarged by removing or adding sections, similar to a modern tailor taking in or letting out a garment.

I have a vague recollection of a photo showing a late medieval haubergeon with tailoring darts inserted under the arms, but I can't remember where or when, so "vague" has more weight than "recollection". ;-P

Genuine mail is rarer in museums than plate armour, because at the end of its working life mail armour was often chopped into pot-scrubbers for the kitchen. You can buy the same sort of thing today.

Finally, while some looted high-grade armour, or at least parts of it, might fit the looter straight away, it's more likely that after any battle there was probably a brisk trade in swapping what didn't fit for what did.

Hope This Helps! :->

[sleeplesssmoll]

Character Analysis: Vertin's Deceptive Side

I don't see this trait of her's mentioned much but it is prevalent throughout the story so I think its worth looking at.

Vertin isn't a stranger to deception and lies.

Vertin convinces people to follow her by connecting with them and being honest about her capabilities/motives. Every arcanist we've met follow her knowing exactly what they're getting into.

However, she isn't above lying and tricking people as an end to a means.

She lied to Sonetto in the opening to hide her agenda (secretly recruiting Regulus). She also lied to Tommy to track down Regulus by saying they were “friends” and even used Regulus's records as “proof”. Later, she and Regulus improv together when Sonetto is summoned by the wheel and tries to take Regulus away.

She tried to cover for A Knight in Oliver's story. Oliver seems to have known her for a bit at this point and catches on because it's odd for Vertin to suggest something that she knows directly conflicts with his values.

She lied to Arcana, which makes sense but imagine Sonetto being in this position. She is incapable of lying compared to Vertin. The Timekeeper is able to lie on the spot while Sonetto freezes up when faced with difficult questions.

As a child, Smoltin was going to lie to the teacher to pin the blame (for the note she wrote) on her bullies after they tried to blackmail her. This is an interesting one because it shows she thinks ahead, like with Regulus's records, and manipulates a situation in her favor. It's deeper than a simple lie.

While these are instances driven by a reason, these examples show how comfortable she is with telling lies and she could deceive people if she wanted to. It's a trait she most likely developed in order to deal with the Foundation. Deception is an important tool in a trouble-maker's toolkit.

Aside from that, remember when they told her to be open and honest about questions she had and then threw her in the guard house?

Or how about when she was open with Sonetto about her love for the outside world only to be harshly shut down?

She was brutalized and shot as a child when she tried to be open and direct in a peaceful protest, hoping to be heard during the Parade Ceremony.

She met with Madam Z for help with a plan to help her crew because she didn't want them to end up like her childhood friends. Then the Foundation decided to break her legs and subdue her in a coma. Mind you, she went through the proper channels and was still punished for it.

It makes you wonder why Vertin doesn't lie more often.

On that note, we're lucky that Vertin is a nice person at heart. If she followed Manus or the Foundation's ways, she could use her natural talent at connecting with people to manipulate them into joining her cause. Instead, our Vertin chooses to be transparent…for important things anyway.

Vertin's able to stand on the same field as Constantine and Arcana not because she's authentic, though that certainly helps. It's because she knows how to appeal to people's desires.

Knowing what someone wants means knowing what their motives are. You know what drives them to act. It's a very powerful skill in the art of persuasion/manipulation. 

On one hand you can say Vertin has the power to see into people's hearts. On the other, you can claim she knows how to pick people's brains.

Regardless, it's a talent she has that would be useful to both Arcana and Constantine aside from her Storm Immunity.

[petertingle-yipyip]

STRANGER (iii) - KAZ BREKKER

tags: @beekeepingageissome @shadowzena43 @nikfigueiredo @mp-littlebit @starmansirius @hadesnumber1daughter // previously // next

Pairing: Kaz x Davina Rollins (enemies to lovers)

Word Count: 6,655

Summary: Davina’s reappearance has Kaz reconsidering just about everything. Meanwhile, Davina seems to be building a strong foundation for her snakes.

“I’m sure we’ll meet again soon, Brekker.” She nodded.

She blended into the crowd seamlessly and Kaz had lost the silhouette of her hood quickly. He hadn’t moved from his spot and the bustling crowd seemed to move around him, the way water rushed around rocks. Too many thoughts were swimming in his head.

Davina Rollins had left her father. There was a strange relief in that confirmation. He’d heard rumors that the beloved daughter had disappeared years ago, but he hadn’t cared to look into it. Davina had always been kind to him and Jordie, but he had no expectations of her turning on her father.

The hooded girl left more questions than answers. Who was she? What was she to Davina? How much did she really know?

Then, as he thought of them both, he realized something. He knew her. Maybe not in any real sense given that he couldn’t think of what her name could be, but he had met her before. Maybe it was years ago, maybe it was just in passing, but damn it all he should know who she was.

As he picked up walking again, he thought of Davina. A certain fondness settled in his chest and he tried to banish it. He hadn’t thought of her often, but when he did, it was always a pain. He remembered an easier time, when he was just a boy. When he had his brother. Davina was someone he thought was gone forever, like Jordie, but now she was somewhere near.

Despite that, he couldn’t imagine what Davina would look like now. It had been years since he’d seen her, and even remembering her as he knew her was harder lately. When he laid to sleep and let his mind wander, inevitably to those memories, her face started to blur. Her voice was muffled. He couldn’t fully remember the way she said his name, the way she laughed. He cursed himself for forgetting that.

He needed to find the girl in the hood again. She held the answers he wanted and he’d do what he needed to get them.

It took a few days but the girl resurfaced. She had visited Nina Zenik, left some sort of token to be delivered, so he asked Inej to retrieve it. The Wraith returned with a handful of papers.

“Drawings?” He flipped through the pages. “She asked Nina to get drawings to me?” It would’ve been a lie if he had said he wasn’t a bit offended.

“I didn’t tell Nina, but they’re rather well-done.” Inej said honestly. “She must be around more than we realize.”

She was right. All the images were perfect. He lingered on the page that had him and his brother. Jordie was the one face he’d never forget, even when he wanted to. Even when the memory changed from his smiling, warm older brother to the cold, bloated, water-logged corpse that brought him back from death.

Kaz dropped the papers on his desk with a sigh.

“Can you find her?” He asked, but he knew the answer.

“The hooded one or the Rollins girl?”

“The Hood may be an interesting investment. The Rollins girl can wait.”

He decided to omit Davina’s name for now. That was one of his many secrets, a tidbit of information that he could keep to himself for a little while longer. There was sentiment there, he knew, but he could ignore it. Call it a tactical advantage. Or simply a spin of Maker’s Wheel. A gamble.

He didn’t need to look to know Inej was gone. He both cursed and thanked her silence, footsteps light as feathers. When he was alone again, he lifted the drawings again and found himself staring at a penciled image of himself, from years ago. A boy lost to the waters. Dead and drowned, resting beside his brother, the Bastard of the Barrel returned to take his place. He had known he hadn’t fully let go of his brother. Part of him knew he never would while the other wished it so.

But looking at that drawing, he was that boy again. Playing with a girl with the biggest eyes he’d ever seen, a smile that was dazzling like sunlight, a voice that was always warm and welcoming. A girl that had made him laugh, played games with him, made up a ridiculous nickname for him.

“I like calling you Kazzle. You can call me Davi, if you’d like. My parents do.”

“I like Vina better.”

“Hmm.” She thought on it and then smiled. “So do I.”

“Damn you, Davina.” He cursed to himself and tossed the paper aside again.

He ran a covered hand over his face, hoping to rid himself of some of the thoughts. It didn’t work.

No, of course it didn’t. Davina had always had those hooks in him. No matter how he shoved the thoughts away, ignored the little things that could remind him of her. She was there, like a ghost, watching but never speaking.

Despite it all, he knew it all would be for nothing. Davina was still a Rollins. She was still Pekka Rollins’ daughter. And if he had his way, to break down everything the man had brick by brick, he just might be able to use Davina to do it. And if he had to, he’d do just that.

So Kaz cast the treacherous, childish adoration aside. He silenced the voice in his head that was calling her name, froze the warmth in his chest at the idea that she still thought of him, ignored the yearn to see her, find her himself and find out if he could be brave enough to confess anything to her. Instead, Dirtyhands would come to see the hard work done.

That was who spoke to the Hood when they brought her to the Slat.

He sat in front of her for a bit while she was unconscious, and she seemed to take an eternity to wake up. In the time between finding her in the alley and setting her up in the chair, Inej gave him what was allegedly a ring from Davina’s childhood. He could only vaguely remember the accessory so he simply put it on a chain and tucked it under his collar. He had stepped to the side and even considered calling for Nina Zenik when she finally came to.

The Hood infuriated him almost instantly. Her tongue was shaped by spite and anger, but if someone were to pay enough attention - the way Kaz did - they’d see she was hiding something. Most bravado was a facade for something, and the Hood was no exception.

Then her taunts began. She mentioned the gloves, as most do. That meant nothing to him. He had heard all the tales and even fabricated some of his own, but the name struck him like a blow.

Kaz Rietveld.

She spat his true name at him as if a threat, and Kaz Brekker was not someone to threaten. He was going to let it go, say something else that would make her cower, but she then mentioned his brother.

His movement was a reaction, a yank of the crow’s beak across her face. Their back and forth continued, nothing Kaz hadn’t expected, until something peculiar caught his ear.

“Your snakes?”

The panic was obvious in those wide eyes, though she covered it quickly. He knew there was something to that slip-up in her persona, the alleged right hand to Davina Rollins, but he couldn’t quite pinpoint it. Yet.

Even in that fleeting moment, her wide eyes seemed familiar to him. He started to wonder…

Another act of arrogance, another movement of the cane. Another dance of words and threats.

“What makes you think you haven’t led us to her already?” Kaz asked. His tone was simple, as if asking about stock prices or an old friend, but the threat was clear.

Her brows furrowed in thought as she dropped her gaze to the floor. She was retracing her steps over the past few days, wondering when she had lost the illusion and exposed everything.

He knew she hadn’t. Inej had followed her for almost a week until the Wraith grew annoyed at the Hood’s purposeful dilly-dallying and returned to the Slat. Yet the possibility was still enough to throw her off balance and Kaz reveled in her desperate attempt to confirm with herself that she hadn’t betrayed her gang.

Again, he found familiarity in the Hood when she spoke again. In that determination to protect and defend what was hers, to challenge those who dared to take it. He knew he had seen it in Davina, when they would play and one of other neighborhood children tried to take her toys or change the rules of their game.

Then the Hood broke free and kicked him in the head before fleeing.

It was months before he crossed paths with the Hood again. In that time, Nina had sent word that she was being visited by the Hood often. Jesper swore he saw a hooded figure in the shadows. Even Wylan was jumpier than usual.

Inej, as always, was the picture of calm. Stillness, simply squaring her shoulders as a dare to the Hood and all of Davina’s snakes. Kaz had never said it aloud, but he was thankful for her quiet presence.

He had gathered a name in that time as well, Melli Dimitrov. She was seen flashing the snake tattoo and a few well timed passings told Kaz that she was highly favored by Davina. It was a gamble, but when Kaz saw the Hood again, he threw the name out.

She denied it, of course. Kaz had expected that much. He wasn’t fully convinced Melli was the Hood, but he knew dangling that knowledge was a powerful taunt. It showed the Hood and Davina that she was not as hidden as she believed. That her snakes weren’t as careful as she needed them to be if she wanted to keep herself hidden.

Then the Hood threw herself into the canals.

Good, let her drown.

The next day, a loudmouth in the Emerald Palace let it slip that Davina would be visiting her father that night. It took a whirlwind of moves, but Kaz gathered Wylan and Jesper to stage the job while Inej kept their path clear.

He was going to get to Davina.

He caught her running from the Emerald Palace, blood dripping off her arm and a mask hiding the bottom half of her face. He snatched her by her wrist and pulled her out of sight. But when he looked at her, truly took her in and studied her, she was the little girl he knew.

After he learned the truth of Jakob Hertzoon, he believed the rest of the family were fake as well. He had thought the girl he knew as Davina was an actress, maybe intended to protect the real Rollins daughter. But with her standing there in front of him, knowing what he knew, he couldn’t deny it. Part of him was glad that there was some truth to those memories.

Her eyes were still the biggest he’d ever seen, though there was a sharpness in her stare now. A tiredness that weighed on her brows. Her cheeks weren’t the round shape he pictured anymore, matured with her time away. He could see the head of the snake peeking out of the open buttons above her dark vest.

She was Davina but also, he came to realize, the Hood.

How he didn’t realize before given those damn moon eyes he didn’t know and he would’ve cursed himself for it had that prickly feeling of dread not settled in his stomach. Well, if Davina hadn’t hated him before, she very likely did now.

“Hello, Davina.” Once he said her name, that boyish part of him that was kicking its way to the forefront was wishing he hadn’t. Her name was his secret and now it was said aloud, but at least they were alone. And he still had her nickname.

Vina. She’s Vina to you and she’s alive. She’s right here.

“Hello, Kaz.” She said in relief and he felt his heart beat a little faster. He knew she was smiling under the mask and the thought to take it off her crossed his mind. He wanted her to say his name like that again and again. Relieved. Grateful.

He would want to hear her say his name in any tone, he decided. Anger, disappointment, cheerfulness, resentment, regret, relief. He wanted the questioning sound of worry for when his luck would run out before he could more. He wanted her to say his name with a laugh, scold his name for a comment too cruel or an action too underhanded. He wanted all of it from her.

He almost said as much until he caught sight of her bloodied shoulder again.

He snapped back to focus. Back to the job at hand.

But of course, Davina saw through it. She threw Jesper at Kaz and ran off.

“I like her.” Jesper coughed with a smile once Davina had disappeared.

“You like women that punch you in the throat?” Kaz shoved his friend off and got to his feet.

“I like the women that don’t avert their eyes from the Bastard of the Barrel.” He snorted. “She’s not afraid of you, Kaz. That’s gotta be worth something..”

“She will be.” Because fear was better than whatever else was stirring in his treacherous heart.

He considered chasing her but he knew she was long gone. He huffed a sigh and motioned for Jesper to follow back to the Slat. He knew Inej was watching from above. He saw her hesitate to follow, but after a moment she was moving with them from the high ground.

Jesper talked the entire way back. About how Pekka Rollins could shoot his daughter, what Davina could’ve said to piss her father off, whether or not Davina was on her father’s side, what to do next time they saw her. He seemed rather giddy for that one. 

Kaz thought of the ring sitting at the end of the chain around his neck. He kept it there since Inej had delivered it to him. It was an unsaid promise that he’d see her again. As the Hood, she had made threats to return for it. The thought nearly made him smile. He pictured the way she’d walk up to him, maybe demand he hand it over. Maybe she’d try to hit him, pull her blade on him, aim a gun at him. He knew he’d give it back when she came for it, but he wouldn’t just hand it over. She had given it to him as a gift after all.

When they got back to the Slat, Inej met Kaz in his office.

“You let her go.” She pointed out. He noted no anger in her voice, just interest.

“I did.” He confirmed. How was he to deny it?

“Why?”

He set his cane aside and pulled his gloves. One was stained with Davina’s blood. “Do you think Davina and her snakes could be useful to us?”

“Do you?”

He raised a brow and gestured expectantly for her to speak.

Reluctantly, she did. “Davina is still a Rollins. We cannot prove she is truly separated from her father just yet. She bought the gambling den he owned.”

“Word is she cut him out.” Kaz countered. “Her lieutenant was quite excited about that bit. And, well, he did shoot her.”

“Taking one piece of Rollins’ holdings isn’t enough.”

Brick by brick. That was how he had planned to take down Pekka Rollins. And that was exactly what Davina had done. One brick.

“No, but it’s a start.”

“What do you know about her?” Inej stepped closer, a new fire sparking her eyes. “Why does it matter if they’re useful? I don’t think she’d truly ally her snakes with anyone.”

He wanted to tell Inej. He wanted to tell her that Davina was the first friend he had in the Barrel. That she and him had something good, something not even her father could corrupt. He wanted to say that Davina haunted him, day in and day out. She was the little voice in his head that kept hold of his humanity and shoving it to the forefront when he needed it. But he didn’t.

How could he?

Snakes and Crows never did get along.

“We have the advantage over Davina.” He said instead. “Our numbers are better but I’d argue her coffers are better padded. And her snakes may not be helpless, though I doubt they have real strength yet.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“I’d like you to deliver a message to Davina.”

Her brows raised in question.

“If she wants to keep that gambling den, she’ll be paying a tax to the Dregs.”

“You think putting her under Haskell’s thumb a bit will pacify her?”

“No. Something tells me her father’s downfall would be the only thing for that.” In that, he understood her.

“Then why?”

He gave a small shrug. “Maybe it’ll humble her. It was you who said her pride would be the Hood’s downfall, didn’t you? It’s the same for Davina.”

“How are you so certain, Kaz?”

“She’s yet to prove me wrong.” Briefly, he thought of that night near the canals.

“Is it even midnight?” She practically laughed, just before the bells. “Oh Saints.”

“Let that be a lesson. I’m almost never wrong.”

He shoved the thought away and focused back on Inej. “Tomorrow night, I ask you to deliver a message from the Dregs to meet. We’ll use the square. I doubt after whatever happened in the Emerald Palace she’d be willing to come to us, and I’ll be damned to go to her. Her Hood is too crafty to allow any advantage.”

He thought of how she broke free the night he had her. How she dove into the canals. How she’d even escaped the Wraith.

“She’d never let us in her snakes’ den.” Inej shook her head. “You’ll have to tell Per Haskell.”

“Yes, I’ll deal with the old man.” He waved a hand.

“Could she get to Stadwatch?”

“Even if she could, she won’t. She can’t make that kind of show of force whether she wants to or not.”

“The Hood spoke as if Davina knew you.” Inej pointed out. “Tell me how you know her.”

“I’m not sure I do.” He said lowly, as if admitting those words would hurt him. And maybe they did. Maybe he needed that hurt to stop the infernal swooning at the thought of her. “And I’m not so sure she knows me at all.”

“Then at least tell me you have a plan.”

“My dearest Inej.” He offered her a near smile. “I always have a plan. We won’t be bested by Davina Rollins or her snakes.”

Meanwhile, you were cursing every decision you had made since you were a child.

You had made it to the safe house and managed to get the bullet out. You cleaned and dressed the wound as best you could before burning the blood soaked gloves. You ate some of the hidden rations and rested, a pitiful and restless night of what barely passed as sleep. The next morning, you dressed in some of the spare clothes.

You kept your pants and wore your vest underneath. You had a rough, worker’s shirt that was two sizes too big but it hid your protection so you didn’t mind. You had a long scarf that you draped over your head and pulled over your mouth.

It made you wish you had stashed Komedie Brute costumes as well. You shrugged your good shoulder, just another thing to add to the list.

You managed to make it to your Healer.

“At least you had the good sense to clean it.” She chastised with her accented Kerch, a light knock to the back of your head before her hands went to work.

“Yes, I seem to have all the good sense the Saints gave a rock.” You rolled your eyes, gripping the shawl in your other hand tightly. You thought your fingers would tear through the fabric.

“You should find a Corporalnik to add to your clutch.” She said, an off handed comment that felt more loaded than it should.

“Are you not my ally?”

“And what happens when you can’t make it across East Stave to find me? You bleed out in some alley and your body is added to the Barge. No, girl, you need someone closer to home.”

“There’s someone you’d like me to take in.” You understood. “Are you certain I could trust them?”

“He’s a good boy.” She promised. “He ran from the Little Palace when I did. I don’t want to send him away but he needs his own funds. I can only provide so much for him.”

“I see… He’s a Healer you said?”

“A gifted one. An average Tailor.”

“What of a Heartrender?”

“Poorly, but he could learn if you need him to.” She hesitantly admitted.

“Would he want to?”

“Using an untrained Heartrender may kill someone you didn’t intend to.”

“Yes, well, at this point I may need to.” You mumbled then winced as the wound burned sharply through your arm. “Hopefully he’s gentler than you.”

“Do you want quick or gentle?” She snapped, pinching your underarm.

You hissed slightly but said nothing. When it was done, you felt only soreness. You pulled your usual payment from your boot but she pushed your hand away.

“Take in my boy.” She said and you saw it in her eyes. A mother’s love, aching to protect her child. It made your chest tight.

“Take the money.” You gently insisted. “I’ll meet him. I may even know someone who can help.”

Maybe befriending Nina Zenik would have an advantage.

“Thank you, Snake.” She nodded, accepting your payment.

“Davina.”

“Myranda.” She nodded once again.

“I’ll come back at ten bells tonight. What’s his name?” You drew your cover over your head.

“Kolya.” She gave you a small smile. “But he likes Kol.”

With that, you were gone. You went back to the snakes and some fussed about your return. Some were quick to assume you were dead, but given your choice of interactions, you didn’t blame them. You simply waved them off, promised you were okay, asked one of them to bring you a proper meal, and went to your office.

Melli was the one to bring it to you and you were thankful for that. She made idle conversation about what you missed. The paperwork was submitted and approved, so you were now the official owner. All that was left would be to name it.

“We could call it something clever but snake related.” She offered. “Like the Viper Pit.”

You made a face.

“Serpent’s Den? Snake Nest?”

“Play with the ‘s’.” You suggested. “Like a snake’s hiss.”

“Oh!” She clapped. “Something like Sss…”

“Snakes are symbols of things like healing, protection, intuition. You get any ideas from that?”

“Hmm. Sixth Sense?”

“And one of the ‘s’ can be a money symbol.”

“Yes! See, this is why we need you.”

You smiled slightly.

“How do you feel?” She asked gently.

“Physically, I feel good. Mentally, I’m exhausted, Mel. Brekker was going to snatch me off the streets. My father shot me. The only good thing that has come from this is that I’ve potentially found a Corporalnik for us.”

“A Heartrender?” Her eyes were wide.

“A Healer.” You corrected. “But he could learn.”

“Where’d you find him?”

“His mother has done a few healing sessions for me, says she wants him to have his own money and that way I have someone ‘closer to home’.”

“What’s his name?”

“You can come with me to meet with him tonight and bring him here. Tomorrow, I’m going to try taking him to Nina Zenik.”

“The Dregs’ Heartrender.”

“I’ve been friendly with her and turns out, she was training with the Second Army for Ravka till she got caught up in a Drüskelle raid.”

“And now she’s in Ketterdam? I thought no one escapes the Fjerdan witch hunters.”

You shrugged. “I didn’t ask, but she’ll teach him.”

“And if she just runs off to Dirtyhands and tells him you’ve recruited a Corporalnik?”

“The only thing left for Kaz to do is to actually kill me.” You shook your head.

“Or me.” She mumbled, picking at a loose thread at her cuff.

“What?”

“You said it yourself. He thinks I’m the Hood.” Her eyes wouldn’t leave her sleeve. “What if he kills me thinking it’s her?”

Your chest tightened at the thought. Imagining Melli at Kaz’s mercy, the cruel things he could do just because he thought she was the Hood. But when you thought of the alley, the way he’d looked at you like he saw through you… And then there was the fleeting way he looked at you like you just hung the moon.

“Melli, you have my word.” You promised. “I’ll slice off each and every one of his cursed fingers if he so much as touches you. Okay?”

She let out a shaky breath and when she looked at you, you saw the tears. You felt a pang of guilt in your chest. Was that all you could give her? A true, warranted fear of Kaz ‘Dirtyhands’ Brekker and a flimsy promise of her safety. Her watery eyes served as a reminder that you had a responsibility to her and every person bearing the mark of your snakes. You had to keep them safe. Whatever war you wanted to wage against your father was yours. The want to ally with Kaz was also yours. They wouldn’t pay for your mistakes or your overzealous attempts at either.

You came around your desk and wrapped your arms around your lieutenant. She held onto you tightly, her fingers digging in as if you’d disappear if she let go. You felt her shuddering breaths shake her shoulders, heard her muffled cries against your shoulder. It all just made your promise more firm.

You refused to allow your snakes to suffer for you.

Later that night, you dawned your hood to meet with Kolya. Melli opted to stay behind and you didn’t press, especially when you noticed her hands still shaking. You offered whatever comfort you could before leaving.

He was already waiting when you got to the familiar building, a bag on his shoulders and a small trunk in his hands. He raised his free hand when he saw your figure and you felt the small increase of your pulse.

“Careful, Kolya.” You said, putting your hands up in surrender. “Your mother says that’s dangerous.”

“Da-“ He began but you shushed him quickly, your pulse settling to its usual pace. “The snake?”

You drew your hood back enough for him to see your face. He stared at you with wide eyes and you took a moment to take him in. Brown curls he had styled back, though one stubborn strand fell out on either side of his part. Dark brown eyes that reflected the moonlight. A tall, lean frame with broad shoulders. He was your age, maybe a year older.

That was a boy you could teach to fight. The idea gave you some hope.

“Come with me.” You said finally, turning to leave. He was quick to get to your side. “Tomorrow, you’ll meet with a potential teacher.”

“My mother told me you lead a small gang.” He said, less of an accent than his mother. You wondered if he had lost it or if he just had a better gift for language. “That you tend to get yourself hurt.”

“Both are true.”

“She also said you wish me a Heartrender.”

“A Healer is more than welcome. What do you wish for yourself?” You glanced at him, noting the sharp angle of his jaw. The lines around his mouth as he frowned.

“Somewhere I can do good.” He said finally, determination in his voice. “My mother told me of the Darkling, how he wanted to use Grisha to change Ravka so he could rule. I don’t want that.”

“Joining me means you’ll still fight, Kolya.” You admitted. “I intend to dismantle an empire and make amends with a boogeyman. I don’t intend to take over Kerch or Ketterdam. I don’t even want the Barrel, just to see the alleged King of the Barrel fall.”

“Are you not the princess, then?” He looked over at you carefully, as if worried he said the wrong thing.

“No.” You shook your head. “I was never intended for his throne.”

“So you’ll tear it down?”

“Brick by brick if I have to, but know that I will never ask any of my snakes to do something I wouldn’t be willing to do myself.”

You felt his hand take yours and you stiffened, but your steps didn’t falter.

“I can’t offer much, yet.” You confessed. “A warm bed, hot meals, safety while you sleep, and a means of your own money. It won’t be easy, nor will the money be substantial for now, but I intend to reward those that deserve it.”

“You needn’t convince me.” He said with a small chuckle and a squeeze to your hand. “My mother says you have a good heart, and I trust her judgment. I will fight beside you, heal your crew, train whatever you need. I know what this is. I am here to join your ranks, Snake.”

“And we’re grateful to have you… Tomorrow, we’ll create the contract. For now,” You took your hand from his when you reached the side door to your building. Melli was waiting on the other side, opening it when you knocked. “Melli will show you to your room.”

He nodded to you before Melli ushered him inside.

“He’s cute!” She mouthed with a grin and you nodded with a small smile.

You took a deep breath through your nose and glanced around. The streets were quiet, as it usually was around your building. But sometimes the quiet was eerie, as it was tonight.

The calm before the storm, maybe. Or it was just calm for once, pieces finally falling into place for you. Yet it made you wonder how things might fall apart next.

The next morning, you waited until after breakfast. Kolya seemed to get along easily with the rest of your snakes and that eased some of your worry. The boy was all smiles as he went around, introducing himself to seemingly everyone.

You called both him and Melli into your office when it was time.

“I suppose I should formally introduce myself.” You began, sitting in your chair. Melli stood beside you and Kolya sat across from you. “My name is Davina. This is Melli, my lieutenant. I am also known as the Hood, who met you last night.”

“I’m Kolya.” He nodded. “But I’d prefer Kol.”

You slid the paperwork towards him. “This is your contract with us. In it, it states the usual bits about loyalty and expectations. It explains how our payouts work, promotions, selection for jobs, incentives, etc. I have to recommend you read it on your own because I’m sure to forget something.”

Kol began to read the papers, his finger following along each line.

“We don’t recruit via buying out other deals, so it’s not a contract you earn your way out of.” Melli added. “There’s a renewal date, about 18 months from signing, so you won’t be paying a portion to the snakes.”

“How do you earn profit then?” Kol looked up for a moment before returning to reading.

“Everything we do, from our gambling hall to running jobs, comes into communal funds. Once a week, we payout the snakes and the rest stays in the coffers for whatever we need as a whole.” You explained. “Food, bills, supplies for jobs, business acquisitions.”

“And how do I go about one of those?” He pointed to the tattoo that was showing thanks to your sleeveless shirt, the snake beginning on your shoulder before creeping down and its head resting on your collarbone.

“Four weeks after signing.”

“Like a probationary period.” Melli nodded.

“Well.” He smiled. “I’m convinced. Davina, Melli, it’d be my honor.”

He signed the papers and you passed over his first payment. He took it with a thankful smile and practically skipped out of the room. You told him to ready himself to meet his potential teacher and that seemed to put even more pep in his step if possible.

“He seems nice.” Melli said once the door shut.

You were filing the paper away. “He does seem to be making friends quickly.” You agreed.

“Davina.” She practically sang and there was a teasing tone in her voice.

“Yes, Melli?” You looked up and saw the mischievous smile on her face. “All the Saints.” You sighed and rested a chin on your hand. “What’s that look for?”

“He’s very cute.”

“Is he?” You pretended you hadn’t noticed.

“And he’s nice. Loyal.”

“Seemingly loyal. We don’t know that for sure yet.”

“He signed on with barely any questions.” She deadpanned. “Don’t you see?”

“That we’ve found a great asset?” You shrugged.

Her eyes went wide and she threw her hands around in a frenzy. “No, Davina! Did you see the way he was looking at you?”

“Don’t start that.” You groaned.

“Maybe… If you get to know him…”

“Melli.” You warned.

“I’m just saying! It might help you get over-“

“Do not say it.” You cut in firmly. “There is nothing between Kaz and I.”

Your mind told you that was a blatant lie but you shoved the thought away, even if it were true.

“Then, please Davina, tell me why you’re so obsessed with that cursed alliance! You know he won’t go for it!”

“It’s more than an alliance.”

“Exactly. You’ve developed an infatuation and I don’t blame you. He’s very pretty but Davina, he’s horrid. You’ve heard what they say about him, the things he’s done.”

“Yes, and I’m daughter of the ‘King of the Barrel’. Who’s to say I’m much better than Brekker? Who’s to say my conscience hasn’t withered to something like his?”

“So you find kinship in him?” She scoffed.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does! Your endless fawning is going to get you killed.”

“Enough!” You snapped. “What I hope to gain with Kaz is my personal responsibility. I’ve said that and I will not require you or any of the snakes to partake in it. If I have to leave them in your care for that time being, I will, but I won’t have you pestering me to stop.”

“Pestering.” She repeated and her face fell. “I didn’t realize that’s how you saw me.”

“You don’t understand.” You sighed.

“But you won’t tell me?”

“I can’t… I can’t because the story isn’t only mine to tell.”

She left without another word and you felt the guilt settle in your stomach like a rock. You knew it wasn’t fair to keep that kind of secret from Melli. She was supposed to be your most trusted, yet you kept your biggest motivation a secret. You wondered what Kaz had told Inej or Jesper.

Did they know that he knew you? That you knew his brother? Saints, did they even know he had a brother? Too many questions with no means of an answer. You went back to your room and washed before dressing in something more fitting to wear in Nina’s presence.

You snapped your cloak at your throat, called on Kol, and left your building.

When you arrived at the White Rose, you were led almost immediately to Nina. It seemed coming on a fairly regular schedule had earned you more priority. You liked the feeling of importance as you were led to Nina’s room.

“I come with a gift.” You said as Kol shut the door behind him.

She gasped. “Waffles?”

“Ah, ‘fraid not.” You clicked your tongue, pulling your hood down, and she huffed in disappointment. “But you may be more interested in this, Nina Zenik.”

“I do prefer silks or jewels as my flattery.” She said in thought. She seemed to finally register Kol. “You brought a friend? I’m surprised you have any.”

“Oh hush.” You waved a hand. “I brought you a student.”

“He’s Grisha? Corporalki?”

You stepped aside and motioned for Kol to take over.

“Yes, Miss.” He nodded. “My name is Kol and I am Grisha, from the Little Palace. I am a Healer mainly, but my mother says I can Tailor well and have potential as a Heartrender, if I can find a true teacher.”

She stared at him for a moment before she smiled slightly. “I do vaguely remember you…” She turned to you. “You want me to teach him?”

“I’d appreciate it.” You nodded. “I know you have obligations to the Dregs, so I don’t ask this as a snake.”

“Have you joined her ranks?” Nina asked Kol.

“If she’ll have me.” He nodded.

“Why?”

He looked at you and you could see what Melli meant that morning. Big, soft eyes and a gentle, almost admiring smile. You returned the small smile and nodded in encouragement.

“It was my mother’s idea.” He confessed. “She has worked with her a time or two, and my mother has always been a good judge of character. Never quite trusted the Darkling or his ambitions, but enjoyed the perks of the Little Palace.”

“We all have our vices.” Nina shrugged.

“I enjoy helping people, but I also like a good fight.” His eyes seemed to shine at the prospect. “That’s part of why we left Ravka. Mother said I’d be of too much interest for the Darkling. So it seems the Hood and the snakes can give exactly what I’m looking for.”

“Hmm.” She thought, lounging on her velvet couch. “Oh, alright. You’ve wooed me with those glittering eyes of yours. I’ll teach him.”

You and Kol smiled at her.

“But-“ She pointed at you. “I expect waffles. Or candies. Better yet, both.”

“I will make a note for next time, but for now, I hope this will do.” You laughed and dropped the money on the table. “Thank you, Nina. And you know I have to ask…”

She waved a hand. “I don’t have to tell Brekker anything I don’t want to. Now, leave us.” She shooed you away.

“As you wish.” You pulled your hood up. “I’ll wait for you outside, Kol.”

“Thank you.” He nodded and the excitement shone in his eyes.

You went outside and took a deep breath. The bustling crowds moved around you, some bumping your shoulder. You saw street performers shouting and dancing, magicians and illusionists. You saw kids trying to pick pockets. Some succeeded, some were scolded.

For the first time in a long time, you felt successful.

You had a Healer. You had a teacher for your Healer to expand his talents. You had a new business.

Maybe you could do this. Maybe you did have a chance.

All you needed was to settle up with Kaz.

“Speak of the Devil.” You muttered as you saw the black clad menace making his way over, the crowd parting as he moved through. The tapping of his cane grew closer and you tried to flatten against the wall. You tilted your head down in hopes of him passing you by, but he stopped right in front of you. You cursed silently and lifted your eyes.

“Fancy meeting you here, Da-“ He began.

When you heard the first syllable of your name, you reacted. You gripped his jacket with one hand and clasped your hand over his mouth as you pulled him into the nearest alley.

[hxneyfarm]

have a little father's day blurb about complicated father-son relationships. 1k. cross posted to ao3

steve's relationship with his parents has been complicated at best his entire life but it's only after he and eddie have an apartment together in chicago that his perception of of the father-son relationship shifts.

for the past decade or so, he's watched eddie's relationship with wayne and ached a little bit. because that's the kind of father-son relationship he wishes he could have had with his dad.

it wasn't always great, especially after his dad realized steve could mostly fend for himself and started leaving him alone more and more often for longer stretches of time. but it wasn't all bad either. his dad used to take him to ball games and he taught him how to ride a bike without the training wheels. he taught him how to change the oil in his beamer and how to bullshit his way through a book report.

mostly, though, he taught steve how to be lonely.

over the past couple of years, steve has slowly been trying to repair that stilted relationship with his old man. the guy isn't going to be around forever, and if nothing else he owes it to steve to leave him with some good memories after he's gone.

father's day has always been a bit of a weird day for steve, because his dad has always kept his feelings close to the vest, so steve's never had any idea how to navigate the day around him.

he thinks about the year he was thirteen; they'd gone to a cubs game together at wrigley and his dad let him have a cup of beer with his hotdog. he thinks of the year he was sixteen, before hawkins turned itself upside down; his dad was out of town at the condo in indy for some work conference the following week and he'd sighed when steve called him to wish him well, thinking there'd been something wrong at home.

this year is going to be different, steve tells himself.

he and eddie have invited both his dad and wayne to their apartment in chicago for dinner, and his dad is going to be here. steve's already bought a card for his dad, and his mom sent him her lasagna recipe, and he splurged for a good bottle of red wine.

hopefully this year will begin to repair the distance between steve and his dad.

steve finds himself hovering over the coffee maker at the kitchen counter, staring off into space while it brews, and eddie startles him a little when he comes up behind him to wrap an arm around his waist and kiss his cheek.

'you good?'

"yeah. little nervous.'

'it'll be fine. i made him laugh at christmas last year. remember?'

steve does remember. it was a good christmas.

it took steve's parents some time to accept steve and eddie as steve and eddie, but it's been so long now that it's not something that the harringtons can just ignore. if they want to be a part of their son's life, they need to get used to eddie. and this past christmas felt like a win - the harringtons had gifted them concert tickets and a fancy toaster oven for their apartment.

that night, after the sunday chores have been done and the laundry has been folded and put away, richard and wayne show up within moments of each other. steve and eddie's beagle mix, ozzy, greets them at the door, his tail thumping against the floor as he resists jumping up to beg their visitors for pets.

dinner goes really well; richard doesn't say anything offensive about their little apartment and eddie doesn't goad him into a discussion about politics. together, the four of them reminisce about steve and eddie's childhoods around the table, their plates overflowing with noodles and red sauce. wayne tells them stories about eddie that steve's never heard before, and richard tells stories that steve had completely forgotten about.

it's giving steve hope, this father's day dinner with his dad and his boyfriend and his boyfriend's uncle-dad.

until steve and richard are at the sink washing up the dinner dishes together, and everything crashes down around them.

'you're still young,' richard says. 'there's still time.'

'for what?'

'for you to come to your senses.'

'dad...'

'no, i mean it. there's always a job waiting for you at my firm. plenty of pretty girls in administrative roles there, too.'

'dad...' steve says again.

'i'm just saying, steven. it's time to stop playing house like this and settle down.'

'i am settled. we have a good life here. i love my job at the school. i love my life. i love eddie.'

'don't you want kids of your own? he can't give you that.'

steve scoffs.

'why would i want kids of my own? i didn't exactly have the best parental role models growing up. i'd fuck a kid up, just like you and mom fucked me up. besides, i have my students. that's plenty for me.'

'we gave you everything, steven.'

'everything except your presence. i needed you guys, especially as a teenager. and you guys just... didn't give a shit. why would i want to keep that cycle going?'

the silence in the kitchen is so loud.

'it's late. you should get going. eddie's got work in the morning.'

richard sighs.

'the offer stands. the firm is always there when you're ready.'

'just go. happy father's day.'

it comes out bitter. snappy. steve doesn't apologize.

richard goes. steve stays in the kitchen and tries not to think about it. he pops open a second bottle of wine - cheap, sweet, white, the kind of wine his father would mock him for drinking if he gave him half a chance.

he feels stupid for thinking his father could change, for thinking it could ever be different. people his dad's age are so stuck in their ways that there's no getting through to them. it's not easy but it's reality.

after wayne leaves, eddie comes into the kitchen to join steve and pour himself a glass of that cheap riesling steve's been working his way through. he doesn't say anything because he doesn't have to. ozzy curls up at steve's feet and the three of them sit together in a comfortable silence. eddie holds steve's hand atop the table.

at least steve isn't lonely anymore.

[elvensorceress]

sunday sentences

tagged by @inell @firefighterevandiaz @tizniz tagging @eddiebabygirldiaz @spotsandsocks @chaosandwolves @hippolotamus @exhuastedpigeon @diazsdimples @confetti-cupcake @kitteneddiediaz @bekkachaos @the-likesofus @lover-of-mine @hoodie-buck @fiona-fififi @thekristen999 @daffi-990 @dangerpronebuddie @monsterrae1 @wh0re-behavi0r more Unless. Buck and Chris being menaces to each other. As you do.

Buck doesn’t want to know. He’s trying very hard not to know. Eddie wants to take him on a special, official date and he wanted it to be a surprise, so Buck is not snooping. Even though the suspense is killing him. He’s not going to ask and he is not bugging Eddie about the weird research that Eddie said he needed to do. And Buck is most definitely not going to give in now at the last minute when he’s driving Chris to his bimonthly sleepover with his group of friends. 

And Chris tells him, “I know what Dad’s planning. I gave him the idea.”

Buck grips the steering wheel and doesn’t fidget and will not ask for any details. Except surprises are stupid when he’s not the one orchestrating them and what are they going to do? What is Eddie planning? Why does he have to be so secret about it? Why can’t Buck know now? It’s not as if he won’t know later tonight. 

And now their son wants to tempt him into an interrogation and Buck is not going to give in. He’s not. Because word would get back to Eddie and he’s sure Eddie would be disappointed and Buck is not going to disappoint him. 

“Yeah?” Buck says as if he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care. No, he does care what it is but he is not going to ask for details. Not. He can wait. It’s only a few more hours. He’s waiting. He can do it. “Do you think I’ll like it?”

“It was my idea! Do you think I’d give him a bad idea,” Chris gives him a side-eyed look, and Buck has to laugh.

“No. Of course not.” Buck just wanted to know without actually knowing. 

Although it doesn’t even matter what the date is. Being with Eddie, his best friend, the love of his life, spending time just the two of them, that’s all that matters. They could be sorting through trash or hiking through the sewers or wading the nasty smelly sections of the LA River, and it would still be something they get to do together. Not that any of that sounds like Date Night fun, but still. They could complain and laugh about it together. He loves when Eddie gets snarky and salty and makes hilarious comments. 

Eddie’s so funny. And he’s so fun to be around. And Buck loves experiencing everything with him. 

“Do you know what it is?” Chris asks. “What Dad is planning for you?”

“Nope,” Buck holds up a hand like a stop. “Don’t want to know. It’s a surprise.”

“You’re not curious? Even a little?”

Buck bites his lip and it’s a trap. It’s such a trap. The child is amused because he knows Buck wants to know. He knows. But Buck is not going to know. He shakes his head and forces on a mild, unbothered face and doesn’t look at Chris. He is looking at the crosswalk coming up and the people standing at the corner on the sidewalk waiting and Buck stops at the intersection where the people are probably walking to the park that is on the other side of the street so that they can do park things there. He will not look at Chris. He’s driving. He’s watching out for pedestrians. He doesn’t want to know. “No. Not curious. If you picked it out, it has to be something good.” 

“Maybe,” Chris says. “I could have picked something bad though. Something you hate. Like when we got Dad the Hildy coffee maker.” 

Buck grins. That was a good one. Still one of his most favorite memories, teaming up with Chris that way. He only wishes he could have seen Eddie’s face in the moment. Only thing that would have made it better. “Yeah. You could have,” Buck agrees and two can play this game. “But no matter what it is, your dad is a hopeless romantic and he’s going to be incredibly sappy and mushy and he’ll kiss me and hold my hand the whole night and nothing could ruin that.”

Chris makes a gagging noise and sticks out his tongue like he might throw up. “You’re worse than the kids at my school. Both of you. Aren’t you sick of it yet?”

Buck laughs. Chris only mentions this every other day. As if Buck would ever be sick of kissing Eddie and getting to be in love with him. “Never gonna happen. Sorry, buddy.”

Chris huffs and rolls his eyes and at least it effectively ends the conversation about the date Eddie is planning for them. 

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1949 Delahaye 175 S Saoutchik Roadster

Saoutchik was a cabinet maker when he moved to Paris from his home in Ukraine around 1900, but he didn’t take long to establish himself in the fledgling automotive coachbuilding industry and he showed a consistent flair over the next 50 years which puts him among the very elite of automotive designers.

His designs borrowed little from other designers, and along with names such as Figoni et Falaschi, Chapron, Franay and de Letourner et Marchand, Saoutchik was one of the foremost designers of exquisite Art Deco coachwork during the 20s and 30s.

Saoutchik was commissioned to produce the spectacular work-of-art by flamboyant English collector, Sir John Gaul. The design was based on the first post-war Delahaye chassis from a 175 S Roadster (chassis number 815023) producing 165 bhp from an engine much larger than the pre-war Delahayes ran – a 4,455 cc naturally aspirated overhead valve inline six cylinder engine with four-speed electro-mechanically actuated Cotal Preselector gearbox, Dubonnet coil spring front suspension, De Dion rear axle with semi-elliptic springs, and four-wheel hydraulic finned alloy drum brakes. The wheelbase was a whopping 116 inches.

The car was unveiled at the 1949 Paris Auto Show, and was exhibited at all the major European concours events that year, from Paris to Monte Carlo to San Remo, scooping the pool wherever it was exhibited. It won best-in-class in the Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance in 2006 just a few months after a complete restoration. Just a few months later, the car was honored again, winning People’s Choice at theprestigious Amelia Island Concours d’ Elegance.

Having fulfilled its exhibition duties, it then passed through a succession of other flamboyant owners, including actress Diana Dors.

The final word on this stunning automobile goes to Ian Kelleher, President and Chief Operating Officer, RM Auctions

“Following the financial depression of World War II, there were few collectors with the means, flamboyance and flair to commission a car as exotic as this Saoutchik Roadster. Arguably the most desirable post-war, coachbuilt automobile of all time, it is truly a masterpiece of the coachbuilder’s art. Eye-catching and exotic, it is wonderful to drive and combines superlative styling on a chassis of competition quality.”

Courtesy of RM Auctions