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[painted-flag]

Duty is the Death of Love - Benjicot Blackwood

✧.* masterlist.

✧.* pairing: benjicot blackwood x unnamed bracken!oc

✧.* summary: the fruits of passion are turned rotten from betrayal.

✧.* word count: 2.2k

✧.* note: angst, angst, and more angst stoked with forbidden love.

Her grief started as confusion. Waves of uncertainty moved through her brain. It was a mistake. All a mistake. The message had to have been wrong. There was no way her reality had morphed into this twisted hellscape. Yet, she reminded herself of the fickleness that lay in peace. Times of unity are nothing but falseness. Peacetime, another word that men used while havoc lay dormant; a sleeping beast waiting for vanity and envy to claw at their throats. 

Situations could go awry at any moment. One slip up and suddenly the price of consequence is dealt. Men fight men, such is the march of time. A result of that conflict may be measured by the severity of the interaction. The God's exact justice in the cruellest of ways. Violence - unmitigated and gratuitous - is an affront to the God's. 

That is their language to speak, not men.

Yes, situations could go wrong. So terribly wrong. But her family had appeased the gods daily. Earned their favour through rigorous prayers and offerings. She had knelt, every morning and night, in service and prayer to the seven. Her dedication enshrined her very being. 

Why must they exact their retribution by taking everything from her? 

Just that morning, she had broken her fast with her twin, Aeron. She had joked with him and planned their week together. There was nary a time when the two were not joined at the hip. All it took was one afternoon separated for her life to crumble like the many ruins laid bare through the Riverlands. 

The news came swiftly, a sign of the stranger. She had been diligently stitching a new set of gloves for Aeron when they carried his body into the great hall of Stone Hedge. She did not understand it all - could not understand it. Just hours ago he had been breathing; warm and there. The cold corpse in front of her was not her brother, it could not be true. 

His face, one she came to know dearly, would no longer look upon her with care. The sun from his eyes and the comfort from his words were no more. Death was odd to her. A complex system of contradictions came from the mark of the stranger. 

Death was a tragedy for those gifted with youth, yet a point of victory for the aged. 

It was in this sorrow of death she discovered an unwilling truth; her gods were false. How could her family carry centuries of servitude and be wronged like this? Perhaps it was a punishment from the old gods, that House Bracken had forsaken their originals and sided with the seven - sealing fates of evil vengeance. 

The Battle of the Burning Mill was what men called it. Their need for grand titles trumped the yards of bodies now either buried or burned. 

She had been locked in her chamber for an undetermined amount of time, watching the trees shake in the wind from her viewpoint. There was an unspoken question she dared not to explore. Conflicting reports were discussed regarding the exact nature of how the battle broke. However, one indisputable fact was that Aeron Bracken and Benjicot Blackwood had exchanged words. The details of those words are muddled, but the outcome is easily perceived by the field of fallen men. 

On the morning of a new day, she found herself wandering the moors like a ghost in the night. One could have mistaken her for a banshee should they have seen her the day her twin’s body arrived. Never in her years of living had she shrieked so horribly, sobbed so deeply that the salty tears burned tracts down her glass skin. Now, her throat felt torn and she could no longer muster a single noise. 

The sky hung slate and sad. Gray clouds dripped down to form fog and enshrined all around; a gossamer veil clung to the trees. The sun, like her brother, was smothered by the evil weather around - taken when needed most. Sleets of rain refused to fall. 

The gods would not weep for men. 

She remembered the gleam of his sword so clearly. A gift she had commissioned for their name day. All the coins collected throughout the year went into that gift and it was what killed him. Her gift killed her brother - pierced through his throat like a needle to cloth. She questioned ever getting it for him in the first place. 

Those thoughts clouded her mind as she strode through the thicket. There was one destination in mind - a location she had kept hidden from everyone, including Aeron. Beside a rocky cutout with a small flowing waterfall lay a tiny meadow. The coming winter had seen all the flowers gone, but her memories of this place remained warm. 

Viewing it, she could see the past flicker through her vision. Wandering hands, heated passion. The warmth of comforting strong arms wrapped around her body as she lay on a blanket in the grass with her lover. The trysts between her and Benjicot Blackwood were supposed to be nothing but meaningless bouts of built-up passion being expended. 

However, the more his breath brushed her skin between kisses that trailed over her body, her heart and soul bonded to him. Ben had also relished in it, having confessed to reciprocating those feelings after a particularly long night of coupling in the hot spring behind the waterfall. She believed - truly - that what they had stretched beyond their houses ancient grudge. 

What a silly little dream. 

Her tragic reminiscence was interrupted by nearing footfalls. She turned to see the object of all her desires and the bringer of her current ire standing at the break of trees. He was visibly injured, with several bruises and countless cuts marring his exposed arms, neck, and face. 

A whirlwind of emotions surged over her. A deep and unyielding love overpowered it all, but the feel of his touch - as he went to wrap her in his arms - pulled her free from that reverie. She shoved violently against his chest, pushing him away from her. Ben’s face, once relieved and calm, morphed into confusion. 

“Why?” Her voice cracked. Its previous use through screaming in mourning had worn down on her body. 

Ben tilted his head. His tongue moved across his chapped lips, “None of it was supposed to happen.” 

A forced laugh burst forth from her mouth, which was quickly replaced by swelling anger, “Not meant to happen? Don’t be so absurd, Blackwood.” Her omission of the use of his first name came like a slap upon his face. 

“I am telling the truth, I always will tell you the truth. It was not meant to happen.” Ben shook his head. 

She regarded his figure for a few moments. The person in front of her was a shimmering reflection of the man she had known not long ago. The body that once stood with confidence swayed with uncertainty and pain. The physical remains of the battle he endured did not come close to the marks branded on his mind from the violence witnessed; the violence that washed across him like an unyielding tidal wave. 

Ben swallowed, “Your brother…” You closed your eyes in pain, but he continued, “I’m sorry for your loss, for your house's loss… Everything happened so quickly.” 

She watched as he moved back towards her, hesitantly this time. Once only a few inches from her, he went to reach out but stopped short. There was a time when she would curse such a distance between them, no matter how short. A time when all she wished was to remain next to him until her dying days. 

Benjicot, who had pushed down the walls of their hate and built up a foundation of pure, unaltered love. 

Benjicot, who had been the man to share in all her firsts. 

Benjicot, who swore his mind, body, and soul to her for as long as he shall live. 

Benjicot, who had slain her twin brother, throwing all the previous into an abyss of disregard. 

“I fought to come back. I couldn’t lose you.” His words, while meant as a comfort, cut her deeper than any sword ever could. 

“You lost me the moment you plunged that sword into Aeron’s throat. You killed me then, as well.” Tears had begun to fall down her reddened cheeks. The aggression in her voice did not match her face. Her look was nothing but anguish. 

Ben’s brows furrowed and the accusation laid heavy on his heart. “You believe it was I who killed your brother?” 

Her heart felt like it was tied to a rope and thrown into the depths of the ocean. As it sunk beneath the waves like an anchor, pieces of it broke off. They scattered in all directions. The lower her heart sank, the more fragile it became. Down lower and lower, breaking piece by piece. 

“Can you tell me, with all that truth you swear to possess, that it was not you?” 

Ben did not answer. His eyes, once so focused on her face, cast down to the ground as he hung his head in shame. The voiceless confirmation was enough for her to know. The rest of her heart then broke up and every bit wandered to the ocean floor - away from the light’s gentle caress - until there was nothing left but the rope it was once tied to. 

“I never wish to see your face again. What we had…” She paused to swallow a sob that threatened to escape, “What we had never existed. It's nothing, like you are to me.” 

It was almost laughable how much of a lie that was. No matter the crime, the slaughter of her family and house, what she felt for Benjicot would never go away. No amount of animosity or betrayal could erase the simple fact that her body and soul longed for him. It called out for him like a siren on rocky shores. 

She moved back, for if she did not separate herself from him soon she would forsake all her previous words and fall into his arms; recreating all those previous nights they had shared. The honour of allegiance to her family and house was stronger than her personal feelings. Without so much as a goodbye, she turned to walk away. 

The sound of a thud made its way to her ears. She could not turn around, could not look into his eyes. The sound of heavy and pained breathing made her return her gaze to him. Benjicot was on his knees in the dew-laden grass. Anguished painted his beautiful face. The carved cheeks she once thought carved by the gods were sunken. Despite making it out of the battle alive, his countenance reflected that of a corpse. 

She watched as his hands reached down to the blade strapped to his hilt. He pulled the sword out of its sheath and gripped the blade. The hilt was presented to her, an offering waiting to be taken. Ben took a moment to control his breathing. 

“Take it,” His voice wobbled with each word. This was the first time she had ever seen him cry. It did not look right - like the action itself should have never even been thought of. Pain did not look good on him. 

“Take it and cut me down, my love.” He nearly sobbed out the words, “Send me to whatever Hell is waiting for what I have done to you.” 

The blade reflected the dullness of the grey sky above. He had given her the opportunity to use his own blade against him; like some sense of poetic justice. Poetic justice would not bring her brother back. Poetic justice would not right the wrong that had befallen both of their houses. 

Poetic justice could never bring her back to what they had just a few short days ago. 

She walked back to him and looked down upon his form. In his eyes was nothing but trust. He gazed upon her with a softness like never before. Her heart began to beat erratically. The palms of her hands became clammy and the once rigid stance she held began to crumble. Her hand reached out but stopped just short of the hilt. 

Ben moved it to touch her palm, “Cut me down and end your pain. I have hurt you, and for that, I must die.” 

She remembered the vow he swore to her all those moons ago. A secret marriage only they and the gods witnessed during the hour of the wolf in this very meadow. He swore everything to her and promised to protect her no matter the cost. Protect her no matter the cost. How quickly it took for men to go back on their word. 

She reached out and gripped the sword in her hand. It almost dropped to the ground, for she was not used to such a weight. Ben’s chest heaved in sync with hers. Their hearts beating together, perhaps for the last time. 

Every fibre of her being screamed to stop. To abandon this foolishness, fall to her knees and wrap him in her arms. In spite of that, the faces of all of House Bracken’s men, the ones who lay dead, flickered across her vision. In the end, Aeron’s face remained. Once again, the feeling of rage that had dissipated returned with rigorous fire. She had an obligation to all those who died, to all the ancestors that came before her to exact justice as it was supposed to be. If the gods would not do it, she would. A familiar phrase brushed her memory which she heard long ago.

Duty is the death of love. 

She raised the steel and made her choice.

____________

✧.* end note: not edited because i wrote this in a fever haze while coughing like no tomorrow. sorry for any glaring errors.

If you want to be added to any of my taglists, click here.

✧.* taglist for all works: @whodis?

✧.* taglist for any HOTD imagine: @aisselasstuff @idontlikelizards

[marichive]

𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 : 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄

Writing / roleplay prompts collected from the POV chapters of Catelyn Tully / Stark in A Game of Thrones , the first book of the ASOIAF saga. Feel free to adjust pronouns / etc. as needed.

tw: dark & mature themes, death, violence, suggestive / sexual content

❝ Where are the children? ❞

❝ Is he afraid? ❞

❝ He is only three. ❞

❝ He must learn to face his fears. ❞

❝ Winter is coming. ❞

❝ The man died well, I’ll give him that. ❞

❝ You would have been proud of him. ❞

❝ I’m always proud of him. ❞

❝ The poo man was half mad. Something had put a fear in him so deep that my words could not reach him. ❞

❝ It will only grow worse. The day may come when I will have no choice but to call the banners. ❞

❝ He is nothing for us to fear. ❞

❝ There are darker things beyond the Wall. ❞

❝ You listen to too many of her stories. ❞

❝ No living man has ever seen one. ❞

❝ You did not come here to tell me tales. ❞

❝ I know how little you like this place. ❞

❝ What is it, My Lady? ❞

❝ There was grievous news today, My Lord. ❞

❝ I did not wish to trouble you until you had cleansed yourself. ❞

❝ I am so sorry, my love. He is dead. ❞

❝ Is this news certain? ❞

❝ It was the king’s seal, and the letter is in his own hand. ❞

❝ I saved it for you. ❞

❝ That is some small mercy, I suppose. ❞

❝ His memory will haunt each stone. ❞

❝ She needs the comfort of family and friends around her. ❞

❝ The letter had other tidings. ❞

❝ The king is riding to seek you out. ❞

❝ We should send word to your brother. ❞

❝ And he gives us no more notice than this? ❞

❝ Where the king goes, the realm follows. ❞

❝ Please, guard your tongue. ❞

❝ Kings are not like other men. ❞

❝ Can’t you see the danger that would put us in? ❞

❝ I never asked for this cup to pass to me. ❞

❝ What is it? My Lady, you’re shaking. ❞

❝ There is grief in this message, I can feel it. ❞

❝ This is no time for false modesty. ❞

❝ My father went south once, to answer the summons of a king. He never came home again. ❞

❝ There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. ❞

❝ He must learn to rule, and I will not be here for him. ❞

❝ He must be ready when his time comes. ❞

❝ You know how he loves to climb. ❞

❝ This is hard, I know. ❞

❝ He is my blood, and that is all you need to know. ❞

❝ He cannot stay here. He is your son, not mine. I will not have him. ❞

❝ A boy with a bastard’s name . . . you know what they will say of him. He will be shunned. ❞

❝ How can you be so damnably cruel? ❞

❝ When the time comes, I will tell him myself. ❞

❝ I can’t leave him, even for a moment. ❞

❝ I have to be with him. ❞

❝ He’s not going to die. ❞

❝ What if he needs me and I’m not here? ❞

❝ I need you too. I’m trying, but I can’t . . . I can’t do it all by myself. ❞

❝ He needs to hear them sing. ❞

❝ Don’t be afraid. ❞

❝ Swear to me you’ll sleep. ❞

❝ It’s good to know my son’s life was not sold cheaply. ❞

❝ What I am about to tell you must not leave this room. ❞

❝ You have my oath. ❞

❝ If this is true, he will pay for it. I’ll kill him myself! ❞

❝ Never draw your sword unless you mean to use it. ❞

❝ I must go myself. ❞

❝ The honor of carrying a lady like yourself is all the reward I need. ❞

❝ The captain was just telling me that our voyage is almost at an end. ❞

❝ I have not been the most valiant of protectors. ❞

❝ The moment we go ashore we are at risk. ❞

❝ There are those at court who will know you on sight. ❞

❝ It’s one thing to be clever and another to be wise. ❞

❝ A man must make his own choices. ❞

❝ Even in a place like this, one never knows who may be watching. ❞

❝ Why have I been brought here in this fashion? ❞

❝ You were not mistreated, I trust? ❞

❝ I am not accustomed to being summoned like a serving wench. ❞

❝ I’ve angered you, My Lady. That was never my intent. ❞

❝ A wife is allowed to yearn for her husband. ❞

❝ Please don’t expect me to believe that. ❞

❝ This sudden trip of yours bespeaks a certain urgency. ❞

❝ I beg of you, let me help. ❞

❝ I know things. That is the nature of my service. ❞

❝ I am soaked through. Even my bones are wet. ❞

❝ There is an inn at the crossroads up ahead. ❞

❝ I hope I have not spoken out of turn. I meant no offense. ❞

❝ Frank talk does not offend me. ❞

❝ You are far from home. ❞

❝ Your home is in my heart. ❞

❝ Take off your helm. I would look on your face again. ❞

❝ I have not been a child in many years. ❞

❝ Suspicion casts a long shadow. ❞

❝ It seems to me she is only playing at courtship. She enjoys the sport. ❞

❝ A woman can rule as wisely as a man. ❞

❝ Pride? Arrogance, some might call it. Arrogance and avarice and lust for power. ❞

❝ I, however, am innocent as a little lamb. Shall I bleat for you? ❞

❝ I promise you, my lady, no harm will come to you. ❞

❝ I do not frighten easily. ❞

❝ I am going to die here. ❞

❝ I . . . I cannot do this. ❞

❝ I’ll come back for you. ❞

❝ I don’t want to look. ❞

❝ Keep your eyes closed if you like. ❞

❝ Have you taken leave of your senses!? ❞

❝ Isn’t he beautiful? ❞

❝ The seed is strong. ❞

❝ Not in front of the baby. ❞

❝ These are not times for delicacy. ❞

❝ You’re scaring the boy. ❞

❝ We’re safe here. ❞

❝ Don’t be a fool. No one is safe. If you think hiding here will make them forget you, you are sadly mistaken. ❞

❝ No castle is impregnable. ❞

❝ Tell me the rest of it. ❞

❝ I should have been woken. ❞

❝ Isn’t it a lovely morning? The gods are smiling on us. ❞

❝ Alive, he has value. Dead, he is only food for crows. ❞

❝ It’s said that poison is a woman’s weapon. ❞

❝ He’s too fond of the sight of blood on that sword of his. ❞

❝ Stand and fight, coward! ❞

❝ My son is leading a host to war. ❞

❝ When night falls, there are said to be ghosts, cold vengeful spirits of the North. ❞

❝ Remind me not to linger here. ❞

❝ You’ve grown a beard. ❞

❝ You are as fair as ever, a welcome sight in troubled times. ❞

❝ Can you understand why I might fear? ❞

❝ The real message is in what she does not say. ❞

❝ I know the sound of a threat, even whispered. ❞

❝ They have her hostage, and they mean to keep her. ❞

❝ Our best hope, our only true hope, is that you can defeat the foe in the field. ❞

❝ You cannot afford to seem indecisive in front of men like these. ❞

❝ It is not my intent to linger here long. ❞

❝ I’ll speak any way I like, damn you. ❞

❝ I have agreed to take them as wards. ❞

❝ Let him grow as tall as his father, and hold his own son in his arms. ❞

❝ You should let the men see you before battle. I will give them courage. ❞

❝ And who will give me courage? ❞

❝ So this is what death sounds like. ❞

❝ I would offer you my sword, but I seem to have mislaid it. ❞

❝ It is not your sword I want, ser. ❞

❝ He . . . he killed them . . . ❞

❝ If they hadn’t tried to stop him — ❞

❝ Your men did what they were sworn to do. ❞

❝ Grieve for them. Honor them for their valor. But not now. You have no time for grief. ❞

❝ Your grief is mine. ❞

❝ I swear it, you will have your vengeance. ❞

❝ Will that bring him back to me? ❞

❝ I prayed to know what to do, but the gods did not answer. ❞

❝ I shared his bed and bore his children. Do you think I love him any less than you? ❞

❝ I will mourn for him until the end of my days, but I must think of the living. ❞

❝ I want you to live your life, to kiss a girl and wed a woman and father a son. ❞

❝ I want to write an end to this. I want to go home. ❞

❝ Why shouldn’t we rule ourselves again? ❞

❝ It was the dragons we married, and the dragons are all dead! ❞

❝ There sits the only king I mean to bow my knee to. ❞

[scotianostra]

The Construction of Rosslyn chapel began on 20th September 1456.

Properly known as the Collegiate Chapel of St Matthew in the village of Roslin, Midlothian, this is just a couple of miles from where I grew up.

The building of the chapel is sometimes incorrectly given as ten years before, but that date comes from the chapel’s receiving its founding charter from Rome.

We are very lucky that Rosslyn Chapel remains intact, as we see it today, you only have to look around Scotland at the ruins of our Abbeys destroyed during the Reformation, Rosslyn was closed from around 1560,The chapel’s altars were destroyed in 1592 but the main structure is thought to have survived and any real damage was avoided.

The chapel was built by The Sinclair family and has been linked with the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon, that’s the Knights Templar to you and I, the order was disbanded around 150 years before construction but symbols, such as the “Two riders on a single horse” that appear on the Seal of the Knights Templar, can be found on the building.

Rosslyn Chapel was constructed almost entirely in stone, with no structural timber except within the much later Victorian baptistery added to the west end of the chapel. The chapel is thought to be only part of what was intended to be a much larger church, and it exhibits immense historic, architectural and cultural value. The extent of carved stonework both internally and externally makes this little chapel truly unique. Though incomplete, it took around 40 years to build, and has the largest number of Green Man carvings of any medieval chapel in Europe.

The carvings of the chapel have been the subject of much speculation and conjecture, as Christian symbolism and other references are interspersed throughout the building. In 1630, Sir William Sinclair of Rosslyn was granted the charters from the Masons of Scotland, which confirms that the St Clairs were traditional Grand Masters of the Masons of Scotland. Accordingly, Rosslyn Chapel is of considerable interest to Masonic groups. Other carvings at Rosslyn Chapel are of religious, natural, or decorative nature, such as the Apprentice Pillar and the Seven Acts of Mercy panel.

Following the Reformation, services stopped being held in 1592 and did not begin again until the Chapel was re-dedicated in Victorian times.

Oliver Cromwell had his men stable their horses in the chapel in 1650 when he and General George Monck conquered nearby Roslin Castle.

Queen Victoria visited the site during her reign and was instrumental in restoring the Chapel to it’s original state for worship according to Protestant rites of the Scottish Episcopal Church and was re-dedicated as a place of worship on 22nd April 1862

I remember my mum talking about the Apprentice Pillar and how there was speculation that The Holy Grail is possibly encased within it, she talked about this in the 1970′s, about 30 years before the Chapel became more famous due to Dan Brown’s novel and film The Da Vinci Code.

I got the majority of the pics from the Alamy website, they date from the mid 19the century, some are from around 1852 while the one with the two figures walking through the church is from a book printed in 1859. Note most of these are before Queen Victoria's visit, so it shows the building was still in a good state of repair then. The top pic is from John Slezer's 'Theatrum Scotiae' is an important record of Scottish towns, castles and palaces in the 17th century. For most of these places, it contains some of the earliest views that survive. The first edition was 1693 so I think I am safe in saying it is the oldest depiction of Rosslyn Chapel.

Theatrum Scotiae also included written information on the drawings featured, the noted Scottish physician and antiquarian Robert Sibbald wrote;

Rosslyn Chapel

To the Right Honourable GEORGE Earl of Caithness, Lord Biridall, &c.

Roslin Chapel

This Chapel lies in Mid-Lothian, Four Miles from Edinburgh, and is one of the most curious Pieces of Workman-ship in Europe. The Foundation of this rare Building was laid Anno 1440 by William St Clair, Prince of Orkney, Duke of Holdenburgh, &c. A Man as considerable for the publick Works which he erected, as for the Lands which he possess'd, and the Honours which were conferred upon him by several of the greatest Princes of Europe. It is remarkable that in all this Work there are not two Cuts of one fort. The most curious Part of the Building is the Vault of the Quire, and that which is called the Prince's Pillar so much talk'd of. This Chapel was possess'd by a Provost, and Seven Cannons Regular, who were endued with several considerable Revenues through the Liberality of the Lairds of Roslin.

Here lies buried George Earl of Caithness, who lived about the Beginning of the Reformation, Alexander Earl of Sutherland, great Grand-Child to King Robert de Bruce, Three Earls of Orkney, and Nine Barons of Roslin.

The last lay in a Vault, so dry that their Bodies have been found intire after Fourscore Years, and as fresh as when they were first buried. There goes a Tradition, That before the Death of any of the Family of Roslin, this Chapel appears all in Fire.

[wanderingnork]

Gith Deep Dive: Top Ten Weirdest Lore From Dragon Magazine

Dragon was a magazine published from 1976 to 2013, first by TSR (the origin company of D&D), then Paizo (now best known for Pathfinder), and finally Wizards of the Coast. It was replaced in 2015 by Dragon+, which ran until 2022. The magazine published short fiction and comics, adventures and maps, reviews, advice, artwork, and more. Whole adventure lines (like Age of Worms or Scales of War) were published through the magazine, never as hard-copy books. Its famous "Ecology of..." line provided in-depth bestiary looks at various iconic monsters. The mind flayer ecology article is even narrated by a githyanki! It introduced magic items, class mechanics, and more--some of which have become staples of the wider tabletop RPG community.

Dragon ran for 430 issues and Dragon+ added another 41 on top of that. 47 issues of the original run featured the githyanki heavily, and 4 of Dragon+ did. On my neocities gith resources page, you can see all of them. They often appeared on encounter or class tables (as a PC race particularly suited for a particular paragon path or prestige class), but those I haven't included.

What's presented here is what I think are the ten weirdest, wildest, most surprising pieces of gith lore out of Dragon (and Dragon+). Enjoy.

(Note: I use Astral Plane and Astral Sea based on edition--it was Astral Plane up until 4th Edition when it switched to Astral Sea.)

(Further note: I sincerely apologize on behalf of the original writers for the way some of the original articles are written. There's often thoughtless language, nasty biases, and other questionable content. Trust me, it gives me the ick too.)

-

10: #93 – "Pronunciation Guide: An informal index of the right things to say", p.26

So...that's not actually how the article titled is spelled, but I hate how they did it so, so much. "Ay pronunseeAYshun gyd." Thanks, but no thanks.

This is more of a meta-weirdness than anything else. According to this article, "githyanki" is pronounced "gith-yan-kee," with emphasis on "yan." Cool, fine. "Githzerai," on the other hand, which we mostly pronounce as "gith-zer-eye" now (with emphasis on "eye"), is said to be pronounced "gith-zer-ee" (with emphasis on "gith"). You can spot this pronunciation listed on the Forgotten Realms wiki article, but in Baldur's Gate 3 it's quite clearly pronounced the former.

How times change.

9: #408 - Bazaar of the Bizarre: Treasures of the Elemental Chaos, p.29

The artifact suite "Xenda-Dran's Array" offers players a chance to wear the gear of a long-dead slaad assassin in the service of the slaad lord Ygorl. Apparently, eons ago, the slaad ran into the enlightened githzerai master Liricosa (detailed in The Plane Below: Secrets of the Elemental Chaos, p.148). Liricosa's power is such that he either killed the slaad easily...or his transcendent nature turned a slaad, the embodiment of chaos, into a being of law.

8: #390 – Power Play: Divine: Dead Gods, p.46-47

Deep in the Elemental Chaos floats the petrified body of the long-dead god Haramathur. Eons ago, this god sacrificed himself to seal away a powerful primordial. Now a githzerai monastery has been carved directly out of the god's body. The githzerai who live there call themselves the "Disciples of Stone" and may actually be able to communicate with stone itself. Good luck getting there to meet them, though: the body is surrounded by a maelstrom of volcanic energy.

7: #287 – Creatures of the Chaos Spire, p.74

An eldritch fortress known as Gnythagak, shaped by use of psionic power, is now known as the Chaos Spire. It was taken from the illithids by a combined force of githyanki and githzerai. Afterwards, the githyanki occupied the fortress, and the githzerai responded with an army. Tens of thousands died on both sides in the massive battle. In the end, the githzerai channeled the raw matter of the plane of Limbo directly into the heart of Gnythagak, resulting in an interplanar explosion and the transformation of the fortress into a migratory pocket-plane of its own.

The wild part about this isn't the battle. It's that the githyanki and githzerai worked together at such a scale for such a massive undertaking. That's pretty damn exceptional, and a demonstration of just how much both sides hate mind flayers.

6: #245 – Mindstalkers, p.36-43

This article covers an order of dwarves who develop psionic powers in order to hunt illithids. They learned from a githyanki who, in gratitude for being rescued from illithid clutches before he could become dinner, taught his dwarven rescuers psionic skill. The githyanki even brought ore from an Astral godmote to the dwarves so they could forge special weapons to fight mind flayers. These "caradhakers" adopt githyanki hairstyles and ornamentation alongside their typical clan fashions (and, of course, beards).

Githyanki aren't normally quite this open or friendly with other species. But, much like the incident with the Chaos Spire, hatred of illithids overrides everything.

5: #101 – Creature Catalog III, Thendar, p.54

Appearing ONLY in this single brief article, the thendar are a strange, humanoid Astral species who travel the planes gathering knowledge. They live for thousands of years and are peaceful sages.

The githyanki hate them. Probably just because they're nice...?

4: #159 – Voidjammers!

HOOOO BOY OKAY THIS IS THE DISTURBING ONE BUCKLE THE FUCK UP

So a thousand years or so ago, this archmage named Peregrin got bored with Material Plane adventures and moved to the Astral Plane with intent to literally form a planar taxi service. His adventures could probably fill a book, but the point for this post: the githyanki fucking hate this guy. First for intruding on the Astral Plane, then because this guy went on a rampage through the githyanki forces to confront Vlaakith *face to face* and demand she stop attacking his ships.

Apparently she was "less powerful" than she is now.

The githyanki left Peregrin's taxi service alone, for the most part, but they're still nursing one hell of a grudge. As they should. See, most of the ships are powered by extracted mind flayer brains, lobotomized to remove personality and retain psionic power for propulsion. So, so fucking disturbing, but the githyanki would probably approve of that. What they would not approve of is that it's rumored that Peregrin's personal flagship is powered by a pair of githyanki brains.

And, if it wouldn't make the whole species angry enough to find a way to kill him, Peregrin is openly stated to think powering his whole fleet with githyanki brains is a good idea.

In Dragon #166, a reader sent in a letter discussing how nightmarish this is and how much they disapprove. I find myself agreeing.

3: #419 – Winning Races: Bladelings

This article introduces the "bladelings" as a playable race for 4th Edition. Fancy, edgy (ha), violent, growing literal razor blades out of their bodies like scales, the bladelings were originally mortal human worshipers of Bane. When they won his favor, Bane fused them with their weapons forever. You know. As you do.

And then there's this one random throwaway line on page 23: "A few dissidents claim that they were actually from the same racial stock that would eventually give rise to the githyanki and githzerai."

E X C U S E ? ? ?

No elaboration is ever given. Guess we just get to live with this!

2: #381 – "The Foundling," Mike Resnick, p.18-23

Right. I highly recommend you read this one yourself for maximum impact. Here's the Internet Archive link.

In brief...a young githzerai woman (all of 22 years old) loses her infant child. A year later, she discovers an orphaned githyanki baby. And, well...

"It wasn’t its fault that it was born of the githyanki. It needed care, and love, and shelter, and she had all three to give."

Despite the scorn of her kin, the young woman decides to raise the baby as her own. For one of them, the scorn eventually turns to hate, and so begins a series of attacks by increasingly powerful monsters on mother and child as they travel far and wide to escape their enemies. After four years, things finally come to a head. At which point...well. I really, REALLY don't want to spoil the ending.

Let's just say that the githzerai responsible for the attacks is about to have a really, really bad day.

NUMBER ONE WEIRDEST: #355 – Ecology of the Devourer, p.58-63

This article covers the nightmarish devourer, a form of undead that devours souls. How they're created has changed over the years (nowadays they're fiends, not undead), but this article is from D&D 3.5, where they were very much undead. They drive someone to the brink of death, then drag the person's soul inside their ribcage and torture it for power.

According to this article, the devourers originated with the githyanki.

During the reign of Vlaakith 156--the predecessor of the current Vlaakith--a scheming general decided to avoid getting his soul eaten. Because apparently the previous Vlaakith was also a soul-eating lich! His attempt went wrong and his rebellion was crushed. Their souls were taken from them and locked away, their bodies thrown into the Astral Plane.

Unfortunately for Vlaakith and the githyanki in Tu'narath, the general's body was reanimated by energy from the Negative Energy Plane. He brought back his most loyal followers as the same kind of undead, all of them starving for their missing souls, and they launched a second attack on Tu'narath. Many, many githyanki died in the unexpected attack. Vlaakith and the undead general finally fought face to face over the bodies of their followers. History's not clear on who won, but at some point in the chaos the current Vlaakith--number 157--took the throne. She's ruled unchallenged for a thousand years and the githyanki have hated and feared the devourers ever since.

That's...so much to unpack. Multiple Vlaakiths were liches? This is a long-running tradition? According to the article, the exact dates of a Vlaakith's reign are obscured, so exactly how long does each one rule? Just how LONG have the githyanki been around?

Oh, and the icing on the cake: in the modern day, some githzerai monasteries employ elder devourers as monastery guards. In return for aid, the githzerai search for the devourers' original missing essence. In the meantime, they feed the devourers the souls of captured githyanki.

The githzerai are not the good guys.

-

On deck for next time: the githyanki of 4th Edition D&D!

[cetaceans-pls]

Free Balling, Free Whaling

written for qwerty in thanks for their generous donation towards @dcufans4palestine 's recent charity drive! thanks again for taking part, and thank you to the mods for organising this event :')

qwerty, your request was both detailed and open-ended, and this turns out is the Perfect Recipe for me to go crazy. hope you enjoy this!

Sometimes, your community is you, a seal you've never actually met, a number of late-night service industry workers, 2 former grad students, and a lady who’s a leggy killer whale on land. Sometimes, that’s plenty.

Rated T, Gen, Jason Todd-centric. Read on Ao3 below:

or read here on tumblr below the cut:

See, the thing is, for all that Gothamites take Great Big Pride in being stone cold motherfuckers, they are in fact suckers for a pretty face.

 And it’s hard to get prettier, sweeter, than a goddamn all-natural harbour seal that gets spotted off of Pleico Beach, in clear view of like the 10 million people enjoying this day of unbearable sun in Gotham, sweet-faced women in cute bikinis and middle-aged men in cute broadshorts all braving the sharp pebbles of the beach with just a beach towel between body and gravel, all scampering up to take ten thousand pictures of a wee face in the near distance peeking out at them.

 Jason had laughed himself sick, because the appearance of a harbour seal in the bay had upstaged what had been quite a big spectacle of a thing with the joker and his 12 joker-lite disciples doing some weird biblical (?) reenactment at the Cathedral while they tried to steal some holy relic. Jason’s well-read but bibles had been so ubiquitously pressed upon him by well(?)-meaning church types in his messy youth that he’d never gotten ‘round to reading it, so he's unclear on the reference, but also there hadn’t been much time to analyse the tableau the guys had made, since:

i) Batwoman had massacred them right quickly because she'd been waiting for a date in the area and didn't appreciate the police presence;

and

ii) The nightly news had covered the incident with one (1) grainy still of the gang in some weird robes in the sepulcre for about 8 seconds before dedicating entire 20-minute blocks to coverage of Sheila the Harbour Seal, complete with marine biologists and seal-holograms.

 Gotham Bay used to be a thing of nightmares, the way much of Gotham had been a thing of nightmares not even 2 decades ago, but under the stern but loving hand of Wayne Enterprise, both have recovered with a steely exuberance  that makes bone-deep Gothamites feel Some Type of Way. Jason remembers being young and sitting at the docks illegally fishing for squid to sell to Alberta (the sole stalwart fishmonger based in the Narrows, most similar in appearance to a deep sea thing with a gaunt face and alarming teeth, who had a tendency to donate leftovers to the soup kitchen on 54th and Hertz, single-handedly making the residents of one of the most under-served parts of Gotham shockingly competent authorities of good proper fish stews), and how there would be a crust of muck and algae and blood audibly thunking against the wooden supports.

 He’s still got a thumb bone at home, the first one he’d found on the beach back in the day when the mafias really acted like they had the right to run Gotham ragged, dumping bodies like it’s their civic duty, and he’s pretty sure most people around his age and the income-bracket of his youth have got one of these historical, hysterical souvenirs.

 So to’ve gone from that, all of that, to Pleico Beach now hosting young families and harbour seals alike…. Christ. Now that’s biblical (maybe).

 Jason’s not the biggest fan of crowds, though, and also feels some amount of toxic embarrassment to be caught in public trying to catch sight of some gal. This is why he’s here on his squid dock at 3 o’clock in the morning with his Bat-grade night-vision goggles, twice already blinding his own damn self when he’d pulled out his phone to google seal behaviour and inadvertently blasting his retinas with the brightness of his screen.

 Probably should’ve checked and realised the little lady is likely less active at night before he got himself out here, but it’s not like it’s some great loss to just be out in the spray, chilled to the bone because he’s got Red Hood’s top on but just shorts on the bottom and late-summer/early-fall nights in Gotham can be so so frigid and so so loving. He’s halfway to wondering if he can find, like, a safety pin or something, tie it to the grappling wire he’s got in his right boot and do some squid-fishing for old times’ sake when there’s an almighty splash! at the end of the dock, and heavy ker-thunk! of something slamming into it.

 Man, just how damn big is Sheila? And nowhere in any of the articles did it say that harbour seals had a 20 foot vertical leap! Jason’s up and running towards the end, imagination quickly conjuring up an image of Sheila with a nipped tail, having made an almighty jump onto the dock to escape a predator, though what large predator can survive Gotham Bay even in her current condition is a question and a half all by itself, and-

 Uh.

 Jason blinks, then takes off the night vision goggles to blink again.

 Uhm.

 A Large Predator, a veritable Eater of Seals, a killer whale with hands and knees and feet blinks at him back.

 “Uh,” Jason says dumbly. Is this an undersea god type of situation? In which case he really wishes he’d brought his comms with him so that he could get Oracle to page Aquaman, emergency in aisle 3 (an orca’s evolved to have arms and legs by the frozen peas). “Is this a beaching?” he asks, possibly to the creature, possibly to whatever higher being might be listening. Deep deep inside, in that place that feels a certain giddy pleasure when Gotham wrings him dry and makes him come back for seconds, he’s a little warmly astonished that this many years of duty in and there’s still so damn much to be surprised by. “Are you okay?’ he says next, and manfully resists making clicking noises like a bad impression of a dolphin.

 His mouth says these reasonably thoughtful things, but his body’s crouched low, ready for a judo grapple against this being that’s got to have at least 100 pounds on him (and he’s already a man of many pounds).

 This orca-person somehow manages, with no eyebrows and no lips, to look at him warily. “I’m good. Are you?” they ask him right back, and whatever one might imagine a whale sounds like in English, one would be wrong. It’s like hearing a jackhammer suffering through conjugation, like the twang of a musical saw through the crispy static of a bad mobile connection.

 It’s unbearable how in 4 words Jason knows with Absolute Certainty that this creature is a Gothamite, though. Who else says ‘good’ like it has 12 syllables? He finds himself relaxing, and straightens up. “Can’t say I was expecting, uh, you, but I’m not doing so bad. I’m Jason, are you in trouble?"

 They look at him with the beady black eyes, body tensed and massive and toothy and packed dense with muscle rounded out with hearty blubber. They seem to come to a decision, and shrug shoulders like rounded mountains. “I was just out for a swim to check on the seal. Uh.” For the first time since their appearance, the great orca seems at a little bit of a loss. “I’m. Orca?���

 Jason can’t help a chuckle, can’t hold it back now that’s fully fully clear that he’s not about to have to fight This Creature. “I’m happy with calling you Orca, but if you have a preferred name, and,” he very politely does not look downwards, “pronouns, stuff like that, I’m pretty good at being respectful.”

 When orca-people sigh, it comes a little out their blowhole. Jason’s trying to hold back laughter so hard he feels a little sick, and he thinks Orca can tell, because though the glossy dark skin of their cheeks can’t seem to show it, he suspects there’d be a blush there otherwise.

 “You can call me Grace. Sexual dimorphism’s not very obvious in killer whales, it’s mostly down to size.”

 Jason shrugs. “Nice to meet you, Miss? Uhm. Grace Orca. And size isn't the only thing that matters.”

 She snorts (the blowhole keeps getting involved!! Lord god!!),  and picks up what Jason had thought was some dilapidated sail cloth but is instead a dilapidated sail cloth sewn in the approximate shape of a coat that could fit a 9 foot Lady Orca. “You’re taking this extremely well,” she says, squinting keenly at him.

 “Can’t live in this city without being respectful of all her inhabitants,” Jason says with grave seriousness, before cracking into a smile. “I was hoping to catch sight of Sheila, you know, the harbour seal. Seems like I got to see a cool, uh, marine lady regardless, so it’s not like I’m going to run away screaming.” He doesn't add that 2 weeks ago he was making small talk over alien canapes with this guy that looked like 2 giraffes stapled ass-to-ass with 3 sets of diaphanous wings on some Outlaw business, so comparatively speaking, she's So Regular.

 The facial muscles of a orca-person should preclude them from emoting very well, but Grace manages to get across warm surprise with great aplomb. “Are you a marine biologist?” she asks in the excited tones of someone who believes they’ve met a kindred spirit, and Jason makes a note to check in on all the Graces in Gotham who are marine biologists.

 Jason shakes his head. “Nah, I’ve just never seen a wild seal in Gotham before. When I was a kid you got more dismembered feet than fish out here, so I got a little excited. Why were you out and about looking for her?”

 A thought strikes him, and he winces. “I’m a city boy, but I get that it’s law of the jungle rules out there, and I respect that. If you are planning to eat her, though, you don't need to tell me .”

 She looks like he's called her a slur. “ Of course not! ” she yells, shrill enough it’s half a whistle. “What kind of a monster do you think I am?!”

 There’s no easy, courteous way to answer this, so Jason goes for blank honesty instead. “All of god’s creatures need to eat to live, man. I gotta make my peace with how cute cows can get when I’m eating a hamburger, I sure as shit am not gonna judge you .”

 Grace Orca looks at him like he’s the weird one here on the dock, and to be fair to her, he maybe actually is. “I just wanted to check on her welfare ,” she says with injured pride, starting to stride down the dock back to shore, one step for every 3 of Jason’s. “They don’t tend to be fully solitary animals, and they’re not migratory either, so I was trying to figure out how she drifted all the way down here. Didn't manage more than a look before she swam off, though.”

 Jason can’t exactly blame Sheila for her nerviness. He’s pretty proud with himself for acting real regular walking in sortof-step with Grace when her teeth are the size of his thumbs and he’s enviously, jealously regarding her muscular shoulders. Swimmers’ shoulders, damn. “We got any breeding colonies near here? I know people who know people, could probably figure out how to relocate her home if she needs it. And, uhm.” He very gentlemanly lets her go down the rickety wooden steps first (he’s not confident they’d take both their weight). “I’m sorry for implying you’d eat her.”

 At this, she does gnash her teeth just a little. “The bay’s recovered a lot, water quality’s better, algal bloom’s more under control, and there are a couple of fish nurseries that are looking really promising.” Grace sighs gustily (her blowhole wipples like the lid of a tea kettle aa!!). “But we’re not doing so well that we can support an apex predator. I’d starve out there, and if I didn’t I’d be eating things more valuable than me, so.”

 Ah, shit. Jason’s has a rough idea of rough living, but a street rat would experience life a lot different to a Literal Street Rat. Waylon’s got it rough but now that he’s borderline the de-facto union leader of the Great Gotham Underground Coalition, half the service workers in town will comp his food on sight. Grace has no such social influence, or Jason would’ve heard of her before. He glances at her, and feels some weird solidarity of being a thing that is of but maybe isn’t welcome to Gotham.

 Maybe she got made a monster, too.

 “That sucks,” he says, pebbles crunching underground. “You do the marine biology stuff for work? And hey, for ambushing you on your chill nighttime swim, let me treat you to dinner?”

 She draws to a halt, and he almost loses an eye on the peak of her dorsal fin. Instead, he’s intensely whapped by her powerful tail when she turns on a dime to stare at him. “Are you hitting on me?” Grace says, gone shrill again, and isn’t that a thing.

 Jason grins; he’s got teeth too. “Haven’t made up my mind yet, but I’m never gonna say no to good company and good food. Patrice’s over on 12th and Bakri is open all hours, and if you don’t mind takeout we can go sit in a park or something. I have so many ocean-based questions, Grace, you’d be doing me a a favour.”

 He’s also uncertain if she needs to, uhm, Submerge, and the Dumbfuck Giant Fountain with Horses in the park at 13th and Bakri would give her plenty of space to splash. God, he makes less efforts to be diplomatic with emperors of ancient civilisations, but Jason is relatively confident that he can predict the shape of Grace’s predicament, and 9 foot tall or no it sure seems like she deserves a gentler hand than most.

 (There are a lot a lot a lot of scars all down her back, pale stripes on what should be glossy smooth inky black, and he doesn’t know what caused ‘em but he knows that they’re not right.)

 No one’s ever accused him of being terribly smooth or charming, but Jason does okay. He cocks his head in question, knows he looks a little cute and a lot silly in between his armoured turtleneck and his knobbly knees all out in the open, and Grace sighs (!!) and goes “Hope your wallet’s ready for this.”

 “What a lady wants, a lady’s gonna get,” Jason says with the confidence of a man with a platinum credit card with no conceivable limit, and off they go.

-

 Patrice himself always takes the night shifts, too serious to be the sort of guy that would let teens suffer through night-time Gotham serving calzones on the cheap. Fair play to the man, after a short sharp scream when Grace has to hunker down to squeeze herself into his dinky little store, he’s back to being stone-faced damn damn quickly.

 Said stony facade does relent, though, when he sees Jason peeking out from behind her. “You shouldn’t be having dinner so late, Jason,” he tuts with the severity of a man who doesn’t get to spend enough time tutting his own kids on account of his late night shifts.

 Jason just snorts. “It’s not late if I stay up. This is my friend Grace, and we’re both starving.”

 “You have a lovely store,” Grace says dutifully, and Patrice takes her rattling-whistling-whirring voice in stride, inclines his bald head with wispy hairs with great gravitas, and gives her a respectful nod of thanks.

 “Sweet talkers,” he says gruffly. “What will you both have?” He eyes Grace, head tilted back to meet her face that’s tilted down (to avoid a droplight). “I got vegetarian pies.” He squints, reassesses. “And seafood marinara calzones, though I’m gonna have to bake ‘em so you’ll have to wait.”

 Jason’s got squid on the brain. “How many do you want, Grace? ‘s my treat.”

 She looks sedate up top, but her tail is whapping like she’s about to murder a great white shark. “Two?” she hazards, looking curiously awkward for being this awe-inspiring sight.

 “Sounds good. Two dozen of your seafood best, Patrice, and hit me with a slice,” he pauses, and faintly wishes she had ears that would give away how she’s feeling instead of, uhhhh, ear holes?? Ear holes?? “Two slices? Of tiramisu, and a latte each. That sound good, Grace?”

 “Two dozen is so many-” she starts in protest, this lady too in love with Gotham Bay to eat her fish, not even built to survive off of sewer rats like Waylon and the lads, and luckily Jason doesn’t even need to step in.

 Patrice just rings their order up. “Growing kids need to eat,” he tells her very sternly, like she’s a regular customer, like he hadn’t shrieked a glass-shattering shriek at the first sight of her. “I’m gonna throw in some garlic knots, too. Got any allergies or anything, miss? God knows this boy's got the gut of a trash compactor,” he says with genuine affection.

 Grace looks a little lost, and Jason figures that she isn’t an eldritch sea creature (because you’d seldom find something more self-assured than a 4,000 year old oarfish the size of a tectonic plate), figures that this change is kind of recent, but long ago enough that it’s been too too long since a well-meaning middle-aged person behind a counter has called her miss and smiled at her, and man, they need to come up with a better system on how to treat metas with dignity.

 “My mom used to make really good seafood marinara,” she offers up instead, and Jason sees in real-time as Patrice’s eyes go a little misty as he adds mozzarella sticks and another half dozen calzones to their bill free of charge.

 (Thank god for tip jars).

-

 It takes 25 minutes and Patrice is sweaty and a little breathless by the time he’s bundled up their food, but the vibes are immaculate and tomato-tinged as they wander out his restaurant down to the park, right to the massive fountain.

 Grace seems a little dazed by all that’s happened, which is good. Jason very intentionally is trying to leave her off-balance enough to spill her secrets (the better to serve her with!), and also while he’s not the most Warm and Affectionate person, by hook or by crook he’s been some type of older sibling for some pretty large chunk of his life, and he feels in his gut that Grace is younger so she’s just gonna have to suck it up and make peace with him being a bit of a coddler. To reduce any embarrassment on her part, Jason kicks off his shoes and sits on the lip of the fountain, feet in the cold, grimy water. It makes him shiver, just a little, but a sip of hot hot coffee has him sighing in delight. 

 “Go on, help yourself.” He nudges a bag over, grabbing a calzone wrapped in foil for himself.

 After a brief pause, she shucks her coat, scrambles over the ledge to sit in the water, submerged just barely to her waist, but it’s clear that it’s some sort of soothing; her tail is lazily whipping in water, and he wonders if she even realises she’s gently making herself drift forwards and back. “Thanks,” she says. “Been a while since I got to eat cooked food.”

 Yeah, damn, they really need to figure out some sort of soup kitchen/shelter situation for people who are people who just happen to be a little less regular.

 “Patrice is a nice guy. Kinda traditional, but his youngest came out recently and he’s been working real hard to make himself more accepting. The pride calzone is gross as hell, though, do not recommend it.”

 She, uhm, chortles, maybe? A jolly little sound, and Jason grins. “You’re laughing now, but you’re not gonna be laughing when I get you one of them and you realise that man’s put peaflowers and sardines and butter and shit just to get the colours right.”

 Grace baps him with her enormous tail; it will bruise, and he’s charmed. “I still can’t tell if you’re a weird fetishist who’s trying to hit on me, but I think I’d forgive a lot for a pride-themed pie.”

 “Promise I got brought up to be very respectful of women,” Jason says with the confidence of someone who had Wonder Woman in his upbringing. “You’re just really cool. It's rare to meet a marine biologist in general, you know, never mind a marine biologist who’s, uhm, extra marine.” Much of the walk to and from food has been heavy on pelagics and Cnidaria and Phocidae and Gulf streams and Jason understands maybe 65% of what she’s talking about, can really only spiritedly join in when they both go off on a growling tangent on sea-level rise and how it’s worsening the housing crisis in the city, and man, there’s just a lot to admire in that kind of fervent dedication to a damp cause.

 She baps him again, but looks substantially more morose even though her more rigid jaw doesn’t seem to allow for downturned non-lips. “I used to be a marine biologist,” she says in mournful whale-song. “With a specialisation in marine mammal growth hormones and their applications in medicine. I had a little cubicle at the Gotham Aquarium and everything .”

 Jason hums mildly. “Take it that the tail and stuff is a more recent development?”

 She nods gruffly. “Had a real bad accident, got paralysed, and I did not respond to that in a super healthy way.”

 Bruce has had his back broken, Babs is in a wheelchair still, Jason just fully fully died. He knows academically that there are ways to healthily process the complete and total upheaval of a life; he’s just not confident it’s attainable by anyone below the level of a bodhisatya. “My brother’s partner had a run-in with the joker, and she’s been in a wheelchair ever since. I don’t know how she does it.” He very carefully doesn’t look at her. “Don’t know how you’re doing it, but I’m glad you’re doing it anyways. Would’ve been a real quiet dinner tonight otherwise.”

 Grace makes a strange burbling sound, and maybe cetaceans have cetacean feelings that English just can’t get across. “I’ve done some pretty fucked up things. The gene-splicing and dosing and orca-fication just so I could walk again isn’t the half of it. I’ve committed crimes , Jason.”

 It takes an enormous effort of will to not laugh so hard his lungs give out. Miss ma’am’s out here swimming pro bono to check in on fish and seals and shit, and she’s making a confessional out of a fountain with a priest who’s got a body count in the dozens; Jason’s got blood caked on so thick he always always always smells just a little metallic (just a little too-human) nowadays. God, how hopelessly sweet. “Lay it out on me, I’ll be the judge of how bad is bad, Grace.”

 She doesn’t look at him still, tucked up tight and folded away like she can compress the whole lot of her (she can’t). “I didn’t used to be full-time like this. Used to be I could swap, you know, between paralysed human me and super cool killer whale me with a syringe and 20 minutes of throwing up. Work was going great, I was collecting so much data, it was crazy, the tissue samples from my thighs had human and orca protein markers but from my tail it was all orca, and there’s a lot of implications for organ regeneration and tissue transfers, really, but…”

 “Not hearing any greater crime than being a massive nerd,” Jason says mildly, and is splashed for his efforts (he’s laughing as he pushes his sodden hair back. “C’mon, spill, have another calzone.”

 He tosses her one, and she digs into it immediately. “There’s a program we have for kids with rough backgrounds, at the aquarium. Kind of like day camp, over the summer, and the parents get free daycare and the kids get to do fun little activities and practice being aquarists, all that sort of stuff. It was great, but the funding didn't get renewed for this year, and I thought, hey, how hard can it be to get money for that?”

 Jason winces, and Grace just keeps pushing on. “It’s the sort of thing you hear rogues doing all the time, right? Steal a great big diamond, something like that. So I ambushed this yacht party,” and she says yacht the way a lesser man might say ‘steaming pile of shit’, “and was gonna grab this ugly diamond off this woman who did not follow sanitation protocols for her yacht’s wastewater, and it was going mostly okay, and then…” She looks around, somehow managing to look hunted despite being a quintessential hunter. “Batman appeared.”

 Jason goes cold, freezes up and feels a roaring rage, this unshakeable white-hot thing that always flares in response to any proof of Bruce’s negligence or foolishness or bloody-minded adherence to made-up rules causing so so much more damage than they could ever be worth. “Did he hurt you,” he says very mildly, but his jaw aches with how much he wants to shout and bite throats out.

 Something in his tone must’ve given him away, or maybe it’s one of those whale-only senses, again. Grace turns, propelled by her tail, and looks at him with less guilt and more startled curiosity. “Hey,” she says tentatively, awkward in how she comforts. And for the first time in their brief but delightful acquaintance, she very tentatively reaches out to very delicately place her massive massive hand just above his knee, so so thoughtful to keep a barrier between his skin and hers, like that’s something he’d ever care about. “Hey, you okay? Did Batman do something to you? I’m willing to try biting him if he’s done something, Jason. I don’t know karate or anything but I’m pretty sure I could chew through armour?”

 This startles a laugh out of Jason, though it’s a little ragged because his breathing is a little jacked. “Been treated pretty bad by him,” he settles on, in the end. “But I’m not one of those guys that thinks he’s great and amazing and perfect, so I’ve gotten pretty good at managing expectations and being disappointed in him all the time. But Grace, hey. You gotta tell me, I promise I need to know. Did he hurt you ?”

 She shakes her massive, wondrous head. “I mean, he tried to get the gem back, but I’m not really someone you can just throw around. The problem was that I got really distracted fighting him, and he’s really scary even to me, so while I was looking his way I got shot a bunch of times by the woman’s bodyguards.”

 Grace twists a little so he can see her back, and there’s a scattering of rounded scars just by her fin, and that’s awful awful close to her spine, and oh, god, he can see the Shape of Things.

 “I think I would’ve died if I turned human again then, and I was pretty sure I was going to die in orca lite mode too. The Bat incapacitated the gunmen and hustled me away, and I think he was going to take me to a hospital, which, broadly speaking, if you see an unwell marine creature you really should go straight to the aquarium because the vet team there’s incredible, but I was really bleeding out and I had the human-to-orca serum and I told him I think taking the orca shot while I’m in orca mode’s probably the only thing that’s going to keep me alive.”

 Fucking hell. “Then what?”

 Grace shrugs, enormous and abashed. “He said okay, took off his cape so I wasn’t sitting bare-assed on the ground, and then offered to hold my hand while I took the shot.” She looks down at her hand, reflexively squeezes it. “Think he thought I was gonna die on him. Think I thought I was gonna die on him too. I’m not a behavioral ecologist, so this is just conjecture, but I don’t think orcas are big fans of dying alone either, so I appreciated it.”

 Jason rests his hand on what would be her wrist, and squeezes down tight. God, he hates unloving deaths. “You're a social creature both ways, huh? Glad you weren’t alone, Grace,” Jason says with way more understanding than most. “Glad it worked. What happened after?”

 “Well, I threw up for 20 minutes,” she says primly. “Then I knocked him on his ass and ran away, because I was scared he was going to arrest me.”

 To be a fly on that wall, holy shit. Jason offers up a hi-5, and she takes it. “They should get you a medal,” he says with utmost seriousness. “What you been up to since? I’m a big man ‘round town, and if a lady like you were available for dinner dates I sure would’ve heard of it.” He doesn't know how to politely say how have you kept yourself alive since, so this light-hearted sleaze is all that he can manage.

 Grace abruptly gets up, parting the seas, and climbs out without making eye contact. “The rest of the story up till right now isn’t something I’m proud of. You sure we can’t go back to talking about flood risks and poor urban planning?”

 He climbs out too, and hands her more food. “We can talk ‘bout anything you like, but if you’ve got troubles, I can’t help with things I don’t know, you know?”

 Grace screws up her face, and it doesn’t go very well because there’s a lot of face to screw up, but her unhappiness is clear. “I’m a muscle-for-hire,” she says all at once. “Have to work to eat, and not a lot of places are looking to give me work looking like this.”

 An agitated lady of any persuasion is not a very fun sight to see, and it makes Jason really hopping mad, but 'really hopping mad' doesn't serve Grace Orca, so he swallows it down and shakes his head to clear it. "Been having a real rough time of it, huh, Grace? Sounds godawful." He does need more specifics if he's going to try to improve her lot in life, though. "What are the, like, top 3 things you wish you could fix?"

 She laughs a whistling mirthless laugh. "Number 1? Take me back to when I was human again. I'll make my peace with being disabled, at least I wasn't getting shot at all the time."

 Not a thing Jason can do for her, though not for a lack of want. "Man, don't we all have a time we wish we could go back to," he says in pale consolation. "Can't help with that, though I'll holler if I ever get my hands on a time machine, promise. What's next?"

 Grace tugs on her overcoat. "Same as what I needed when I was still a grad student; would be nice to have some cash. Get some good food, maybe use my old ID and figure out how to rent a little apartment with a tub, something like that." She makes a disgruntled clicking sound. "I still can't get used to sleeping under water, and the serum's not perfect. It gets so cold."

 Now that's a solvable issue! "Girl, that's easy peasy. Here, c'mon." He tugs out his wallet, tugs out his credit card that's got neither name nor limit to it, and hands it over. "My, uh, my dad's rich but I'm in a lifelong rebellious phase 'cos he's kindof an awful person a lot of the time. You don't need to hench if you don't want to, get takeout seafood marinara for the rest of forever, I don't give a shit."

 She makes no move to take it from him, but he keeps holding it out towards her. "Seriously," he says. "Your number 2 most desired thing is something I can help with. If it makes you feel bad, you can catch me on the docks and pay me back once you've got a roof over your head and figured out some better employment. For now, you gotta take it."

 Grace scowls (it's terrifying). "I don't gotta take anything! What am I going to do with someone else's card!" she yells, flinging his arm away. "This still isn't a face they'll let into Whole Veg!" 

 She takes a deep, gasping, shuddering breath, and lets it all out in a miserable, hurtling whisper.

  "This isn't a shape that gets to be human."

 And ain't that just the Shape of The Thing (that is no longer human). Jason can empathise on the inside of his head all day long, how he's not 100% all-natural all-human after a tango in a Pit, how he's pretty sure his eyes glow in the dark now and his canines are a little serrated and he's really really immune to most poison these days, but the face of him is the face of a person who does not make Patrice scream when he enters his shop. Strong arms and strong legs and strong tail and Grace still would rather go back to a time when she wasn't a powerful predator, when she couldn't even walk. Jason's never had to tackle this specific issue, and he isn't entirely sure what to say, except to say the things he used to say to himself in the dark of the night, too-sharp nails ripping through corpse-pale skin, tucked in a corner and barely (not-quite) human.

 "Maybe not," he says, carefully. "Not your average Joanne, no. But it's a shape that gets to be a person, Grace. Can strip flesh from bone and replace it with the king of the sea, lose all your DNA 'cos you fought to survive, but you don't stop being a person. And so long as you're a living breathing person, you're entitled to care, and I'm entitled to look out for you. I know a guy who knows a guy who's got a bit of crocodile in him, I know a lady who knows a lady who's 1/16th cypress pine, and I know people who are technically all-human and they're the most discomfiting motherfucker on Earth. And I know all of 'em and all of 'em know me, and now I know you and you know me, so do you know what I think your third wish is, Grace?"

 "What?" she says like she's trying to sound angry but mostly she just sounds sad.

 "It's company, isn't it? People to check in on you like you check in on Sheila, people to have calzones with, people to talk shop with, people to hold your hand when you're not feeling good. Tell me true; is that wish number three?"

 The fight's gone out of her, and hers isn't a face made for crying but Jason hates that she looks like she wants to anyways. Months and months and months sleeping in the sea and committing crimes she didn't want to for the lacklustre joy of continuing a wretched existence, and now she's getting harangued by some rando she met on the docks in the middle of the night.

 Still, though, he's just got this one little push left. He can lead a killer whale to a seafood marinara calzone, but he can't force her to eat. See, consent's also a massive massive part of personhood, so he's got to wait. She's got to say it.

 At long last, in a tiny voice that's like a distant chirp, Grace says "I don't want to be so alone anymore."

 And with a smile spitting sparks like an electric eel having a real time of it all, Jason says "Your wish is my command".

-

 It's gone 4 in the morning right now, and Jason's without most of his gear, so he can't really go all out All Out the way he wants to, show off and showboat for Grace to illustrate to her how, uhm, colourful and varied the threads are that make up the tapestry that is Gotham. He's limited by addresses he knows off the top of his head and people he knows would be at home right now.

 Enter the cute, slightly-rundown brownstone duplex 4 blocks away from the Scheyichbi Botannical Gardens. It's a pretty chilly night, like frost is an imminent threat, but the front door (that he'd jimmied open) leads to a veritable greenhouse of vegetation, obliging monsteras with leaves dipped low, pothos sprawling like wildfire, a ficus in the corner taller than a man, bundles of mums flourishing up to the size of ottomans. "Pam, don't kill us, 's just Jason!" he'd yelled as soon as he came in, because he knows her and her hair trigger response to invaders (Venus fly traps the size of Honda Civics). "It's an emergency, and Harley if you're in, come say hi too!"

 There's a sound like a mighty oak getting splintered in a storm, but that's just Ivy acting a little dramatic (she's very understandably very sensitive to day-night cycles). There's also a light jingling sound, so it seems like he's gotten a little lucky.

 Grace meanwhile is trying to hide behind his back, this technical criminal gone so awkward over a spot of breaking-and-entering. "Jason, what the hell is going on?" she tries to whisper furtively, but given her throat and her build it's ringing loud and clear.

 The jingling comes closer at a rapid rate.

 "I just wanted you to meet these nerdy chicks I know, you guys can have ladies' night out and talk about how shitty graduate school was, or whatever," Jason says, before ducking down to the ground.

 Grace does not have similar reflexes, and so is helpless in the face of Harley sprinting down the steps, shotgun in one hand, cute pyjama bottoms making the clinking sound 'cos the draw ties have little bells sewn to them. Harley, who'd been ready to kill a second ago, claps eyes on Grace Orca in her living room, and immediately screeches like maybe she's part barn owl. "Oh my god!" she screams, not slowing down a tad, "oh my god, Pammy, come the hell down! Jay's brought in thee cutest girlie in the world!" And just like that Grace is tackled and then picked up in a hug, picked up feet-clear-off-the-ground picked up, and man, Jason's so good at plans.

 "I hate all of you," Pamela says as she comes down the stairs in a robe, and she's a lady up top but today her legs have strangling vines 'round them like it's what she gets instead of leg hair, and when she turns to the side you can just about make out that half her hair's just spines. "What the hell's going on?"

 Jason gets up, brushes himself off. "Pam, Harley, meet my newest friend, Grace Orca. She's got a PhD in marine biology, and she went rogue for a bit 'cos she needed money, and now I'm doing my civic duty in setting her on the right path."

 "Right path," Pamela says testily, scowling at him, plucking burrs from sleep-heavy eyes. "At 4 in the morning?"

 "No time like the present," Jason says, helping her with a seedpod stuck to her lashes. "C'mon," he says real quietly. "She could do with some looking out for, before she gets in too deep."

 They both look over to where Grace is now festooned in a knitted afghan around her shoulders, Harley sitting with her in a loveseat as she very cheerfully spills her life's story to Grace, who goes from looking immensely awkward (Harley's college days) to intensely, feverishly angry (must've hit the joker just now).

 Pamela sighs. "I'm not in the habit of picking up strays," she says meaningfully, even as she grows both ears out into pitcher plants, the better to look more inhuman with.

 "No," Jason says matter-of-factly. "But you've never been one to let a sweet shrub wither, either."

 She can't argue with that.

 (Three hours later, they're all having breakfast at this little hole-in-the-wall diner run by a cute couple that left henchmanning around the time Harley did, and Grace has been made master of

1. The pink and purple afghan from Pam and Harley's lovenest;

2. Jason's credit card;

3. A little woven beach bag Harley had had lying around for short term storage of snacks and items;

and

4. An old smartphone of Pam's, complete with a sim card furnished by Gerry who's the barista, on account of him knowing Akechi who got out of henchmanning a couple of years before he did to start a successful mobile phone kiosk in Queensbury Mall two blocks down).

-

 It's brunch, and Grace and Jason are out in the garden seating area of a cheerful little Brazilian café, enjoying the slight peeks of sun between the clouds. Grace looks a little dazed, which is pretty understandable given a good few hours in the company of Gotham's premiere power couple, but she's also looking pretty, ah, happy. She's got any number of kiss marks all over her face, because Harley's affectionate by nature, and Jason thinks it's an awful cute look on her (he is himself decorated in three).

 "Waylon's office hours are Thursdays and Fridays," he tells her over sandwiches. "Noon to 5, and I texted you his address. He's kinda prickly at the start, and don't call him Killer Croc ever because it's pretty rude, but if you tell him what it's been like for you he'll tell you what it's been like for him, and I think that'll be good for both of you. And the other address I sent to you is this lady that runs this fish shop in the Narrows. I haven't spoken to Alberta in years, don't think she even remembers me, but that woman is unshakeable and loves fish, so I feel like you two would probably get along."

 Grace nods, attentive and studious like she wants to have a pen and notebook in hand to take notes with. In the cool loving light of day, after hours and hours in Jason's company (and then Patrice's and Harley's and Pam's), she's looking a good deal more relaxed, had done little more than good-naturedly say "Don't worry about it," when Euvaldo had let out a manly yell when he'd first been startled by her entrance, and it's a good look. "And who're we meeting now?" She looks around to make sure no one's listening, though given that she's a 9-foot-tall orca-woman of course everyone is straining to eavesdrop even as they politely pretend they aren't. "I think after this I want to go to the aquarium," she tells him, a little shy and a little steely. "I want to let my friends know I'm okay, kindof. I want to figure out if I can get accessibility services to accommodate me, see if I can't get back to doing good work. Seems like after the first scream, people get used to me pretty quick?"

 Jason snorts. "I didn't even scream once, thanks. And I know you're still kinda cut-up about keeping my credit card, so before I let you go off to do your cool girl scientist shit, I thought you'd want to hear from the horse's mouth himself that it's okay for you to commit a little fraud."

 "The horse?" she says quizzically.

 Jason squirms. "My da-"

 "Jason."

 And Jason looks up, and it's Bruce looking at him and at Grace with a broad, unfeeling smile, tenser than a bowstring.

 "Bruce," he says. On one hand, it's maybe an asshole move to spring this on Bruce, but on the other hand, it's not like Bruce wouldn't have heard word of what Jason's been up to. No, the most important thing is to make Bruce see Grace and see how Grace has been failed, systemically and personally, so that maybe next time a different poor fuck won't have to suffer the way she's been made to suffer.

 It's the Red Hood's duty, the purpose of this blood-red bat on his chest, to hold feet to fire, make sure people get exactly what it is they deserve.

 He'd thought he was playing it pretty cool, but just as he's gotten better at reading Grace she's gotten better at reading him, and ah, shit, he had said something about not getting along with his dad, hadn't he? Because Grace has turned to fully face Bruce, and she's stood up and drawn her shoulders back and Jason's half-hidden by the bulk of her tail and the curve of her thigh, and she's baring her teeth at Bruce like she's gearing up for a fight (even though she doesn't know karate). "Who're you?" she snaps, and it's a lucky stroke of luck that she doesn't semm recognise Bruce Wayne in the flesh.

 Bruce doesn't clarify for her. "I'm Bruce," is all he says, not taking a step closer. "I'm Jason's, ah, guardian."

 It's a little hysterical that that's the title Bruce's gone for, and it's not the one Jason (even in his perpetual anger) had assigned to him.

 Grace doesn't look mollified, but she does look over to check on Jason. He pets her tail, and then gently pushes it away so that she can take her seat again. "Grace, it's fine. We're not on the best of terms, but you don't gotta bite his head off."

 "I'm willing to try," she tells Bruce menacingly, even though Jason knows there's no way in hell she'd go for it.

 "Perhaps later," Bruce says politely, taking a seat. "Can I know why you asked me to come here?"

 "Yeah," Jason says. "Got 2 things to put by you. First thing's first; Grace here's in a bit of a tight spot, and I'm offering to help her out by lending her my credit card. Since it's technically yours, I thought she'd feel better if you gave her your blessing."

 Bruce's lips go thin, but she doesn't know he's Bruce Wayne so he can look a little sour and a little cold and a little worried. "Jason, it's your card, it's your money. You don't need my permission to use it. But miss, if it makes you feel better, whatever Jason says is okay, is okay with me."

 Grace still looks discomfited, massive tail twitching behind her. "Cool," she says, but she's looking at Jason.

 "Cool," Jason echoes. "Two, Grace, Bruce here helps run a lot of non-profits. I need you to tell him your story, okay? From the kiddie camp at the aquarium, to the shit going wrong on the yacht, to the things that you had to do to survive after that. You can leave out things if you want, but if you can tell him all the things you told me, it'll help him figure out how to do better in the future."

 She looks a little uncertain, and tries to murmur out the side of her mouth (extremely unsuccessfully). "Even the stuff with the, uh, creature of the night? And the, uh, legal stuff?"

 Jason looks at Bruce, who's sharp enough to see the Shape of Things coming and is already gritting his teeth to bear it, and nods. "All of it, as much as you can manage, Grace".

 And the main reason that Jason's here and Jason had called Bruce despite despite despite, is because even with all the things the man is so so so bad at, there isn't anyone on Earth so dedicated to holding their own feet to the fire, more invested in trying (and often failing) to atone for all his many, many wrongs.

 So Grace tells her story, about too-little-money and too-many-hurts, gunshots and violence and sleeping in the cold dark ocean and being alone and being a criminal and being a no-longer-human struggling to remain a person, and Bruce goes paler and paler and his hands clench tighter and tighter, and Jason watches over all over this as he quietly sips at his limonada suiça.

-

(It goes on for well over an hour, with Bruce asking clarifying questions and taking notes in his phone. Getting things off her chest has Grace mellowing out enough to ask if Bruce wants to join them for lunch, but Bruce had shaken his head, handed off 6 different cards for 6 different people who can help with 6 of Grace's top 10 troubles, and gotten to his feet with a gentle excuse of having a meeting he can't avoid.

"It was good to make your acquaintance, and I hope you'll keep in touch," Bruce had said, shaking Grace's hand. "I'm sorry for all you've had to go through. I hope I can help make things easier for you, and anyone else that might share your circumstances."

And that had taken Jason aback a little, that Bruce had actually apologised, had taken in the enormity of his wrongs and then taken ownership of his faults. It happens more rarely than it should, but goddamn it feels good to have gotten this apology for Grace even if she'll never figure out the true heavy weight of it.

Bruce had looked like he'd wanted to say something to Jason, too, but Jason's too wrung out to want to hear it, and had kept his eyes firmly on the condensation rolling down his glass.

And then Bruce had said, "Thank you for calling me, Jason," and he'd sounded like he meant it, and then he'd left, and Jason had exhaled the heat in his head, and things are a little better now for all of them than they were before.

"He didn't scream even a little when he saw me," Grace had said admiringly. "I see where you get it from, Jason."

And if that ain't a compliment and a damning indictment all at once.)

-

 They split up, after that, Grace saying that she wants some privacy as she works through the mess of things left in her wake, meet-ups and calls to friends and family. He imagines her going through door after door and hearing startled scream after startled scream, and it gives him a little bit of a headache. She's an adult, though, and if she's prepared to do this he'd be doing her a disservice to tail after her.

 So instead Jason had gone home, fully ignored his phone exploding with texts from everyone bombarding him with pictures of him hanging out with Grace Orca, and taken a 10 hour nap. At some point, he think he dreamt that he was in the lily pond behind the Manor, swimming on his back like he's an otter and Sheila had been on top of him, like a baby otter, and the water had tasted of limonada suiça but was the colour of a sizzly electric green.

 Grace had been running around on land, he thinks. Damian had been there too, inexplicably, like even in a dreamscape he'd heard the siren call of wild beasties, and they'd laughed loudly with each other, and then Grace had thrown him into the sky and he hadn't come back down, had stayed in the air like a sugar glider that's a stranger to gravity.

 And then Sheila had rolled over and then gotten heavier and heavier on his chest, and Jason had kept going down and down into the lemonade-not-lemonade, and no one had seen him go down or maybe no one had cared, and he hadn't struggled and just kept sinking.

 He'd woken up with drymouth and a faint desire to drink more lemonade. He'd also woken up and realised he's only ever seen Sheila in his dreams, and there's no text from Grace yet, and it's early out still (only 1 AM), and he feels a little unsettled in his skin. Easy enough to put on a good face for Grace, who for all her build is still a civvy, but in the quiet dark of his own home, Jason's feeling, ah, a little lonesome, a little cold. Sucks, that Red Hoods don't get a Red Hood to look out for 'em.

 Instead of moping for too long, though, he takes a long hot shower, uses up every last drop that boiler has to spare, and dresses real nice and warm, replete with fluffy socks and a scarf around his neck. He grabs a beer and a couple of slices of 2-day-old pizza in foil, puts them into his shopping bag in case he wants to get more snacks on the way. He remembers, this time, and shapes and sharpens a bit of wire into the shape of a fishing hook to bring with him.

 He's still, somehow, got squid on the brain.

 Set and prepped, exhausted and a little cored out and a little light-headed, Jason heads off back to the primordial sea (Dock 3 at Newquay Harbour).

 He gets there, has barely taken a seat with his feet in their fuzzy Christmas socks and Crocs(!) hanging over the side, when there's a splash! and a whump!. Jason turns, already halfway to smiling, and there's Grace, who's fully smiling.

 "Hey, stranger," she says, cheerfulness bubbling up and out her blowhole (!!).

 "Hey yourself," Jason says, relieved despite himself to see her in good spirits. "Someone's in a good mood."

 "Someone's not." Grace is studying him rather intensely. "You okay? Anyone I need to bite?"

 That does get a laugh out of him. "I'm gonna take you up on that offer one day, and you're really gonna regret it."

 She flashes her teeth, and it's a promise and a half. "I have a phone now, so just call me anytime. Seriously, though. You're okay?"

 Jason nods. "Yeah, man. Hearing about your stuff kindof reminded me of some of my stuff, and it's nothing new or super tragic or anything. I'm just a little worn out, which is pretty crazy, since you've been doing all the heavy lifting."

 "Yeah, but I'm built for it, little guy." The joke doesn't land with Jason's mood the way that it is. She stares at him shrewdly, and then she continues. "I'm having drinks with some of the girls from the aquarium on Friday. They're gonna bring a bunch of stuff, and then we'll meet down on the beach for a picnic. You wanna come?"

 Uhm. This is not going in the direction Jason was expecting. "Uh. Nice of you to invite me, but won't it be weird to have me over when you're reconnecting with your friends?"

 Grace just stares at him. "Didn't let weirdness stop you from knocking down Pam and Harley's door at ass o'clock in the morning to introduce me to them, did it? Besides, you're pretty cool, for someone who isn't a marine biologist. I'm kinda easing back into, into regular friendships," into being a person again, she doesn't say, "that kind of thing. I wouldn't mind the moral support?"

 What's a guy to do, even when he's pretty sure he's being manipulated? Jason nods helplessly, fondly. "I might have work, but text me a reminder and I'll try and swing by for a drink. That good?"

 She beams at him, and what an experience it is, to be smiled at by this hallowed face, her pale underbelly glowing in the light pollution like a beacon. "Sounds great. And come in early on Friday, with a change of clothes, okay?"

 "What for?" He frowns. "You need help with something?"

 She shakes her marvelous, majestic head. "No. Maryam's a post-doc at the aquarium and her partner's working as part of the conservation trust managing the breeding harbour seal population like 2 hours north from here. The plan is to relocate Sheila so she's not at risk of being hit by a boat, and we're gonna need someone who can help with transporting her. I told Maryam that I knew a guy who knew a guy, but really I meant you."

 Oh, my. Jason, unlike Grace, can turn red. Luckily the blustering winds already has him flushed, so maybe she can't tell. "How did we get to a point where you're the one doing me favours already?" he says, instead of saying no I don't want to help move Sheila, don't pity me. Because, well. It isn't pity, is it? Hadn't been pity when he saw her for the first time, either.

 "Always been told I'm a quick learner," Grace says, and then she blinks audaciously at him, and on god she seems to have twice the number of eyelids than the average person, and this has Jason bursting into startled laughter so hard he almost rolls off the dock, and is only saved by Grace grabbing him round the shoulders, and she's so startled by it she'd started clicking at him, and this makes him laugh even harder, and he laughs so hard he almost cries, in the circle of the arms of an orca-person who should be a killer but is instead insanely tender-hearted about seals and sad lads alike.

(Turns out, the truth of it is;

If you look out for people, people will look out for you too).

a/n: super secret tumblr-limited author's note here. man this fic really took me places. i feel like i'm usually a lot more explicit about theming, and half wonder if jason's slump in mood near the end felt like it came out of nowhere, but i wanted to give him highs (this incredible man looking out for this killer lady) and also give him lows (who watches the watchman and he's afraid the answer is No One). i also worry i didn't give grace enough of a personality.... turns out i'd like to work on how to give people flavour even when they aren't the pov character!!

and i put in a bunch of references to other fics and it felt really self-indulgent but i think they work even if you've never read anything else from me and it for me felt like a victory lap... like oh, yeah, what a built-up lived-in gotham you've set up for yourself!!

anyways this has been the first fic in a long long time where i felt really relaxed about writing.... feels nice man.....

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Source

[taldigi]

my loose plot is this:

Felix is a descendant of one of the original Grimms, and their family has been blessed with the ability to see the fae due to an ancestor doing the Faerie Queen a great service. Originally, the family used this ability to gather stories and tell tales- but the blessing eventually became a curse when the Grimms began to be persecuted as witches and devil-worshipers. Many of the Grimms were executed because of this, and it soon became a necessity to hide this ability… which is very difficult when you are surrounded by playful faeries at all times. Any Grimm who messes up or indulges in the faerie's antics are labeled as crazy or are institutionalized.

The Faerie' Queen's Blessing is known as being Faetouched.

Jump foreword to the modern day, and Olai is just another step down the the Grimm Family Tree- It's become family tradition to just ignore the fae- and rejecting everything that isn't tangible or logical helps ground some's sanity. it worked well for many of the Grimm.. including Olai. But not so much for his son, Felix, who finds the fae folk irresistible and has accidentally befriended one. As time has proven, he has become an outcast and a "weirdo". But he does well enough to avoid his Father's scorn- who is quite strict about indulging in fantasy, and refuses to acknowledge the fae, even at his son's expense.

One day, Olai's wife ended up in the Faewild via faerie circle and disappeared- most likely lost or dead for good due to the nature of the faewild. In his moment of weakness, he was approached by a particularly cruel fae, Null- who seeks to seal the faewild away from the living world (an action that would destroy both realms- a result that Null keeps hidden from Olai.) and makes a deal with him- help it, and he will not only achieve freedom and attain peace from the faeries incessant nature, but keep any other mortal from befalling the same fate as him beloved wife... and for the first time since he was a child, Olai acknowledges a faerie.

So Null teaches him how to "Shatter" a faerie.. which is ripping the Faestone from it's body. The action basically destabilizes the faerie, which kills it's current body and forces it's mind to sleep inside the gemstone. (Once shattered, the Faestone must be returned to the Faewild where it can be restored by the Faerie Queen, or it will eventually begin to condense and form a monster)

Should he gather enough Faestones, and he can use them to power a ritual that can destroy a portal into the Mortal world: known as a Faerie Circle.. but the fae- as airheaded and foolish as they can be, are smarter then they let on: so he must use what faestones he has to create monsters. These monsters hunt down faeries for him. (Monsters are... faeries who have become violent and simple-minded due to the Destabilization)

Enter Saki: who is new to the area. Starlight Bay is a huge tourist spot, and her mother has a job offer running a beach-themed restaurant. With Spring Break around the corner, she is needed more than ever. So she expedites the move to Starlight Bay with Saki.

Saki is just like other kids in her situation: new kid in a new town. She's always been a little different, but who isn't? She tries to explore town, but with it flooding with college students, she actually finds the draw of the nearby forest more interesting. (she thinks she saw something in the forest when they had driven by it earlier)

She spends her time gathering things she finds neat. Fun sticks, cool rocks. Some neat trash that might have a use later in one of her "art pieces" or gadges.. when she steps into a Faerie Circle. She almost is lost to the Faewild, when it turns out some of the stones she had been collecting ended up being Faestones, and that catches the eye of the Faerie Queen, who realizes that this might be the best way to save her faeries from this strange fate that is befalling them- as they cannot investigate themselves (Faeries are quite silly and air-headed and unable to focus too long. they also cannot interact with the mortal realm that well without a mortal anchor) and she herself cannot enter the Living Realm without befalling the same fate as a human in hers.

So she makes Saki into a Faetouched, and asks her to help… and Saki's a good kid, who's eager to jump into helping her. Squeaky, one of the Fae she had saved, volunteers (read, does not give Saki the choice) to become her guide and companion… and Saki then realizes what she has gotten herself into when she realizes that the faeries were everywhere, actually.

School starts back up soon, and there she meets Alina and/or Flora. She realizes she's being followed by someone at school… and it turns out to be Felix- who is noticing her reacting to the Faeries, and is wondering if she really can see them too… However, he's too nervous to actually ask until confronted- because his own reaction to faeries has gotten himself ostracized and he would rather not exacerbate that opinion others have on him. People have caught him talking to himself a lot (actually talking to Callie, a faerie who has taken a very fond liking to him) and acting weird (He mutters under his breath at them, reacts to being swatted at, taunted, ect. Faeries are super mischievous and getting a reaction out of someone who is trying SO HARD to ignore them is HILARIOUS) and from there, they become friends.

From there i have no grand plot. Just the basics.

Together, they gather Faestones and save faeries from this strange event that is befalling the fae. It would be neat if Felix' mother ended up being the Faerie Queen, taking over after the old one had been devoured by Null.

Flora would be Faetouched via her own, naturey way. Prolly due to her garden, and Alina would be Faetouched later on. Niko would be fun to implement. Maybe have a literal Bothers Grimm thing going on with Olai. As for Nathan? Not sure yet. I'll puzzle on that more.

[edgineering-writes]

Blighted Inquisitor - an Against The Storm fanfic

I am Blessed by our Crimson Queen.  

Directly touched by Her Hands.  

Not like helped by my aunt, a Queen’s Hand, but literally.  I begged Her to kill me, to end my suffering and free me from my service to Her as a gift for the Blighted things I have done.

She, in Her wisdom, refused my plea, and with words of Power on Her lips, She slipped a stone of sacred flame around my neck.  This bound the blight that had seeped into my very bones, lessening my pain and granting me control over myself that I had not had since before…  Well, before I was blighted.

I pen this account of myself that you might know me.  What I have given, what I have taken, and what work I do in the shadows that our Queen may reign forever.  I have been anointed as the Queen’s Inquisitor.  I seek blight throughout the realm, for it is easy to find that which echoes with my own blighted being.  My retinue of Firekeepers, Rune Blessed, Storm Walkers, and others are the purest of each clan.  And I, the Blighted One, lead them.  

It is irony written in fire when we must purge a blight.  One and all we have relic fire throwers, the finest craftsmanship of the Brass Order using tooling from before the Blightstorm.  My retinue has flames that range from natural orange and blue to blood red, and even the four of my most blessed throw flames of pure white.  I?  Regardless of how pure a source I use, even if I borrow another’s thrower, I throw sickly green flames that loose acrid clinging smoke.  It takes little to see just how blighted my soul is, even dedicated to the Queen.

I was human before the blight twisted me.  Like any good Viceroy in the field, I was muscled as a beaver, skilled at penmanship as a harpy, as competent a fire keeper as a lizard, but still human.  My right hand is forever stricken and clutched as a claw, though I hold my tool still.  This scorched length of wood, blackened and twisted, topped by rusted red iron was once a hatchet.  If you see me lift it, run.  It is now my badge of office, and my executioners tool.  There is no edge to it, the metal will not keep one.  But it is a channel, which will light ghastly green and any touch putrefies instantly.   

If rumor reaches the Crimson City of a viceroy turning to corruption for profit, I go forth.  Pray I do not find proof.  To risk the Queen’s people is to damn yourself to my touch.  If your blight has spread to your settlement, it will all burn.  If not, then die knowing your settlement will be brought to prosperity by the best of us.

—---

For those of the Queen’s Hand: may my story be a lesson of the risk we take.

The BlightStorm was coming.  The cycle was nearing an end.  But we had a seal more than half completed.  I did not want to abandon the work so close to finishing.  Pavun Runebeak, the greatest of the Stormwalkers, brought the last settlers from the capital and warned me to break off the work.  I had a choice to leave with him, take what settlers would go, and sacrifice the willing on the chance they could finish the seal.

It was the third day of drizzle, the 42nd year of the cycle.  I asked my firekeepers their opinion, I walked among the wood cutters, I sat with the scribes, they all willed us to push on.  We were so close.  Pavun, Queen preserve me from having to look him in the eyes ever again, refused to leave when it became clear we all were going to push on.

Clearance was short that year.  Too short.  The guardian seal burst apart, still only partially formed.  We had 12 hours warning.  The Blightstorm was upon us, and there was little we could do but wait for the end.  But these keepers looked at Pavun, then to the scribes.  “We have half the Queen’s Rite, we could keep him safe.”

It took 6 hours to collect the resources we needed.  Everyone, and I mean everyone, in the settlement pledged themselves to keeping the blight from the hearth and Pavun untouched.  We did not care for our own safety, just his.  We took the resources of the settlement, and moved them into a ring around the hearth.  My four firekeepers, yes, my four blessed lizards that still will carry me half the time, took up a fire orb each and chanted in rounds.  From the first darkening of the horizon until the Blightstorm faded.  13 days.  Their rite did not break, their voice did not falter.  

The woodsmen kept a flow of clean, pure wood, oil and coal moving.  They, without words, drew a line and lots, those outside the line gathered from the wood, those between the lines sorted and cleaned, and those inside fed the piles for the keepers to burn.  When the storm broke, those outside stood at the wood’s edge, bowed and walked off.  I could not speak by then, but I doubt anything would have kept them in place.  They gave it all for us, including to keep those remaining pure.

My scribes wrote, edited, fought, and perfected the Rite.  To each moment, day, each epoch, every turn they noted down.  The Queen’s Rite that holds the Blightstorm from the Crimson City was distilled down, to keep just this ring safe, just this hearth and these few people.  They listened to the song of the wood, the crackle of the fire and the words of the keepers, and from that gleaned the sacred Rite.

I walked among them all, encouraged, cooked food, hauled water, anointed with oil, changed sheets, and kept the small things going.  I want to say they did this for Pavun only.  No, they did it for me.  I still don’t really understand why.  Except for the beavers who gave themselves unto the wood, I was the only one touched by the Blight.  I was struck sick, weak, and wasted when the storm broke and a new cycle began.

My firekeepers bore me on the remains of the hearth.  I begged them to leave me, to burn me in the last of the fire but they did not hear.  I resigned myself to speak the account to the Queen’s Hands when we returned to the City.  But it was not my aunt who met us at the gate.  Or rather, not just one of the Queen’s Hands, but almost all.  And at the front, Her glory brought tears to my eyes as the pain of looking at Her stole the words from my throat.  My Queen waited.  She who saves the clans waited.  For me.

Pavun Runebeak spoke of my work, my dedication.  He got it wrong.  He said it was my work, my dedication.  They did it, my retinue, not me.  But She saw fit to keep me.  She is my Queen, my salvation, beyond what She does for all, She saved me.

I was stupid, and nearly cost Her the great Stormwalker, and 43 souls of my settlement.  You will find in my work I am more liengent on the beaver clan than others.  We were 53 before the storm.  6 walked into the wood.  I do not know what happened to the other 4.  I likely never will.

When coaching new Viceroy, please, oh Hand, stress upon them to not risk the end of the cycle.  It is better to be in the City a year early then see the Blightstorm from beyond the Queen’s reach.

[abyssmarked]

so like, i haven’t really talked about neph’s experience at the brothel she was a slave at much ( and i don’t plan on going into any gruesome detail here, mostly just how i perceived the environment and the strict rules she lived by for a decade, but trigger warnings just in case ), but i imagine it was tailored to the higher class. the setting was a massive temple-like, stone building, multiple stories, cells in a dingy dungeon underground. anywhere where rich clientele might inhabit within the building was lavishly decorated— a common area where drinks and ‘live entertainment shows’ would be held, all of the rooms which could be paid for and used were better than a lot of the best inns in the realms.

it was crawling with guards. the girls’ personal sleeping quarters weren’t nearly as fancy, not in the slightest, but they were clean. they had to be clean, it was a rule. clean rooms, clean bodies— prim and proper. often there were four to six girls in one very small room, sleeping in bunk beds with thin mattresses and thin blankets. each girl had designated tasks, chores to have completed throughout the building, keeping it clean and looking presentable— making beds, cleaning blood, they were even responsible for a lot of the cooking, given limited resources to make enough food for each of them to survive.

regardless of having mostly free reign of the place, no place was private. someone was always, always watching, in every room, in every corner. if girls were seen trying to speak to one another in a secretive manner, or caught trying to plan some kind of escape, examples were made of them. the girls weren’t even allowed to become too close with one another, no touching, no ‘fraternizing’. the men in charge often would put some girls in positions of authority overs, these girls were treated slightly better— they found ways to make it incredibly difficult to build trust with one another. i also imagine nepharia was definitely one of the girls to climb that inner hierarchy of fuckery, anything for the slightest amount of relief, and maybe to try and build a rapport with the higher powers of the brothel— prove that she can be trusted, so they she might one day have some kind of upper hand, regardless of the girls she needed to throw under the bus to do it.

fuck, the other girls probably hated her.

on the business side of things, the doors would close to wealthy clientele at the beginning of the week, then reopen at the start of the weekend— giving the girls about five days to prepare for the next. every single girl is to be accounted for and dressed in the proper attire that was assigned ( usually, the attire was modest in nature, which somehow made it more disgusting in neph’s mind ) at the exact time the beginning of every weekend before the doors are opened. they’re already paid for in advance, waiting in assigned rooms for their client to arrive, and any girl that might be patron-less is assigned to the common area, to offer their services there.

if any of the rules were broken, or any of them got out of line in any way, the first warning is a lashing, then you’re sent to solitary confinement underground, in a small, windowless room, sealed with magic, only a small slot in the door to receive enough food and water to live for days, sometimes weeks, depending on the punishment. you sit with nothing but a bucket as a toilet that doesn’t get changed and cleaned the entire duration you’re there, and a mat on the ground for sleeping. the walls are thin and you’re close enough to where they send the really strong-willed girls who just couldn’t conform, and have to listen to their screams as they are tortured, healed, and tortured again. and if none of that works to break you?? well, they simply kill you.

after making a deal with a devil ( one of her regular clients, who only ever bought her to speak riddles at her ), and acquiring her warlock powers and learning of her true nature from said devil, he showed her what she could really do now. she didn’t immediately go ape shit, though. she was smarter than that. she had worked her way up, the owner of the brothel himself held her in high regard, well, as high as you can regard someone you literally keep as a slave. she probably used mad charm spells to convince him to take her out somewhere, away from the brothel, just the two of them. should would kill him quick, and his guards, and then just be so fucking elated that she can just…. go. be. she honestly probably doesn’t even go back to the brothel, not even to save anyone— she hadn’t made friends, but enemies. friends weren’t allowed. she might have tried to tell some kind of authority what was going on, and she just was unlucky enough to find the authority that was involved in keeping that place running— basically just murdering her hope that justice actually existed in the world, or that good men existed.

[rookwritesrarely]

The Sleepless Wolf

The Nightwolf could not sleep. The nature of his imprisonment did not allow it. He could not remember how long it had been since he had last slept before being bound, but he felt its loss keenly now. It had been an eternity since he stopped trying to keep track of time, but he was certain that it had been long enough for the stars to change. He could still feel them, faintly, through the miles of stone between him and the sky, for he was once counted among their numbers. He could still recall the fiery nature of his birth, the faint memories of each particle of dust before he was truly himself, how it felt to shine, to bring hope and wonder to the worlds his light reached. He preferred not to remember his life before, because his thoughts always returned to the betrayal of his siblings. How they had cut out his heart for the crime of being brighter, because his light had shamed them, because he had brought more hope, more wonder. And after they had cut away all that he was, the event horizon of the thing that had taken the place of his heart swallowed them whole. It was even more true now, as it led to the memory of the second time he was unmade. He remembered the words that cut him apart, how the spells burned him like nothing he had ever experienced before. The wizards had taken their time tearing him apart, they had never encountered magic like his. They needed to be careful, and he had taken too much for them to be kind. In his desperate attempts to fight back, his fear and pain stained the sky black, drowning the sun and moon in an endless night. Above all else he remembered how the Sylph, she who was everything he was not, she who was kind to all, she who he loved above all else, her eyes filled with tears and defiance, was cut down by a scything blade of void unleashed from his carcass by a mage's distracted incision. She had come to save him and it had sealed her fate. He was forced to watch as they used his half dissected body to bind her as well. He watched as his claws tore into the one he cared for most, and his screams of agony and impotent rage cut through the heavens, shattering the skies above and leaving scars in the moon that remain to this day. Even after all this time, he could not bring himself to blame his jailers for doing what they did to him. He was the most dangerous of his siblings, save perhaps for the Watchman. The kings had wielded him well and often. He did not hate them for killing the monster in the dark, but he did hate them for what they did to the Sylph, doing something like that to a being of beauty and growth and plenty. And the thing he hated them for most, was that they had left him his eyes. They had left him chained, immobile, eternally staring at his fangs pinning her to the slab of basalt, piercing her heart. He did not regret his service to the kings, only its outcome. He knew he was only a weapon to them, but he did not care. The Inkhearted and the Steel Saint had found him, starving and alone, and they had offered him purpose, he would hunt in their name and they would aid him in taming his endless hunger. He agreed. He drank from the river of conflict that the saint left in its wake, and he ate of the knowledge of dead men that the Inkhearted gave him. Their power had finally filled the bottomless pit within him. And in their service, he became something more, not to the kings, but to their chosen. They had been his brothers and sisters, and for some, even more. He knew that if any of them were yet free, they would come to save them. This fact was the one thing that he was still certain of. But was him being free a good thing? Now that the kings are gone, will he return to the rabid force of nature that he once was? But it was no use dwelling on such things now. When the time comes they will figure it out together. And he thought to himself, "I will wait for them to find us, and I will be better than I was. I will be more than a weapon." And so, sleepless and alone, he waited.

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[dyemelikeasunset]

Dom-kinnie again! After that last comic... *Woah.* I didn't think I'd be able to relate to Dom this much! If you don't mind, I'd like to ask - and it's totally fine if you're not comfortable answering! I was just curious about smth that was brought up, NSFW UP AHEAD - I'm also Asian, and I was raised with very conservative views on sex and sexuality. Recently in my young-adulthood, I've been reevaluating my feelings on the matter and what brings me pleasure (pt.1)

(pt.2) While I don't actively participate, I've found that I can *potentially* find more satisfaction (and fun!) in pleasuring my partner - and that I don't really care about achieving orgasms. How do I know if my feelings are truly *my own* authentically, and not smth born out of social expectations? As in, was I giving in to the harmful conditioning to NOT expect to receive pleasure, or do I truly find personal gratification in making my partner feel good?

HI I honestly don't mind talking about these things. I think being open and honest about sexuality is really important!!

Gonna put this under a read more tho cause it's long as usual

Healthy discussions of sexuality are part of why i started this comic actually!! Recently I finally figured out Dom & Mor's sexual chemistry after like. lol. 15+ years??? And I realized I just had a lot to say. I wanted to portray something candid, relatable, a little educational without being dry-- and ultimately, I wanted to share something human. I'm actually really happy it could touch you this way

Everyone has different experiences that affect their sexuality-- it's the "nature" vs "nurture" argument. And while I know it can be kinda creepy when cishet people ask us about that topic, I think it's important to muse on for our own internal work.

But ultimately, I can't give you any answers-- even though I'm also an ace asian my experiences are very different from yours. I do think many asian cultures (at least east asian, which i am) have shame-related thoughts around sexuality, but there's also a weird undercurrent of hypersexuality as well-- like pressurized steam shooting out of the crack of a sealed container. I went through quite a hypersexual era in my teens and early 20s bc I needed the unhealthy validation and ended up hurting myself A LOT bc I didn't know I was ace. I won't go into it too much, but it was rough and I was really pulled into the exotification of east asian women by U.S culture (also didn't realize i wasn't 100% woman back then either so you can IMAGINE the negative impact it had on me)

But I will say that what you're experiencing-- and what I wrote into Dom-- is something called Lithosexuality, or "Stone" sexuality. In the lesbian community specifically, it's very often associated with the Stone Butch identity, and is an identity that I would also call a "service top." There's a lot of weird pushback against lithosexuality in the wlw community-- along with their counterparts, either High Femmes or the "notorious" Pillow Princesses-- and like honestly I don't get it. People are picky and clique-y about the most specific shit.

This might sound weird, but I actually really wanted to portray a healthy litho top in Dom, like someone who really thrives with a partner who doesn't force her to be pleasured. And that's the thing, is litho came about in the first place because of things like ace/sexual relationships, or trans people with really bad body dysphoria, or like... ANYTHING. It's a valid existence and it's actually really fulfilling for some people!! Sex is weird, it's not straight-forward, and you don't have to tick every box.

Yeah there are a lot of reasons it might have happened, but I also truly honestly believe it doesn't NEED to be psychoanalyzed. So while I can't tell you what's causing your gravitation towards it, I WILL tell you that it's okay. It's fine. If you change your mind in the future that's fine too. But if it feels comfortable and right in this moment I really think there's nothing wrong with it, and nothing wrong with you

[bxldrsdraumar]

What Do You Have In Your Mouth? Drop It

There’s been an uptick in monster sightings in the Sealed Forest, coinciding with the decline of wildlife in the area. Crest stones found in animals’ mouths and embedded in their skins confirm the Church’s suspicions: bad actors, likely Agarthans, are turning these beasts into vicious monsters. One of the Knights of Seiros has plenty of experience with the Agarthans’ tricks. She’s asking for volunteers to help her gather whatever Crest Stones they can find and put the infected wildlife out of their misery.

(starter for @beholdenning)

He had not been active long before word had begun to spread: there was something wrong with the animals in the Sealed Forest. Or rather, not animals - monsters. Sigurd didn't have much experience with monsters, save those in the hearts of men, but he knew that an upset in local wildlife would very surely lead to an upset with the people, regardless of the cause.

Sigurd had been happy to volunteer his services for this mission - it felt good to be working amongst a group again to achieve a goal, and he was happy to forge camaraderie with his fellow knights in any way that he could. And given his proclivity for hunting when he was a teenager, this seemed a natural fit for him.

He could not say quite the same for his partner, a knight that had worked their way up from the bottom. He had been told that the knight did not speak - much - nor behave in a way that was quite usual. He had been told they were responded to Denning (well, he had been told they responded to anything with appropriate eye contact, but a name was important, he thought).

"Denning, is it?" Sigurd smiled, reaching a hand out to shake. "Well met, my friend. I believe I've seen you about the monastery. It will be good to get to know you as a comrade."

The other knight with them was a woman named Nessie - a friendly knight with her hound Lockie, whom Sigurd knelt to scritch under his chin before greeting Nessie as well. "We thank you for your hard work in this matter, my lady. I should hope that we are able to find a way to rout this issue at its source."

[qualitymarbleindia]

Crystal Yellow Granite Price: How Much Should You Expect to Pay?

Crystal Yellow Granite is a beautiful and durable natural stone that is commonly used for countertops, flooring, and wall cladding. It has a warm, golden-yellow color with black, brown, and gray speckles, making it a popular choice for both traditional and modern interior design styles. However, if you are considering using Crystal Yellow Granite in your home, you may be wondering about the price. In this article, we will discuss the factors that affect Crystal Yellow Granite price and what you should expect to pay for this stunning natural stone.

Quality Marble Exports is a leading supplier of marble. We deal in manufacturing and supply of granite, exotic stone, sandstone, slate, and stone handicrafts.

The price of Crystal Yellow Granite varies depending on several factors. One of the most significant factors is the quality of the stone. Higher quality Crystal Yellow Granite will have a more uniform color and fewer imperfections such as pits or cracks. As a result, it will be more expensive than lower quality stones. The size of the slab is also an important factor. Larger slabs are generally more expensive than smaller ones, as they require more effort to quarry and transport.

On average, the price of Crystal Yellow Granite ranges from $60 to $80 per square foot. This includes the cost of the material, fabrication, and installation. However, the final price will depend on several factors such as the size of your project, the complexity of the installation, and your location. Prices may be higher in metropolitan areas where the cost of living is higher.

When it comes to purchasing Crystal Yellow Granite, it is important to work with a reputable supplier who can provide high-quality stone and expert installation services. You should view several slabs before making a decision, as each slab is unique and may have variations in color and pattern. Additionally, you should work with a professional installer who has experience working with granite to ensure that the installation is done correctly and will last for many years.

In terms of care and maintenance, Crystal Yellow Granite is relatively easy to care for. It should be sealed regularly to protect it from stains and moisture, but other than that, it requires little maintenance. It is important to avoid using abrasive or acidic cleaners, which can damage the surface of the granite. Instead, use a mild soap and water solution or a cleaner specifically designed for use on natural stone.

In conclusion, Crystal Yellow Granite is a beautiful and durable natural stone that adds warmth and elegance to any space. While the price of Crystal Yellow Granite can vary depending on several factors, it is generally in the mid to high range for granite. However, the investment is well worth it, as Crystal Yellow Granite adds value and beauty to your home for many years to come.

[indigozeal]

On Twitter, writer and translator Ryo Morise speculates on possible Lovecraft inspirations: I just realized now that the twins from Clock Tower are probably taken from "The Dunwich Horror."  Given the Nameless Pagans thing, the circumstantial evidence is pitch-black.

"The Dunwich Horror" concerns two demonic twins—one humanoid but deformed, and murderous; the other, the real threat, a gigantic crawling mass with a human face secluded deep within the family residence. The twins are born into a family worshipping...well, this is Lovecraft, so it's the Old Ones instead of demons as with the Barrows, but six (six six) of one... In both cases, the mother is human, but the father is an otherworldly monstrosity: the Outer God Yog-Sothoth in "Dunwich"; the infernal Great Father in Clock Tower, at least in the novels.

Speaking of the novels: The Nameless Pagans is a fictitious book in Clock Tower's novelizations supposedly detailing the pagan faith followed by the murderous Barrows patriarch, as per this conversation between scholar of religion Prof. Sullivan and protagonist Helen Maxwell:

"A magnificent discovery, isn't it!"  The crest in the book featured a monster seated atop a skull  -  the exact image represented by the idol if viewed from the front.  "It seems that the Barrows family subscribed to a very peculiar faith.  Not Christianity, as you can imagine.   There's a book, The Nameless Pagans, that includes some speculation as to the nature of the heretic faith to which Theodore Barrows subscribed.  This Theodore was quite a learned man  -  he left behind four books he'd written!  And one of them in part touches upon what one could call the primitive religious consciousness of the Europeans  -  even if, well, I don't believe there was a sense of Europe as we now know it at the time.  Anyhow, they extrapolate from this what the nature of Theodore's beliefs were, and I found it a quite stimulating study!  It seems to support my own ideas on the subject."

"Your own ideas, Professor?"

"Indeed; it's one of the theses I'd like to complete before I die.  Its cornerstone rests on the primitive religious consciousness of the Europeans.  Basically, it concerns the nature of the faith that existed in Europe prior to the formation of the beliefs of the Celts.  This is my own hypothesis, but I believe that the original form of all the Indo-European faiths  -  and, indeed, perhaps, most faiths of the world -  can be found there."

Sullivan links this proto-faith to the sites of giant standing stones with religious significance scattered across Europe, an apparent inspiration from "The Call of Cthulhu" and its accounts of bloodthirsty faiths across the world with inexplicable points of commonality in their objects and manner of worship.  Sullivan goes on to argue that the more anti-social aspects of this primitive faith found later purchase among the Celts:

"Right you are!"  Sullivan clapped his hands together.  "And their faith was called Druidry for that very fact.  They seem to have achieved a measure of fame for their rites involving human sacrifices and their exceptional cruelty therein.  They would drown people by sealing them in barrels filled with water, cram several victims at once into giant human figures built out of wood and burn them alive  -  some truly horrible practices, I understand.  The Celts believed in an undying soul and conducted these services in search of rebirth in a higher form.   But if that's so, then why did they have to think up of ever more ways to inflict terror and suffering upon the victims of their sacrifices?   That's the question.  The Aztec civilization was famous for its sacrifices as well, but they would merely stab their victims in the heart to kill them... -  a rather quick procedure, compared to what the Druids did.  Why did the Celts adopt such practices, so cruel they were akin to torture?  I believe it was due to the influence of a far more ancient faith  -  the people of the faith of the giant stones, in other words.  So why did they offer up sacrifices using such cruel methods?   The answer is obvious: because that is what their god desired.  Death and terror, that is."

"So that's what the god that Theodore Barrows worshipped wanted as well."

Going back to the Dunwich brothers: the Dan equivalent is felled by a bolt of summoned lightning.  Kerosene, it seems, wouldn't have availed Jennifer in this case:

Neither would have scrambling up that stone cliff:

Damn these anticlimactic paragraph layouts.