#Needle Felting Gnomes

[snowflakeforestfelting]

NEEDLE FELTING Spring Gnomes Kit Test and Review PenFelt Studios

[rederiswrites]

I have made. A little dude.

[retrokinetics]

I made a gnome

[rachelillustrates]

Flowing with the oomph of indie Friday/Small Business Saturday/Cyber Monday, everything in my shop is 20% off from now through next Friday, December 6th!

Click here to bring home some queer-focused, body-positive Faerie whimsy for the holidays OR any reason (for others OR yourself ❤️)! ** Remember to use coupon code SBS2024 at checkout. **

~

Bonus art and stories ~ Prints, comics and more!

[starmieknight]

Stars Align

The Inconveniencing

17 Again AU: After a disastrous first day with the twins, Stan swears to do better as an uncle. But fate loves playing tricks on him and the magic 8-ball in the attic is more than it seems.

Now on top of having a pair of twelve year olds around the house while he tries to finish the portal and bring his brother home, Stan has to deal with being back in his seventeen year old body! Summer has never been weirder in Gravity Falls.

Prologue, The Legend of the Gobblewonker, Headhunters Pt. 1, Headhunters Pt. 2, Headhunters Pt. 3, The Hand That Rocks the Mabel Pt. 1, The Hand That Rocks the Mabel Pt. 2 (previous), The Inconveniencing, Dipper Vs. Manliness (next)

Any joy Stan might have felt from his lingering victory over Gideon and the find that came with it was dampened by his brother’s near indecipherable notes.

It was already hard enough to read his fancy handwriting, but having to slog through the sections written in code only to find stupid little observances that he’d hidden just because he could was maddening. Stan had spent their childhood and teenage years going over his brother’s homework to finish his own then another thirty years going over Journal One over and over again until the spine was soft and the pages embedded in his memory. Decoding Journal Two was easier with the first one on-hand, but it wasn’t without its difficulties.

If he hadn’t spent his entire life forcing his eyes to stay on letters with the tendency to get up and move on him while he read, he might have thought Ford had used some kind of magic on the books to keep unwanted eyes out. As it was, he knew that it was just his own brain struggling to keep up and make the words look right.

Reading aloud helped ― he had a better memory when it came to things he could hear rather than trying to retain information by reading, but he only had a few hours in the dead of night to go over the book.

Dipper and Mabel, though safely sequestered in their attic bedroom after a certain point in the night, didn’t do as much sleeping as they claimed to. Stan could often hear knitting needles going a mile a minute even past midnight, or the compulsive clicking of a pen as Dipper tried to beat the protagonists in his mystery novels in solving the case. And, ugh, why did those stupid Sibling Brother novels have to be so popular? Those guys had been jerks even way back in 1960s Jersey.

Shoulda let the Jersey Devil eat them…

Stan hoped the last Journal would help put the others in perspective. He had no delusions about Dipper letting him keep it for long and had spent a good bit of his time between tours working on the old copier in his office. The thing had been a dinosaur long before Stan had arrived in Gravity Falls and he was only slightly worried that it was another crazy invention of his brother’s. Anything was possible with the leftovers Stan had built his life around here. But if he could just make his own copy of the book, Dipper would be none-the-wiser about why Stan was so invested in it.

And he was sure he’d end up spending more time pouring over the book than he wanted to. It just felt like something was missing ever time he read through them. Something hiding right under his nose.

What he wasn’t missing, however, were the pinecones flying over the Mystery Shack’s parking lot.

He paused on his way to the car, having intended on going into town to get craft supplies for a new exhibit, and turned to squint at the roof.

He hoped it wasn’t the gnomes being assholes again.

Creepy, little―

A pinecone hit him square in the face.

“Gah! My nose! It hit me right in the nose!”

“Oh my gosh!” a familiar voice cried in panic.

Dipper.

Now, really ― Stan could let a lot of things go when it came to being a responsible guardian. He was cool like that. And, besides, it wasn’t like he’d had any good role models to base his skills on growing up.

But the kid had just survived a tumble off a cliff thanks to sheer dumb luck and his sister’s quick thinking.

A sister who was standing beside her twin on the roof.

Along with his lumberjack-in-training cashier.

“Wendy Darlene Corduroy!” Stan bellowed, his face red with anger. “You get your ass down here right now and explain yourself!”

“My innocent ears!”

“You too, Mabel Olivia!”

Oi, he really was channeling his mother these days, what with the ‘explain yourself’ and full naming the kids…

“Ah, man. There goes my hideout.” Wendy sighed, unbothered by being caught. The twins, however, looked mortified. “Oh, hey ― it’s my friends!”

Wendy then did something that nearly sent Stan’s teenager body into cardiac arrest.

With all the casual flippancy that her family seemed to possess in spades, Wendy launched herself off the roof, latching onto one of the pine trees that bordered the house and riding it down all the way into the parking lot. She was in her friend’s van and speeding off before Stan could catch her.

“Later, dorks!”

“Later, Wendy!” Dipper cried, his voice cracking painfully. He seemed to have forgotten the situation he was in.

Well, Stan could fix that!

“Mason Alexander Pines! You’d better be down here in the next thirty seconds or your BABBA collection’s goin’ in the Bottomless Pit!”

__________________________________________________________

Maybe it was a bit childish to still be on Dipper's ass the next day, but Mabel was a lot harder to embarrass than her brother. And Dipper still was trying to find excuses about why he couldn't share the journal yet.

 Well, opportunity gave Stan the chance to share a little something of his own!

“Mom used to dress him up in a lamb costume and make him do…” Mabel was telling Wendy eagerly, pausing for dramatic flare.

“The Lamby Dance!” Stan finished for her gleefully, pulling a VHS tape from his jacket and waving it at the kids. 

He'd found it after all, buried in an old box of home movies that Ford had kept buried in the lab. There were even a few reels from the fifties and sixties that Stan just couldn't bring himself to watch. But Dipper’s mortifying childhood memories were free real estate!

“Grunkle Stan!” Dipper screeched, his face crimson. “We don't talk about the Lamby Dance! Destroy that tape!”

“Hup, hup, hup.” Stan tutted, easily keeping the VHS tape out of his nephew's reach. “Now, this is a precious memory I treasure. Why would I destroy it? It's not like you can promise me anything in return…”

Dipper groaned dramatically. “Fiiiiine. I'll stay off the roof!”

“Deal!” Stan grinned triumphantly, his expression gaining a slight edge as he watched the boy stomp the tape into oblivion. It was a good thing he had more copies hidden away.

Wendy laughed at the scene, gently ribbing the boy about wearing a costume, when the cuckoo clock in the gift shop signaled the end of the Shack’s hours. 

“Hey, look at that!” she said eagerly, pulling her name tag off and shoving it in her pocket. “Quittin’ time ― the gang's waiting for me!”

And then, much to Stan's surprise, Dipper invited himself and Mabel along with them, spinning a quick yarn about their age.

Stan raised a brow at that but kept his mouth shut, curious about where he was planning to go with this. 

He crossed his arms, looking at the boy expectantly while they waited for Wendy to gather her things.

“Gimme one good reason why I shouldn't tell her you're really twelve.” 

“C’mon, Grunkle Stan!” the boy hissed, eyes darting to the doorway nervously. “This is my― our chance to hang out with, y’know, the cool kids! And Wendy’’ll be there!”

“The same Wendy who jumped off my roof yesterday?” Stan asked, his tone flat and unimpressed. He shuddered. Ugh, he sounded like his father.

“Give him a break,” Mabel soothed, eyes twinkling. “He can't help that he's in love with Wendy!” 

She screeched the last part like a particularly excited bird, making Stan grateful he no longer needed his hearing aid. The feedback would have been murder on his ears.

While the twins wrestled in the background over Dipper's apparent crush, Stan mulled over the situation silently.

On one hand, letting them run off with a bunch of teenagers could end horribly. There's no telling what they could get up to, especially in Gravity Falls. 

On the other hand, seeing Dipper grow a little bit of a spine and showing the ol’ Pines’ conman spirit tugged at his heart strings. If the kid honed that mindset just a bit more, he'd be a real chip off the ol’ block.

They'd finally have something in common. 

“I’ll allow it!” Stan declared suddenly, surprising the twins into silence. “But I want to know where you're going and I get to meet the rest of those kids. If you've got a problem with that, I'll tell Wendy the truth and you twos don't go nowhere.”

 The twin shared a look.

“Deal!”

 Stan pressed his lips together tightly and trailed after the kids as they met up with Wendy's friends.

 The teenagers lit up at the sight of her, cheering her name like many townsfolk did for her dad. 

Despite the obvious affection they seemed to have for the girl, something tightened in his chest at the picture they all made. Specifically the twins at the center of it.

Mabel had seemed to charm her way in with the teenagers instantly, like a duck to water. She didn't even fawn over the boys, which relieved Stan.

That was a nightmare he wasn't ready for. Probably never would be. 

He knew the dangers of falling for older men. 

Dipper, meanwhile, was struggling to fit in with the others, leading to an awkward silence in the group. Yeesh ― maybe the kid did have more in common with Ford than he’d thought.

One of the teens took advantage of the silence to notice Stan. A pale, crater-faced kid with dyed black hair and an air of indifferent despair. The Valentinos’ son.

Stan narrowed his eyes at the kid. He’d been an unwanted interloper, who'd hung around the Shack in the early days of Wendy working there. He was a terrible distraction that had to be run off multiple times before getting the picture.  

He knew to be afraid of Stan Pines. 

He knew nothing about the new ‘teen’ hanging around with Wendy

“Who's this guy?” the Valentino kid asks, his voice nasally and weasel-like. It grates on Stan's ears and something about the kid makes him want to start punching. 

If the way Dipper also tenses is any indication, the boy shares the sentiment. 

“Stanley Pines,” Stan offers shortly before anyone can open their mouths. “The Second.”

“Whoa,” one of the other boys grinned at him. His long hair and face reminded Stan of the overly patriotic redneck in town. They might even be related. “ I didn't know Old Man Pines had a kid. Dude, he's not, like, dead or anything, right?”

Stan blinked rapidly for a moment at the question, a lie falling from his lips before he had time to process how the idea of Stanford's identity dying out entirely makes him feel. His chest feels tight again. Stomp it out and put it in a box to deal with later.

“He's on a cruise.” He shrugs noncommittally. The teenagers relax at the lie. Probably uncomfortable with the idea of being forced to offer a stranger their condolences. “Won it in a sweepstakes or somethin’ and he made me come down to run the Mystery Shack while he's gone.”

The teenager with the hat made a sympathetic face. “Dude, that sucks ― having to work all summer.”

“Yeah,” Wendy agrees, throwing an arm around Stan’s neck and nearly choking the life out of him while she grins. There's an edge to her eyes that whispers mischief. “He should totally come hang with us.”

Oh boy… 

“What?!” Dipper yelps, mortified by the very idea of Stan tagging along. Which he gets, but also ― ouch. 

The Valentino kid looks just as upset with the idea, glaring daggers at the arm Wendy has around Stan.

Oh great, the kid’s jealous of him!

Now would be a great time for Stan to bolt and disappear. Possibly lock himself in the basement so no one could find him and get some extra work done on the portal while the kids are out.

But Wendy had a death grip on him and he was forced into the back row of an unfamiliar van while people he didn’t know shouted up front.

Altogether, a familiar experience made new by the presence of his niece and nephew sitting on either side of him.

Stan crossed his arms and glared at the back of Wendy’s hat.

“I am not okay with this.” he announced flatly, breaking Dipper and Mabel out of yet another argument about Stan’s kidnapper.

“Grunkle Stan,” Dipper began hesitantly, lowering his voice until they were in a little bubble only privileged to their family. “Why did you tell them your name is Stanley?”

Stan does his best to breathe through the cramp in his chest, the sensation lingering from earlier, and fixes his eyes on the dents in the roof. Shoves his hands further into the crooks of his elbows to hide his sweaty hands, the echoes of his mother calling his name ringing in his ears. (Always Stanley and never just Stan.)

“I didn’t wanna be Stanford Junior.” he says finally, hesitating just too long to be a natural answer.

“Who’s Stanley Pines the First?” This time it’s Mabel, her eyes sharp and likely running through all their shared relatives in her head. He’s grateful the majority of the Pines family were back on the East Coast, Shermie’s family the only outliers and not as ready to fill the twins’ heads with cautionary tales designed to keep them from turning out like their ‘no-good, dead uncle’.

‘Stanley’ was practically a swear word in Shermie’s house.

“A dead man.” Stan mumbled, the words nearly lost beneath the cacophony of the teenagers in front of them. “The family’s better off without him and that’s all ya need to know.”

“You must have loved him, at least.” Mabel prodded, ever the optimist. This was the first time it had ever cut into his heart like this. “I mean, to name yourself after him. Rename? Would you name a hypothetical son after him?”

Stan finally turned to look at her and she flinched from the intensity of it.

“Never.”

__________________________________________________________

The old Dusk-2-Dawn looks just as Stan remembers it. The last time he’d been in there was 1995 to buy a few things he was too lazy to go all the way into town for. He’d been in a foul mood, his birthday only weeks away, looming over his head like a coming storm, and he’d barely said two words to Ma and Pa Duskerton while roaming the aisles.

Ma had tried to push the conversation, eyes full of a matronly concern Stan hadn’t seen in over twenty years, but he had resisted to the point of rudeness. It normally wouldn’t bother him to be a jerk, but the old lady had looked so disappointed with him that he’d suddenly seen his own mother’s face staring back at him. The way she’d looked at ‘Stanley’s’ funeral, the only family he’d had there. Even Shermie hadn’t come down, though he’d had the excuse of having an appendectomy on his side.

Stan had mumbled an apology and an excuse about having a headache.

Ma’s face cleared of irritation pretty quickly and she’d pressed a packet of aspirin into his hands, free of charge.

To help keep the town’s best tourist catcher in good health, she’d claimed. The Murder Hut had brought in a surprising amount of revenue to the town once he’d made it into more than just the local papers.

He’d done it again a few years later after rechristening the Shack with a more family-friendly name, but Ma hadn’t been around to see that.

But she’d believed in him at the moment.

Three days later, she and her husband were dead and their store closed down.

Haunted, the townsfolk claimed. Fenced off and avoided at all costs.

Unless, of course, you were a group of teenagers who wanted to star in a horror movie like Wendy and her friends.

Or Dipper, who’d climbed onto the roof to break in.

Wait ― what?!

Stan jolted out of his memories at the sight of his nephew disappearing into a vent and he made a strangled sound of rage.

That knucklehead!

Still, it was pretty awesome to see the kid punching his way through his problems. Just like his ol’ Grunkle Stan!

The boy opened the doors and waved them in, a grin splitting his face.

Stan followed after the other teenagers, most of them chattering happily about the unexpected addition to their group, and paused just inside the doors.

“I’m impressed, kid.” he snorted, ruffling the kid’s hair and messing up his hat. “But don’t do that again!”

The boy laughed at him, always a tad nervous in their interactions, and smiled hesitantly back at Stan.

The resemblance to Ford was too much for him to take in at the moment, so Stan slung an arm around his neck and dragged him inside.

Now breaking and entering was something he could get behind!

He even found himself laughing with the other teens as they trashed the store, throwing food and dusty cat litter at each other. They dropped Mentos into an old bottle of Pitt and Stan just shook the fizz out of his hair with a joyful grin.

He had to hand it to these kids ― they knew how to have a good time. Even the Valentino kid and all the weird staring he did at Stan. It wasn’t even all glares, but there was an occasional splash of color that made the kid go all splotchy whenever Stan caught him in the act.

Stan tried to avoid him, sticking close to the kid with the long face and his friend with the hat. Lee and Nate, though he’d forgotten which one was which.

They seemed to like him the most after Wendy.

The other girl was too focused on her phone to pay him much attention ― though he’d seen her snapping pictures of him on occasion ― and the last guy in the group was too desperate for attention from the original friend group to try and corner Stan.

So Stan gets caught up with the pair of boys who seem to know each other like the back of their hands, so lost in the thrill of finally acting like a teenager again that he fails to notice when something inevitably goes wrong.

“Stan!” Dipper hisses urgently, tugging at his uncle’s T-shirt and pulling him away from the others so they can speak in private. “Something's wrong here! I keep seeing things ― weird things! ― around the store and I’m pretty sure it’s haunted and Mabel’s overdosed on Smile Dip and I can’t say anything to the others because they’ll just think I’m a scared little kid or something!”

Stan takes a moment to just blink at that, because, wow. He’s surprised the kid didn’t pass out trying to get all that out in one go. He certainly hadn’t stopped to breathe.

Then he straightens up, the air of a teenager sliding off him to show the old man he really is inside.

“Where’s Mabel?”

The poor girl looks like the guys Stan had known back during his dark days in Colombia. Living on the streets was rough enough ― seeing them go into seizures after too much ‘edible flour’ was almost as traumatizing as accidentally pushing your brother through an interdimensional portal while he called your name and begged for help.

So… pretty damn traumatizing.

Stan didn’t know if Smile Dip had the same stuff in it to send Mabel into a similar state as the guys he’d known on the streets, but he didn’t want to chance it.

He scoops his niece up, cradling her tiny body to his chest, and wonders what the hell is wrong with him.

How did he get so caught up that he missed Mabel trying questionable substances?! The girl was so much like Ford in his eyes that he forgot how much she was like Stan, too.

It’s just supposed to be a bit of fun.

Until it isn’t.

“We’re leaving!” Stan barks at the others, startling them out of their fun. The Valentino kid is so shocked that he falls off the counter and disappears behind the register. “NOW!”

“Whoa,” Wendy tries to placate, her gaze hardening as it lands on the bundle of turquoise and pink in his arms. “Stan ― breathe. C’mon, guys, time to go.”

A breath leaves his chest in an explosion of air, the tightness in his chest having built up to a vice yet again. It burns and crushes him simultaneously, quickly becoming a feeling both familiar and a hindrance. Every moment the twins spend in Gravity Falls just makes the feeling grow and grow and grow.

The last thing Stan wants to do is send them home to parents who’re contemplating divorce, but that small bit of good sense he has whispers that it may be what he needs to do.

To keep them safe, alive.

“No one is leaving!” a new voice bellows.

Stan can only look on in horror as the Valentinos’ kid rises from behind the counter.

And keeps rising.

They really did end up in a horror movie, the Valentino kid obviously possessed now and floating above them while wreathed in a ghostly glow. His dark eyes are white beneath his fringe, rolled back so far in his head that the veins are visible and bulging.

That… That can’t be good.

It’s a blur after that, the teenagers disappearing one after another until it’s just him and Wendy left, backed up against the doors with the twins encased in Stan’s arms. He’d picked up Dipper at some point, though he had no recollection of doing so.

The ghost is laughing at them now, saying something about hot dogs of all things!

Fury and fear war within Stan until they spew forth from him in an angry wave.

“Oh, can it, Duskerton! You never sold your dogs at a discount and that joke’s thirty years old! Get some new material and let us outta here!”

The possessed Valentino kid scowls at him, his ghostly glow tinged red, but it’s the other face materializing next to him that catches Stan’s attention.

“My, Pa!” Ma Duskerton exclaims in surprise. “That’s Stanford Pines!”

The red fades away and Pa Duskerton fades into view beside the transparent image of his wife.

The Valentino kid drops to the ground, landing with a muffled groan.

“Why, it is, Ma!” Pa says joyfully, floating closer to peer at Stan’s face. “Got yourself caught up in some magic mischief, didya m’boy?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Stan rolled his eyes at the familiar tone of the couple. For some reason, they liked him enough to ignore his gruff attitude. “The whole baby face’s old news by now. So, ya gonna let us go or what? My kid’s spazzin’ out over that junk you guys used t’ sell.”

Ma’s face crumbled with concern and she disappeared, only to reappear right in front of them. Stan jumped and clutched the twins more tightly. Ma didn’t seem to notice, attempting to pet Mabel’s tangled curls, her hand going right through the girl.

“Oh, the poor dear.” the woman tutted maternally. “I saw my share of kids go through the same thing. Get her some water to break it down and something starchy to soak it up and she’ll be just fine, deary.”

Some of the tension floods from Stan’s shoulders at the reassurance. Already Mabel’s eyes are beginning to clear, every pass of Ma’s hand bringing life back into her tiny body.

“Now,” Pa sighs, crossing his arms. “I really am sore at you kids for the state of our store.”

“We’re really sorry,” Wendy offers sheepishly, the expression out of place on her face. “We didn't think anyone would care after seventeen years.”

Pa flares red briefly but settles down quickly when Dipper flinches in his uncle’s arms.

“Well, I do care, young lady. But you’ve apologized. Your friends, however…”

“Can’t we do anything to help them?” Dipper asks rather meekly. He forces himself to stay steady when Pa attempts to pat his head and shivers when the hand passes through him.

“Now, now, little fella ― say, how old are you, anyway? Y’seem a bit small to be one of them sassa-frassin’ teenagers!”

Once it’s apparent that the Duskertons hate teenagers, Dipper’s con is now on the line.

The boy looks nervously at Wendy before slumping in defeat.

“I’m twelve… technically not a teen.”

“Wonderful!” Pa beams, his ghostly glow becoming almost blinding white at the admission. “Do you know any funny little dances?”

“No―oooo,” Dipper drags out the word in a panic as Pa flashes red. “Well, there is one! The, uh, Lamby Dance… But I can’t really do it without a lamb costume, so―”

Which doesn’t deter Pa in the slightest.

The ghost snaps his fingers and warps reality around them to put Dipper in a fleecy costume, the boy teleported to the center of the store where there’s room to dance.

Stan muffles a distressed moan at the sudden loss and holds Mabel tighter. Whatever the kid was doing, he didn’t want to get in the way. His nephew’s song and dance routine is a familiar comfort, but Stan won’t be anywhere near at ease until the boy’s back in his arms again.

Which probably won’t be any time soon.

The boy’s sacrifice has saved the others and everyone practically crawls out of the Dusk-2-Dawn as Wendy regalls them with a heavily edited retelling of how Dipper exorcised the ghosts.

Mabel’s stirring in his arms and Stan barely has time to put her down before she’s throwing up against the van’s tires.

There’s a muffled chorus of sympathetic noises from the rest of the group as she finishes spewing her guts.

“Oh, man.” Wendy sighs as she comes to stand beside Stan. Her face is contrite and worn, a shadow of nervousness on her face that Stan would have missed if he hadn’t known the girl her entire life. “Sorry about all that, dude. I just really wanted you to let loose a little ― not deal with overdoses and ghosts.”

He bumps his shoulder against hers gently. It barely budges her, only a testament to how tired she really is.

“I’m not happy about the twins getting dragged into another mess, but you didn’t know what would happen.” Stan’s reminded of another teenager who made a mistake, a lifetime and a coastline away, and can’t bring himself to yell at her just yet. “Whaddya say to dumpin’ the gremlins in bed and pigging out on ice cream and bad public television?”

Wendy grins and punches his arm playfully. It actually kinda hurts.

“You got it, man. Better than just staring at my wall for hours until the world makes sense again. Next time we hang out, let’s just stay at the Mystery Shack, okay?”

“Next time?” Dipper, who’d been hovering at their hips and holding back Mabel’s hair, perks up. “You mean, you still wanna hang out with us? Even… even after I lied about being thirteen?”

Wendy pushed his hat down over his face.

“Of course, doofus!” her tone was unbelievably fond. “The Pines Family is the coolest in Gravity Falls!”

The boy is practically glowing as he climbs into the van, only dimming slightly as he and Mabel fall asleep on the ride home. The twins glue themselves to Stan’s sides and only offer mumbled protests when he and Wendy carry them into the Shack. They’re snoring by the time they’re tucked into bed and Wendy and Stan crash in front of the TV to spend the rest of the night binging some old movie they’re too tired to protest watching.

By the end of it, Stan’s crying over Duchess’ long-awaited wedding and appropriately angry when it’s interrupted.

Wendy just laughs at him, long and hard, still grinning half-an-hour later when she finally passes out. Stan follows her soon after, his dreams full of dashing men in waistcoats and fiery young women who challenge the world.

[comatosebunny09]

He’s exhausted.

Of that much, you are sure. His languid suckling on your neck serves as a gauge for it.

“It must be hard running Hotel Transylvania in the Underdark,” you muse from your side. There’s humor tinging your voice, mingled with the crisp flipping of a page.

Exasperation lives in his once he reluctantly retracts his fangs. “I swear, if I have to pull another spawn off a gnome, I will spear them all on pikes.”

“Awful ‘Vlad the Impaler’ of you.”

Astarion snorts, the cool rush of it tickling your damp skin. “Gods below. One could only dream of being that demented.”

“Yeah, well. We both know you love the others too much to hurt them.”

“Mm, I beg to differ.”

Astarion hums, and you feel it spool in your stomach. Affectionately, he noses the outer shell of your ear. Electricity shoots like pins and needles to the crease of your thighs when he nips you. And the little jolt your body gives draws a husky chuckle from him.

You find the contents of your book no longer interesting; your attention is diverted to the hand on your hipbone.    

Astarion drifts in and out of sleep, waking every so often to suckle on your neck like a sleepy newborn.

At some point, you awaken to him rutting against you.

“Astarion.” Your voice holds an edge to it—a warning.

“What?” You can practically hear the pout taking residence in his voice. “It’s been ages since I’ve last felt you.”

He mouths the curve of your shoulder whilst an artful hand bunches up your nightshirt, seeking the supple glide of your hip beneath.

You snort, snapping your book shut. Shift the slightest to cast him a humored look over your shoulder. “Ages? Ages, Astarion? You mean just last night?”

“Ages,” he solidifies into the space behind your ear. Goosebumps ignite in the wake of his breath cooling your skin. “A day without your body cradled to mine feels like an eternity, my love.”

You roll your eyes at his theatrics. Can you really fault him? Time moves differently here in the Underdark—if it moves at all. The absence of the sun has thrown your circadian clock entirely off-kilter. For all you know, he may very well have suffered eons without you.

“Please,” croons Astarion, trailing wet kisses down your nape. His hand continues on an excursion southward, kneading the fat of your thigh. It craters between his fingers as he squeezes the inner slope of it, and you bite your lip to ward off a growl. “I only need a taste.”

Somehow, you doubt that. It’s never just a taste with your love, now is it? But his begging is enough to coax a resigned sigh from your lips. Surely, you’ll regret this later.

“Fine,” you relent after tucking your novel beneath the pillow.

You yip as the world pivots and wooshes, and suddenly, you are on your back. You giggle as he climbs overtop you. Have all of five seconds to catch the boyish gleam of his eyes before he dives in to sample the skin of your throat.

Instinctively, you bury ten fingers in curls of white. And how sweet your voice sounds, pinched from your lungs in a whimper as you feel the searing graze of his fangs on your neck. Your breath hitched in anticipation; every nerve in your body trained on him. However, the prick of his fangs never comes.

Instead, they continue their journey southward, past your collarbones, between the valley of your breasts, towards your navel…

How prettily you arch against him, a sultry laugh parting your lips.

He disappears between your legs, tenderly kissing your thighs, dragging his lips toward the folds of your labia. Each kiss he delivers makes your hips twitch delightfully, seeking the wet contact of his mouth like a beacon.

He groans something pleased between your legs, kissing your lower lips before his tongue parts your labia in wet, languid strokes.

Instinctively, your hands fly to his hair. Your lip snags between your teeth as you bite them against a smile. You arch your body into him. He groans appreciatively, anchoring your hips down to the bed. The lewd, wet sounds he makes between your legs make you flutter.

“Delicious,” he hums between each stroke of his tongue. A supplication to the Gods for supplying him such a grand feast.

[chashupak]

That one BG3 fanfic deleted scene pack where Pre-orb Gale cries over roses, shows symptoms of being a stuck-up nerd, panics over last-minute project changes, and fails at dice

Ongoing Fanfiction Link: [The Starfall Gambit]

Why scrapped: Moving my action-oriented scenes up as the hook. Weaving relevant information into existing chapters.

Chapter I.1.1 To Ashes

A boy clutched his mother’s apron, tears mingling with the dirt and soot smudged across his cheeks. The garden looked wrong now. Where pretty roses had been, only black stems stuck up from burnt dirt, like accusing fingers. He hadn’t meant to hurt them. He just thought they wanted more light.

“Do not mourn, Little One,” a voice cut through his sobs, cool and clear like water.

The air felt funny. Like right before lightning strikes. She appeared in a shimmer. Her robes changed colors that Gale couldn’t even name. Her eyes looked like the night sky, full of stars.

Gale wiped his nose with his sleeve. “B—But I hurt them. They were so pretty.”

She knelt down, and when Her hand touched his cheek, it felt cold as winter against his hot face. Everyone seemed far away now. Just him and her in the whole world.

“Power answers intent," She said, Her voice gentle but firm. "Your sorrow shows you understand the cost. That is good."

Gale stared at the ashes, still feeling awful. The magic in the air looked prettier than the flowers had ever been—swirling and alive. It only made him feel worse.

“Does that mean I’ll always break things?” he asked, small and unsure. “When I do magic?”

She looked at him with those star-filled eyes.

"No," She said, sounding like she knew everything in the whole wide world. "It means you will learn. And you will be great."

From the ashes, something bloomed. Not a rose but something new. It had petals that shone with colors like Her dress.

A little spark lit up inside him, pushing back against the bad feelings. Her words felt like a warm blanket on a cold night. Like a promise.

He wanted to believe Her.

He wanted to be great.

Chapter I.1.2 The Skies Above

The towers of Sharn pierced the sky like needles through velvet, their peaks dissolving into a lattice of bridges and arcane lights. Below, the city stacked itself in defiance of nature. Stone, steel, and ambition compressed into a monument to mortal audacity, as if challenging the gods themselves.

Gale stood at the balcony's edge in the Upper Deck of the Sky Tournaments, inhaling air too thin and too perfumed for common lungs. The voices of spectators from below reached him as mere whispers, appropriate to their station. Sky-chariots cut through clouds, their elemental wakes painting temporary auroras across the evening sky.

He studied their engines with clinical detachment. Raw industrial magic—crude but effective, like a butcher's cleaver compared to a surgeon's scalpel. The innovation deserved acknowledgment, if not admiration.

"Your assessment of the southern district's stabilization efforts was brilliant, Magister," simpered a noble to his left.

"The Academy still speaks of your treatise on planar convergence," added a scholar to his right.

Gale nodded, offering the precise dose of attention their station warranted—neither so little as to offend nor so much as to encourage further intimacy. Their flattery formed a familiar waltz, one he'd witnessed in a hundred courts with a hundred different partners. He'd mastered the steps years ago.

His thoughts remained fixed on his true purpose: the Netherese tome Mystra had tasked him to recover. It lurked somewhere in this gilded gathering, hidden beneath layers of pomp and spectacle.

"'Scuse me! Mr. Chosen, Sir!"

The voice jarred against the cultured murmurs surrounding him. A gnome bulldozed through the crowd, trailing oil stains and enthusiasm in equal measure. Without preamble, he conjured a blueprint that hovered between them, runes pulsing with potential.

"You must see this enhancement to the city's levitation fields! We've realigned the sigilwork to respond to gravitational shifts. Entire districts stabilized!"

Despite his cultivated aloofness, Gale leaned forward. His fingers hovered over the glowing runes, not touching but tracing their contours in the air. "Clever," he murmured, academic hunger momentarily overwhelming practiced restraint. "You've adjusted the harmonic resonance against the planar flux. But wouldn't that destabilize under erratic Weave fluctuations?”

For a heartbeat, the persona slipped. No longer Mystra's Chosen performing dignity, but simply Gale, a scholar encountering innovation worthy of his intellect. The thrill of discovery sparked in his chest, bright and dangerous.

He caught himself reaching toward the blueprint and withdrew. What was he doing? Mystra's mission remained unfulfilled. This mortal sigilwork, however ingenious, was mere distraction.

Yet She wasn't here. No divine whisper reminded him of his station, his duty, his necessary distance from lesser magics.

Perhaps one brief indulgence.

Gale composed his features, subduing the earnest curiosity to something more appropriately measured. "Apologies, sir. I forget myself. What was your name?"

The gnome's face split with a grin too wide for its confines. "Tibbles Clockmort, Your Chosenness!"

"Gale of Waterdeep will suffice." He permitted himself a genuine smile, the rarity of it making it feel nearly illicit.

With a perfunctory glance at the nobles—their disappointment apparent but irrelevant—he guided Tibbles toward the balcony's edge. "If you'll allow me a moment, Gentlemen."

Leaning over the railing, Gale examined the floating blueprint properly. Questions flowed naturally, each answer spawning three more inquiries. The conversation deepened, excavating theoretical foundations and practical applications with equal fervor. For the first time since arriving in Sharn, Gale felt the joy of unguarded intellectual exchange.

Then—a flicker of movement below caught his eye. Not remarkable for its elegance but for its dissonance, like a wrong note in a familiar composition.

His explanation faltered mid-sentence. An old irritation resurfaced, immediate and visceral.

Among the churning crowds of the lower stands moved a human figure he recognized instantly. Sun-bleached brown hair, carelessly braided. Storm-gray eyes that missed nothing while appearing to notice nothing. She navigated the throng with the easy confidence of someone who belonged everywhere and nowhere.

She made deals with a grin, laughed at whispered exchanges, touched shoulders as easily as she stole glances. She moved between people like shadow through candlelight.

That gait. That audacity.

The interloper from Elturel...

Chapter I.2.1 A Cage of Light

Elysium breathed with magic. Not the subtle whisper of mortal realms but a violent symphony that demanded submission. Power coursed through floating runes and crawled across Gale's skin like hungry insects. Even the marble beneath him pulsed with divine intention.

And then there was Her.

“You shape the Weave with such precision, My Chosen.”

Gale exhaled, letting Mystra’s words wash over him like the final note of a well-woven spell. Her praise lingered on his tongue, rich and heady as aged wine.

His hands framed his creation, arcane script suspended between them like a constellation bound by his will alone.

Intricate. Flawless. Divine-worthy.

She had not touched him. Not yet.

"Every thread I weave has purpose.” He stepped to Her side. The coolness that emanated from Her form prickled his skin. "I've devoted more to the art than most men give to love." His voice softened, teasing. "Though I'd like to believe I've offered you plenty of both."

Mystra's violet eyes flickered to his, ancient welts that reflected nothing back. Something unstable shimmered between them, possibility and disappointment hanging in perfect balance.

Her fingers barely brushed his spell, but it was no caress. The lattice shuddered, twisting inward like dying stars. Irreversibly altered.

Wrong.

Gale’s brow furrowed. No miscalculations. No imperfections. Yet it rejected him now.

Mystra smiled. “You recall Elturel, do you not?”

A test. Always tests.

“The planar disturbance.” He straightened, masking the tremor in his voice. “A nobleman’s arrogance nearly unstitched reality itself. I arrived in time to prevent catastrophe.”

“Did you?” Two simple words, a scalpel drawing blood.

Gale's fingers curled at his sides. "If you are referring to that bystander—"

Mystra watched him, letting silence stretch between them. The memory flickered unbidden.

The Weave, balanced on a razor's edge. His magic, controlled and calculated. Then suddenly—gone. Yanked out from under him like a drunkard flipping a board game.

A reckless woman with storm-gray eyes, redirecting energy without technique or reverence. The portal snapping shut with her at its epicenter.

No mastery. Just results.

Neat. Efficient. Effective.

A cheat.

"Why do you believe she got involved?" Mystra's voice pulled him back.

His jaw tightened. “Misplaced heroism.”

Mystra's lips curved with quiet knowing. She touched his chin, Her fingers cold as starlight, guiding him to face the altered construct. It hummed wrong notes, dissonant and beautiful.

"You dismiss it, My Chosen, but it reaches places your precision does not." The construct flickered, and he recognized the sensation now. Unstructured. Instinctive. "Even the finest spellbook cannot hold every incantation that exists."

Her touch lingered, clinical rather than loving. No reward. No reassurance. Rather than a lover caressing her beloved, She touched him like an artisan examining an old piece. Where once that touch had sparked divine fire, now it left only frost.

His heart constricted. He had given everything to Her—youth, devotion, brilliance—and still it wasn’t enough.

Gale forced his spine straighter. Precision and control. His defining virtues. What She had molded him to embody. What made him worthy.

As She drifted away, his gaze caught the empty space beside Her, a void he once thought he might fill.

He traced the Weave.

And this time, he forced himself to see the cracks.

Chapter I.2.2 The Stands Below

The Lower Deck devoured all who entered. Where the Upper Deck floated in perfumed refinement, this level throbbed like an exposed nerve. A seething, living thing as loud as the industrial magic that crackled through its steel bones. Flesh made of bodies pressed sweat-to-sweat. Rust and ale and smoke formed a physical presence, something you tasted more than smelled. Each surface held treachery: floors slick with spilled drink, tables scarred from brawls, shadows concealing predators and prey indistinguishable from one another.

A raw, unbridled cacophony that breathed in sparks and exhaled thunder.

Gale pushed through this wilderness with a discreet spell that bent attention away from him. Despite this precaution, his fine robes and straight-backed posture marked him as clearly as a torch in darkness. One hand hovered near his spellbook, both protection and comfort in this alien landscape.

Scholarly curiosity—at least, that’s what he told himself—had led him from the safety of the Upper Deck into this den of structured chaos. The truth was more elemental: he needed to see her again, the woman from Elturel who had unraveled his spell with intuition where he had built it with calculation.

It hadn’t taken long to spot her.

She commanded a gambling table like a general at a battlefield. Sleeves were rolled to expose forearms corded with lean muscle, a single hoop earring catching the lantern light as she laughed. A faint scar tracked along her wrist, visible as she flipped a coin into the growing pot.

"You've got to give it up, Viktor," she teased, her voice cutting through the ambient roar. "That grin's charming, but it's going to be a real problem when someone notices your teeth." She winked at the rough-hewn barbarian across from her, sparking a cascade of laughter that seemed disproportionate to the joke.

Then—there it was. Her fingers twitched, the Weave responding to her silent command. The dice wobbled in mid-throw, their trajectory altered. No incantation. No structured spellwork. Not even a proper cantrip.

Just like last time. Telekinesis? Perhaps the barest of components. A distorted variety.

His lips pressed into a thin line. She played the Weave like a weathered lute, rough and impulsive. A thief picking magic's pockets without a thought to the cost, to the discipline required. To the reverence magic deserved.

And yet… no one protested. No one even noticed. While he detected the disrespect to the Weave itself, her fellow gamblers saw only her charm, her wit, her carefully crafted distraction.

Before reason could intervene, he approached the table. "I'd be loath to let such an engaging game go unstudied. Might there be room for one more?"

Eyes assessed him with predatory calculation. How much could they relieve him of? How quickly?

But when she looked up, recognition flashed before being smoothed over with a grin, disproportionately familiar given their last encounter.

"Feel free." She gestured at an empty seat. "And you are..." Her eyes lingered on every landmark that set him apart—fine robes, enchanted jewelry, perfectly groomed brown locks. Her gaze weighed him with frank appraisal, neither impressed, nor dismissive.

Then she tilted her head. "Prince Charming?"

The table erupted in laughter, rough and genuine at his expense. Gale smiled thinly as he took a seat, refusing to give an inch. "Flattering, but just Gale. Though I can't fault you for assuming nobility."

She hummed, noncommittal. "All right, Gale."

She performed introductions with theatrical flair, ending with a hand settled on her chest, chin lifted in mock ceremony. "Lyanna."

Gale dropped his coin pouch onto the table, its weight punctuating his arrival. Its heft drew appreciative glances. "Pleasure."

The next few hands passed in a dance of mundane gambling, but Gale's attention never strayed from Lyanna's fingers. He watched for the telltale shimmer in the Weave, the disrespectful tug at magic's threads. When the Tabaxi woman rolled the dice, he caught it—Lyanna's casual touch of magic, ready to tip fate's scales.

With surgical precision, Gale countered. A whisper of his own magic nullified hers, leaving a faint shimmer of purple-blue energy that only a trained eye might catch. The dice fell naturally. The Tabaxi squealed with delight at her unexpected win, oblivious to the magic simmering beneath perception.

Lyanna's eyes snapped to him. One finger against the wood, thoughtful. She raised her ale, amusement ghosted across her lips.

"Someone's paying attention," she murmured, her storm-gray eyes meeting his over the rim of her mug.

Gale inclined his head, an unspoken challenge.

The starting buzzer of the tournament blared, sky-chariots roaring, eyes drawn skyward. Lyanna leaned forward, slamming her mug down with a decisive thud.

With each round, their contest deepened, transcending the mundane games around them. The air buzzed with overlapping deals and thunderous cheers, but Gale and Lyanna remained locked in their private contest. Their magic wove through the ordinary gambling like silver threads through base cloth.

Every nullification he performed was technical perfection. Every counter she devised was infuriatingly novel, slipping past defenses like water through cracked stone.

"Lucky," she remarked when his perfectly controlled spell yielded a winning roll.

"Fortune favors the skilled,” he replied with the same scholarly condescension that had earned him both admiration and exasperation from students back in Blackstaff.

Her fingers brushed the table's edge. When she tossed her dice, they wobbled mid-air a heartbeat too long. The Weave bent to her will, careless and unbounded. The dice landed perfectly.

Gale exhaled through his nose.

"Jealous?" she asked.

"For a fluke? Hardly."

As their magical duel intensified, something tugged at Gale’s awareness, a pattern emerging from what he’d assumed was chaos.

When Lyanna manipulated the dwarf's roll, ensuring the dwarf stayed in the game despite poor odds, Gale didn't interfere. He watched as she clasped the dwarf's shoulder, her laughter genuine as she teased him about his vices.

Understanding dawned like a slow sunrise. His gaze swept across the table, seeing the larger design for the first time.

The dwarf, still in the game by a thread. The barbarian, leading just enough to feed his bravado. The Tabaxi, engaged in flirtatious rivalry that had nothing to do with the game. The half-orc, locked in heated competition with the barbarian, their bets climbing higher with each round.

She wasn't chasing victory. She was orchestrating an experience. Shaping the game to maximize engagement, to keep everyone invested emotionally as well as financially. Like feeding kindling to a fire.

The realization unsettled something in him. Magic had its plethora of uses, that he knew. Yet, while his set him apart in a league all his own, hers drew people in. A truth he’d been trained to dismiss as frivolous.

Her eyes met his across the table, a knowing quirk of her brow. As if, for a fleeting moment, he'd glimpsed the real game beneath it all—neither dice nor magic. But rather, she played to their desires, their rivalries, their needs all balanced in a delicate social alchemy.

"Relax, Charming," she said. "It's just a game."

The words stung more than they should have. Perhaps they were only intended as surface-level banter, but they felt like a dismissal of everything he stood for, everything he’d dedicated his life to perfecting. This wasn’t “just a game”, but the very architecture of reality itself.

On the final round, Gale doubled down. Whatever social experiment she conducted, his purpose remained clear. To demonstrate proper control, to teach through example.

He gripped the dice, infusing them with magic of absolute precision. A guaranteed, undetectable victory. The dice tumbled, the Weave humming between them like a plucked string.

Lyanna watched, her head tilted with something like disappointment. Then, just as the dice were about to land, the Weave shimmered. Not opposition, not a counterspell, but a whispered augmentation that made his magic blindingly obvious to everyone present.

The table erupted before the dice settled. Scoffs. Jeers. The barbarian let out a long, unimpressed whistle.

"A shame," Lyanna said, rising with fluid grace. Her expression held none of the triumph he expected, only a flickering regret. As she passed behind him, she leaned close enough that her breath warmed his ear.

"You wouldn't have liked winning like that anyway."

The hem of her coat lifted as she moved to leave, revealing the worn leather of a belt fitted with more pouches than one might expect. Her hand grazed his shoulder—a brief, thoughtless touch that left an inexplicable warmth.

"Try not to let it ruin your night, Upper Crust," she called over her shoulder. Then she exhaled, smoothing a hand over the back of her neck as she melted into the crowd. As if the game had only ever been a momentary diversion.

Gale barely registered the murmurs of disdain from the table, his mind still replaying that final move. She'd caught him in a trap of his own making. Not by opposing his magic, but by revealing it. Why? To teach him some lesson? To humiliate him?

Or perhaps, most disquieting of all, because she'd recognized something in him that he wasn't ready to see in himself.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

[sparrowsarus]

getting to know mutuals!

tagged by @spurious

what's the origin of your blog title?

Sparrows are tiny angry dinosaurs and they will FIGHT

otp(s) + shipname(s):

Sam Carter/Jack O'Neill; Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley; Karlach Cliffgate/Wyll Ravengard; sundry others but those are the untouchable ones where I can't see them with anyone else.

favourite colour: Blue-grey

song stuck in your head: American Psycho by Treble Charger

weirdest habit/trait: Hm, I'm not sure? Chewing my nails down to the quick maybe. Though that might be "worst"

hobbies: Leatherworking, writing, video games, needle felting, boxing

if you work, what's your profession? -cries-

if you could have any job you wish, what would it be? I'd want to be a geotech in agriculture or forestry. Make a good amount of money doing what I spent a whack of money to learn to do. Or proofreading job posting cause gang. No.

something you're good at: I'm so good at making felted gnomes

something you hate: Just one? Cause I was born to be a hater. I'll hate utterly unprompted.

something you collect: Metal trains and rocks

something you forget: I have the skill to forget damn near anything, frankly.

what's your love language: I'm a little skeptical on love languages, frankly, but I guess acts of service? And gift. I love giving people stuff. Sometimes that stuff is memes.

favourite movie/show: Movie: The first LOTR movie, probably. But since someone asked I have never watched a single thing in my life ever, because them's the breaks. But it's interesting, because Fellowship might be my favourite movie, but The Last Unicorn is the movie where, if you don't like/get it, I probably will not get along with you because we have drastically different world views.

Show is hard, because I don't actually watch much tv? The last show I watched was probably like. Teen Titans Go. Or The Mandalorian.

favourite food: POTATO GANG RISE

favourite animal: Chickadees

what were you like as a child: Annoying as shit

favourite subject at school: English

least favourite subject: Math

what's your best character trait? I like to think I'm thoughtful?

what's your worst character trait? I am annoying as shit

if you could change any detail of your life right now, what would it be? Employment plz

if you could travel in time, who would you like to meet? US President Madison, if only to beat him to death with a rock. America might not remember the War of 1812 but you can bet we sure fucking do. Also George IV. Also would be well served by being beaten with a rock. Prime Minister Mackenzie King.

History would be better if these people were pelted with rocks, is all I'm saying.

Thank you for this! Not tagging people because I know some of y'all hate it , but I forget who. So if you like these things, please participate cause your girl is nosy

[potatofelts]

Wow I haven’t updated in a while! Here are a few needle felts I’ve done since last time~

1. Frieren

2. Christmas Gnome Ornament

3. Waddle Dee

4. Eepy Kirby

[sku-te]

Chapter 1: The Unwanted Journey

The absolute, unequivocal last sensation Arthur Ainsworth, fifty-one years, three months, and a dreary Tuesday into a life he often felt was on loan from a particularly uninspired mail-order catalogue, registered with any degree of certainty was the gritty, slightly abrasive texture of overly toasted wholemeal bread lodging uncomfortably between his teeth. The sharp, familiar, and frankly unwelcome tang of too-bitter, cheap chunky marmalade still coated his tongue. He’d been staring blankly out of his perpetually damp Crawley kitchen window, past the condensation fogging the lower pane, at the aggressively, almost offensively cheerful fuschia in Mrs. Henderson’s meticulously manicured, gnome-infested garden. He was contemplating, with a familiar sense of existential dread, the yawning, featureless abyss of another interminable Tuesday morning meeting about synergistic resource allocation and departmental overheads, when the very fabric of his mundane reality had simply… dissolved.

Not in a gentle, cinematic fade to black, but with a violent, nauseating, wrenching compression, as if he were being forcibly, painfully squeezed through the eye of a cosmic needle that was far too small for his middle-aged, slightly paunchy frame. A silent scream, a pure rictus of terror and disbelief, tore from lungs that, a horrifying microsecond later, felt alarmingly… undersized, tight, and distressingly inefficient.

He blinked. Once. Twice. His vision swam, a nauseating, disorienting blur like looking through a disturbed goldfish bowl that had been filled with murky water. The comforting, slightly musty, entirely familiar aroma of his own small kitchen – old tea towels needing a boil wash, the faint, lingering ghost of last night’s overcooked shepherd’s pie, the metallic tang of the ancient gas hob – was gone, brutally, inexplicably supplanted. Now, his nostrils flared against an aggressive, unwelcome olfactory assault: the sharp, briny sting of sea air, the unmistakable, oily reek of diesel fumes, and beneath it all, a cloying, faintly sweetish, almost chemical perfume he couldn’t quite identify – cheap cherry blossom air freshener, perhaps? It made his stomach roil with a sudden, violent wave of nausea.

He wasn’t standing, a half-eaten piece of toast clutched in his rapidly cooling hand. He was seated, or rather, vibrating, perched precariously on a ridiculously hard, unforgivingly cold plastic bench that thrummed with the powerful, rhythmic, almost hypnotic beat of a massive engine. The vibration resonated through his slight, unfamiliar frame, up his spine, and into his teeth, making them ache. His entire field of vision still swam, a nauseating blur that slowly, reluctantly, resolved into... a boat? No, this was larger, more substantial. A ferry, judging by its considerable size and the churning, slate-grey-green water visible through a salt-streaked, grimy window.

His hands. He stared down at his hands, which were resting, almost formally, on knees that felt strangely knobbly, pointed, and alarmingly close to his face. They were small, slender, the skin unnervingly smooth and pale, entirely unblemished. Gone were the familiar, comforting liver spots, the intricate network of fine wrinkles he’d painstakingly earned over fifty-one years of worry and indifferent skincare. Gone, most shockingly, was the faded, silvery-white scar on his left thumb, a cherished, almost nostalgic memento from a foolish, boyish attempt to whittle a stick with his father’s intimidatingly sharp penknife when he was barely ten. These were the hands of a boy, a complete stranger. A wave of pure, unadulterated vertigo, cold and terrifying, washed over him, making the already unsteady deck beneath his feet seem to tilt and sway even more alarmingly.

Panic, sharp, icy, and visceral as a shard of glass plunged into his chest, clawed its way up his throat, a silent, suffocating, desperate scream. He looked down further, a strangled, wheezing gasp escaping lips that felt thin, unfamiliar, and strangely unresponsive to his mental commands. A pristine, almost unnaturally dark-blue school uniform – a tailored blazer with an unfamiliar, elaborate embroidered crest on the breast pocket, a stark white, slightly stiff shirt, a neatly, tightly knotted tie that felt like a miniature noose around his suddenly slender neck, and sharply creased, unfamiliar trousers – encased a frame so lean, so light, it felt like inhabiting a fragile, empty birdcage. His comfortable, tea-stained cardigan, his worn, beloved corduroys, his trusty, down-at-heel slippers – all relegated to a life, a world, a self, that felt galaxies, lifetimes, away.

This isn't happening, the thought was a frantic, desperate, looping denial against the overwhelming, irrefutable sensory evidence. This is a stroke. A brain aneurysm. A complete psychotic breakdown. A ridiculously vivid, cheese-induced dream brought on by that questionable Stilton I had before bed. But the insistent, bone-jarring thrum of the powerful engine beneath him, the penetrating chill of the damp sea air seeping through the thin, unfamiliar fabric of the school uniform, the too-tight, starched collar chafing uncomfortably against his strangely youthful skin – it was all terrifyingly, undeniably, horribly concrete.

He was on a ferry. A modern, somewhat utilitarian vessel, judging by the functional, uncomfortable plastic seating and the smeary, salt-streaked windows that offered a bleak, uninviting view of the turbulent, grey-green water churning past under a bruised, weeping, overcast sky. In the middle distance, wreathed in a swirling, clinging mist that seemed to swallow the light, an island rose steeply, almost menacingly, from the restless sea, its slopes a dense, unbroken, unwelcoming carpet of dark green. It reminded him, vaguely, unsettlingly, of some of the starker, more dramatic parts of the south coast back home, but… wrong. Utterly, fundamentally wrong. The light was wrong, the air felt wrong, the very angle of the sun, when it briefly, weakly, pierced the oppressive cloud cover, seemed alien. What a dreadful, dreadful May this was turning out to be, he thought with a sudden, bizarrely specific pang of dislocated misery, before shaking his head to dispel the irrelevant, nonsensical thought.

Around him, other teenagers – actual, living, breathing teenagers, their faces a sea of youthful energy and incomprehensible expressions – chattered and laughed and scrolled through their phones, their voices a bewildering, overwhelming cacophony in a language that flowed around him like fast-moving water, every sibilant hiss, every sharp vowel, every lilting intonation entirely, utterly alien and incomprehensible. They all wore the same dark blue uniform, a depressing ocean of conformity. They were all, he noted with a fresh, sinking wave of despair, Japanese.

“Excuse me,” he tried, the English words feeling thick, clumsy, unnaturally foreign, and obscenely loud in this new, higher-pitched, unfamiliar voice. A few heads turned, their expressions ranging from mild curiosity to outright, disdainful indifference. Blank, uncomprehending eyes stared back at him for a moment before dismissively turning away. One girl, her hair an impossible, almost aggressive shade of bubblegum pink tied into ridiculously perky pigtails, giggled openly into her hand, then whispered something clearly amusing to her smirking friend, who also giggled. The isolation was immediate, profound, absolute. He was a foreigner in a land he didn’t recognize, in a body that wasn’t his own, speaking a language no one here apparently understood. He was, he realized with a sudden, sickening lurch of his stomach, utterly, terrifyingly alone.

His heart, this new, unfamiliar heart, hammered a frantic, panicked rhythm against ribs that felt alarmingly close to the surface of his skin. He patted the pockets of the unfamiliar school blazer, a desperate, fumbling, almost spastic search for something, anything, familiar, an anchor in this maelstrom of unreality. His worn leather wallet, with its comforting, familiar collection of well-thumbed loyalty cards, a few emergency pound coins, and that faded, creased photograph of his late, beloved spaniel, Buster? Gone. His house keys, his car keys, the comforting jingle they usually made in his pocket? Vanished. But then, his fingers, these new, slender, unnervingly smooth fingers, brushed against a familiar, solid rectangular outline in the blazer’s inside pocket.

His mobile phone. An older, slightly battered, but entirely reliable smartphone. His lifeline. With trembling, uncoordinated hands, he pulled it out, its familiar weight a small, almost insignificant comfort in this ocean of terrifying unfamiliarity. The screen flickered to life, displaying its usual, incongruously cheerful background of a slightly out-of-focus bluebell wood he’d photographed on a long-forgotten bank holiday walk. 27% battery. A fresh, sharp spike of pure, undiluted panic lanced through him, colder and more terrifying than the sea wind. Twenty-seven percent. How long would that last? Hours? Minutes? It was his only link to potential understanding, his only tool for navigating this waking nightmare.

He fumbled with the touchscreen, his larger, older man’s muscle memory struggling, fighting against the delicate, precise coordination required by these smaller, younger, entirely unfamiliar teenage hands. He found the voice translation app – a half-forgotten relic from a disastrous, sunburnt package holiday to Majorca with his ex-wife nearly a decade ago, an app he’d kept on his phone for reasons he couldn’t now fathom but was, in this moment, profoundly, desperately grateful for. He jabbed clumsily at the English-to-Japanese setting, his finger slipping twice on the smooth glass.

Clutching the phone like a drowning man grasping a flimsy piece of driftwood, he turned to a boy slumped apathetically beside him on the hard plastic bench. The boy was entirely, almost aggressively, engrossed in a sleek, brightly coloured handheld gaming device that emitted a series of tinny, irritatingly cheerful bleeps and bloops. “Excuse me,” Arthur said again, his voice shaking slightly as he spoke clearly and slowly into the phone’s microphone. The device chirped once, a small, tinny, almost hopeful sound, then emitted a short, polite, perfectly synthesized Japanese phrase.

The boy jumped as if he’d been poked with a sharp stick, startled, his game momentarily forgotten. He looked up, his eyes wide with surprise, then narrowed with suspicion as he took in Arthur’s clearly foreign, distressed appearance. He pointed a questioning finger at himself, then at Arthur. “Watashi? Anata?” (Me? You?)

Arthur nodded vigorously, a ridiculous, almost hysterical wave of relief washing over him at this tiny, fragile, almost insignificant flicker of basic human comprehension. He spoke urgently into the phone again, the question feeling utterly absurd, almost laughably inadequate, even as he voiced it. “Where are we going? Please, can you tell me where this ferry is going?”

The phone chirped. The boy listened, his expression still wary, then replied in a rapid, almost unintelligible stream of Japanese, gesturing vaguely with his free hand towards the misty, forbidding island looming ever closer on the grey horizon. The phone dutifully, if somewhat tinnily, translated back: “To the island. We are all going to the island. For the special school.”

“School?” Arthur croaked, the word catching in his throat like a fishbone. He repeated it into the phone, needing confirmation, needing something, anything, to make sense.

“Yes. The academy. For those with Talents.”

Talents? A sliver of icy, unwelcome unease, sharp as a shard of freshly broken glass, pierced through the thick fog of Arthur’s confusion and terror. The word echoed with a dark, half-forgotten, deeply unpleasant familiarity. The island. The special school. For the Talented. His mind, sluggish with shock, began to churn, to sift through old, discarded memories, searching for a connection, a terrifying, almost unthinkable recognition beginning to dawn.

The ferry docked with a gentle, almost anticlimactic bump against a solid, seaweed-stained concrete pier. The previously chattering students began to gather their bags, a river of dark blue uniforms flowing with a surprising, almost disciplined orderliness towards the disembarkation ramp. Arthur, feeling like a man walking to his own execution, followed them woodenly, his legs like leaden stilts, his mind a maelstrom of fear and dawning, horrifying comprehension. The island air, when he finally stepped onto solid, unmoving ground, was humid, heavy, carrying the cloying scent of pine needles, damp earth, and something else, something faintly metallic, like old blood. A few stern-faced adults, presumably teachers, their expressions uniformly unwelcoming, were directing the arriving students with curt, impatient gestures towards a narrow, winding path leading steeply upwards, into the island’s dense, shadowy, and deeply foreboding interior.

He walked as if in a trance, the phone clutched in his hand like a talisman against the encroaching darkness. This new, young body, this ‘Kenji Tanaka’ as his hastily discovered student ID card (found in another pocket of the unfamiliar blazer) proclaimed him to be, was a reluctant, terrified automaton, and he, Arthur Ainsworth, was its bewildered, unwilling, and increasingly horrified pilot.

Evening found him in a small, stark, sparsely furnished dormitory room, shared with another silent, sullen boy – his roommate, Suzuki, who had grunted a minimal, almost resentful greeting earlier before burying himself completely in a brightly coloured manga volume, effectively vanishing from Arthur’s immediate reality. The overwhelming, unrelenting newness of it all – the constant, bewildering barrage of the unfamiliar Japanese language assaulting his ears, the strange, unappetizing food he’d barely been able to touch at dinner (a slimy, unidentifiable fish and a bowl of disturbingly grey rice), the constant, terrifying, almost schizophrenic disconnect between his fifty-one-year-old mind and this unfamiliar, unwieldy teenage body – was crushing, suffocating.

He sat heavily on the edge of the narrow, unyielding bed, the phone’s battery indicator now a glaring, accusatory, terrifying red 15%. He needed to charge it. Urgently. Desperately. It was his only link to comprehension, his only tool for navigating this bewildering, hostile new reality. But the power sockets in the dorm room wall were a different, unfamiliar shape, and he hadn’t seen his own trusty charger since… well, since his own familiar, comforting kitchen in Crawley, a lifetime, an eternity, ago.

He had to think. He forced his panicked, reeling mind to focus. Talented. Island academy for the Talented. Snippets of disjointed conversation, hazy, half-recalled images from a garishly coloured, excessively violent animation his teenage nephew had been briefly, inexplicably obsessed with some years ago, flickered like faulty neon signs at the frayed edges of his memory. A pretty, innocent-looking girl with bright pink hair and an unnervingly sweet, almost predatory smile. A sullen, white-haired boy with an obsession with immortality and a penchant for asking inconvenient questions. Gruesome, inventive deaths, casually, almost gleefully, inflicted. Dark secrets. Government conspiracies.

Talentless Nana.

The name, the title, hit him with the force of a physical blow, knocking the last vestiges of air from his already constricted lungs. No. It couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t. That was fiction, a dark, twisted, nihilistic little piece of entertainment his sister had tutted disapprovingly about. He wasn’t in an anime. Such things didn’t happen. They couldn’t happen.

But the evidence, the terrible, mounting, undeniable evidence, was all around him. The isolated island, miles from any recognizable mainland. The special school, exclusively for "Talented" youth. The subtle, pervasive undercurrent of something… predatory, something dangerous, he’d sensed beneath the thin, fragile veneer of enforced institutional normalcy.

If this was true, if this waking nightmare was indeed his new reality, then he was in unimaginable, immediate, and quite possibly terminal danger. Everyone here was. And he, Arthur Ainsworth, a mild-mannered, unremarkable, fifty-one-year-old former accounts clerk from the peaceful, predictable suburbs of Crawley, was trapped, helpless and horrified, in the unfamiliar, ill-fitting body of a Japanese schoolboy named Kenji Tanaka, days, perhaps mere hours, from the inevitable arrival of a ruthless, highly trained, government-sanctioned teenage assassin.

The phone’s screen flickered ominously, then dimmed. 10%.

The raw, animalistic panic gave way, momentarily, to a desperate, pragmatic, almost cold urgency. He had to find a charger. A compatible one. And a socket that would accept it. Now. Without the phone, without his translator, without his only tenuous link to the world around him, he was deaf, dumb, defenceless, and almost certainly, irrecoverably, dead.

He scrambled to his feet, his earlier exhaustion forgotten, replaced by a surge of pure, undiluted adrenaline. He left his silent, manga-absorbed roommate without a word and ventured cautiously out into the dimly lit, echoing corridor. The dorm was quieting down for the night, most of the other students presumably already in their rooms. He found a common room at the end of the corridor, its lights still on, though it was deserted. It smelled faintly of stale noodles and cheap cleaning fluid. A few students were chatting quietly within, others were hunched over textbooks, already studying. His eyes, wild and desperate, scanned the walls, searching. There. A grimy, overloaded power strip, with a couple of tantalizingly vacant sockets. And discarded carelessly on a low, battered coffee table, amidst a scattering of empty snack wrappers, discarded manga volumes, and students’ textbooks, was a tangled, spaghetti-like mess of assorted charging cables. One of them, a generic-looking black one, looked promising, its micro-USB connector seemingly, blessedly, similar to his own phone’s charging port.

His heart pounding in his throat like a trapped bird, he darted forward and snatched it up. It was a cheap, no-name brand, but the connector looked right. He hurried back to the precious, vacant sockets in the power strip, his hands shaking so badly he could barely insert the plug. He then, with a silent, fervent prayer to any deity, any force, any cosmic entity that might conceivably be listening in this godforsaken corner of reality, connected the other end of the cable to his phone.

The charging icon appeared on the screen. 10%. Then, after an agonizing, heart-stopping pause, 11%.

A tiny, almost hysterical, choked laugh escaped him, a sound perilously close to a sob. One problem, at least, one immediate, life-threatening crisis, was temporarily, blessedly, solved. But as he slumped weakly against the cool, indifferent wall, watching the battery percentage slowly, painstakingly, begin to climb, the larger, more terrifying, more inescapable reality of his utterly impossible situation settled upon him with a crushing, suffocating, and unyielding weight. He was, without a shadow of a doubt, on Murder Island. And the deadly, bloody games, he knew with a certainty that chilled him to the very marrow of his new, young bones, were about to begin.

[felt-central]

Gnomes usually hide from people, but I managed to convince them to come out for a photoshoot 📸 Check out my needle felt work at my Etsy store: https://newfeltcentral.etsy.com

[mumms-the-word]

In Fathoms Below - Ch. 3

Ch. 3 - Expert in Gibberish

Characters: Gale, Karlach, Wyll, Lae'zel, Shadowheart, Astarion, Halsin, Minthara, Gortash + other OCs; pairing is Gale x fem!Tav Plot: The island city of Nautera disappeared over 4500 years ago, if it ever existed at all. Now not a single, legitimate record of Nautera exists, save for one. The Nauterran Account. Long thought lost, it has recently been retrieved from the depths of Candlekeep’s archives and placed into the capable hands of one Gale Dekarios. With the Nauterran Account in hand and an eclectic team of Baldurians and other allies mounting an official expedition, Gale journeys to find the ruins of Nautera…but hopes to find so much more. A/N: Kind of a slow chapter today, sorry friends. Also, today’s chapter touches on Gale’s history with Mystra, but I don’t want to pretend that my interpretation of the events here are at all Gale’s canon. BG3 doesn’t tell us when Gale was selected as a Chosen of Mystra or when he became lovers with Mystra. The year I picked is just something that worked for this fic. Remember, it’s all for fun!

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | BG3 Masterlist | Read on AO3

The view outside the windows of the submersible was an alluring gloom of wonder and mystery, eerily beautiful and unsettling. Moving through the depths felt a little like being suspended in a starless sky at twilight, when the night painted the world in shades of blue. Only this blue was much deeper and all-encompassing, stretching out in all directions, above and below. Every now and again, the shadowy crags of some undersea cliff would appear off to the side, just out of reach of the lights, blurry and indistinct, reminding Gale that he wasn’t suspended in an actual void; but otherwise, there wasn’t much to see. Just deep cerulean water, shadows of rocks, and the occasional school of silver fish darting out of the submersible’s path.

“We’re approaching two hundred fathoms below the surface, saer,” a gnome pilot said, watching the needles on a series of gauges.

“Very good,” Gortash said. “Level out and keep us moving east. I want to reach those trenches in less than a day.”

As Redhammer and the other pilots called out commands and responses, leveling out the submersible so that it no longer descended into the depths, Gortash turned his back on the view and clasped his hands together. “Now then, seeing as we’re well underway, I think it’s time we made plans. Gale, if you would join us?”

Gale, the other companions that he had met, and several more uniformed men and women he didn’t yet know gathered around the desk at the center of the room. By the time Gale had taken his place opposite Gortash, the desk and maps between them, they had a small audience of about thirty people, not counting the pilots still working around the perimeter of the helm.

“I trust you’ve had time to study that book, Gale?” Gortash asked, gesturing to the satchel that hung from Gale's shoulder and rested on his hip.

“Not as much as I’d like, but I haven’t ended my study yet,” he said, pulling the book from his satchel. He carefully opened the book, turning over the thick vellum pages until he landed on a break in the center. The right side was written in familiar draconic script, while the left page was written using more fluid, curling characters—Hamarfae, the script of the ancient elves. “The journal appears to have been written at two separate times, in two separate languages, though likely by the same author. The first half details the journey of a Netherese mage, an apprentice or colleague of the infamous Ioulaum of Netheril, as they arrived in Nautera before it sank beneath the waves. It breaks off abruptly about halfway through, however, and the second half picks up what appears to be decades later, with the mage attempting to locate Nautera beneath the sea. The first half can tell us much about the city before its descent, but the last half will lead us to where it is now. At least, theoretically.”

“So what’s the catch?” Wyll asked. “There has to be a catch.”

“Well, the last half is easy enough to read. It’s written in Loross, the language of the Netherese nobility and Netheril’s most esteemed scholars. Simple to translate, if you’ve studied it as I have. The issue lies with the first half of the book—it’s written in Seldruin.”

Minthara scoffed. “The dead language of faeries. How fitting."

Halsin flicked his gaze at Minthara, a frown briefly touching his lips, before focusing again on Gale. “The last sages who studied, read, or spoke Seldruin died out nearly two centuries ago. As far as I know, no one has made efforts to keep the knowledge of Seldruin alive since then. If you can make out even simple words, it would be more than impressive—it would be astounding.”

"Do you even need to?" Shadowheart asked. "The Netherese part has directions to where Nautera is now. The first half is just fluff in comparison."

Gale shook his head. "I disagree. The first half provides much-needed context for all the rest. And I can read some of it—the translation process is just a bit slow."

"You can already read Seldruin?" Haslin asked, looking astonished.

“Well, I’m hardly an expert in it, but I’ve managed to make some headway,” Gale said, unable to resist a bit of pride creeping into his voice. Cradling the book in one hand, he held up a finger as he began to explain, “And it’s actually quite simple. If you use the Loross as a kind of cipher, then look for loanwords between the two languages, identify the connections to archaic and modern Elven, keeping the different rules for conjugations and declensions and so forth in mind, you—”

He glanced up, in the middle of gesturing with his free hand, to find that most had confused or bored expressions. Karlach looked particularly lost and Minthara particularly uninterested. He cut himself off and cleared his throat. “You…ah, well, suffice it to say that I’ve been able to decipher several pages since obtaining the book. For example…”

He returned to the very first page of the journal and traced his finger along the first line of Seldruin, speaking the words aloud. A strange tingle, faint and almost imperceptible, buzzed at the back of his mind, and though the first words came out clunky and stilted, the rest of the sentence issued forth much more smoothly, as if he innately knew the language. 

He paused. That had never happened before. But then again, this was the first time he’d tried to speak the Seldruin out loud. 

He focused back on the text. “Roughly translated, it means, ‘I write this in the language of the Nauterrans, replicating their speech in the hopes that we might also learn to replicate their Art.’ I suspect our author began his account after he had arrived in the city. He must have been learning Seldruin from the Nauterrans.”

“Impressive,” Gortash said, yet his smile betrayed a different opinion. It was a smile like that of a patient adult viewing a child’s poorly drawn artwork rather than someone who had any real sense of the subject matter Gale was presenting. “But for now, what we require is not a lesson in linguistics, but a location to investigate. We don’t have enough resources to sweep the entire ocean floor for days without end.”

Gale tried to rein in some of his irritation. “Yes, well, that is where the second half of the journal comes in. Our nameless author appears to have tried to locate Nautera again, years after its disappearance. He discovered potential paths below the sea.”

“Ah, yes. Paths beginning here,” Lae’zel said, reaching over and pointing to an area of one of the charts, showing a series of trenches and crevices along the seabed.

He couldn’t help but be impressed. “Yes, precisely. How did you know?”

“The records of K’liir state that the last known entrance to Nautera lies in deep sea trenches east of Faerûn. These are the only trenches of any significance between Faerûn and Evermeet, according to your maps.” She looked a little smug as she straightened up. “Did you think we were merely wandering aimlessly through the sea?”

“How do your people know these trenches hold an entrance to Nautera?” Shadowheart asked, a bit of bratty petulance creeping into her tone. “Have they discovered the city already?”

“Of course not,” Lae’zel snapped. “But they discovered the remnants of ancient roads and bridges. The kind that would have connected Nautera to its sister cities on the other islands…or so it is believed. Somewhere in these trenches, there should be the ruins of two statues. No doubt built to ward off superstitious fools.”

“Or guide them to safe harbor,” Gale said. “According to the Nauterran Account, when Ioulaum and his fellow mages arrived, before the disappearance of the islands, they first saw twin statues that rose nearly one hundred meters above the water, flanking an entrance to a bay where ships could safely dock or anchor.” 

He turned the pages of the book to show a sketch of the statues. They looked like two elven figures, though built in a less elegant style than most elven iconography these days. Their features were simple, their clothing little more than geometric designs across their bodies. Each held one hand up level with their chest, palms facing outward, with the other hand held flat before them, palms upward. A welcoming gesture, one that promised open-handed generosity and peace. 

Gale laid the book on the table with the images of the statues visible for everyone to see. “When the author returned later, he found these statues broken and resting among the trenches. The entrance to the Underdark we’re looking for should be close by.”

He shot a surreptitious glance at Gortash, as if to say See? The Seldruin half is useful. But Gortash’s eyes were on the book on the table.

“So if we find these statues, we find the roads leading to Nautera,” he said.

“In theory, yes.”

“Is it just going to be lying at the bottom of the ocean?” Karlach asked, peering over Wyll’s shoulder. “The whole city?”

“No. It’s much more likely that it has been covered by rocks and other land formations and is somewhere in the Underdark now.”

“But if we’re approaching underwater, then wouldn’t the Underdark spaces be just as flooded with water as everywhere else?” Wyll asked. Across the desk from him, Minthara scoffed quietly, but it was Gale who continued to answer.

“Not quite,” he said. “According to this author, the curve and angle of the tunnels in the trenches are formed so that they should lead to an air pocket, and from there, into the Underdark. Think of it like this—the undersea tunnels function more or less the same way rudimentary plumbing functions.”

He reached for a piece of graphite and quickly sketched out a schematic of what he meant on a scrap piece of parchment, showing the curve of the tunnels and a simple bubble filled only partly with water.

Shadowheart turned her head to murmur to Karlach. “Wizard, linguist, plumber…hard to believe this guy is single.” Karlach snickered and Wyll, overhearing it as well, covered his mouth with his hand to hide his smile.

Gale tried to ignore her. “The point is, it’s been thousands of years since the islands disappeared, and Toril has seen a great deal of change since then. Not the least of which was the Spellplague and the Second Sundering.”

There was a kind of contemplative hush at the mention of the Second Sundering. The memory of it felt fresh, though it had begun almost a decade ago and ended four years ago. All of Toril had felt the effects of Ao’s sundering, rumored to have separated the world of Toril from the overlapping world of Abeir. Entire cities and civilizations vanished or blinked into existence, some of them all at once and others appearing slowly over time, as if the land were stretching a little each day. A number of wars and catastrophic natural disasters happened, like the Great Rain that lasted for days upon days, or various floating earthmotes crashing to the ground, or even a few stars falling from the sky. For most, the Sundering was no more noteworthy than the local war or strange event that happened nearby, but there were very few people who were left wholly unaffected. 

Though Gale hadn’t experienced much of a physical difference in Waterdeep at the time, everyone at Blackstaff Academy was following the events closely, tracking changes around the world. It wasn’t just the physical landscape that was changing; the fabric of the Weave was reforming and repairing itself from the damage of the Spellplague. Gods thought long dead were returning, some of them physically walking on Toril and gathering new followers, new Chosen. It was during this time that Mystra, who had been slowly revealing herself to her followers by whispering into their thoughts and dreams, had finally returned in full force.

The same year that the Sundering had been completed, just over four years ago, was the same year that Mystra had unveiled herself to him and took him as her lover, after years of whispering the promise of it in his ears and making him one of her Chosen. He hadn’t even made it five years as her lover before mucking things up and falling from her grace.

He pushed those thoughts aside for now. His melancholy wouldn’t help them find Nautera.

“Regardless,” he said, breaking the silence. “The world has changed greatly since the disappearance of Nautera, so it should be no surprise that the city is now buried. If we can find those statues, we’ll find one of the oldest underwater entrances to get us to Nautera, taking us through the Underdark and, gods-willing, to the final resting place of the lost city.”

“Then it’s settled,” Gortash said. “Gale, Lae’zel, you two compare your notes and work with our navigators to narrow the search for the statues. The rest of you, be on standby. I want all eyes on the lookout when we approach those deep sea trenches.”

Gale ventured a glance at Lae’zel, expecting to find more hostility from the githyanki soldier, but she merely regarded him with a cool stare. As the others dispersed, some of them leaving the helm entirely, she crossed her arms.

“Well?” she asked. “Why do you stare at me so?”

“Oh, I—no reason. No reason at all.” He cleared his throat and pulled out the chair, gesturing for her to sit. “Why don’t we make ourselves comfortable? It may take some time to determine anything useful.”

She didn’t move a muscle. “I can stand.”

“Right…” Gale hesitated for a moment before giving in and taking the chair himself. “Then we’d best get started.”

While the pilots continued to work around the helm under the watchful gazes of Gortash and Minthara, Gale and Lae’zel worked with a couple of cartographers and navigators to work out a location to investigate. Karlach, Wyll, Shadowheart, and Halsin remained in the helm, sitting or standing near the windows to watch the undersea world drift along, sometimes engaging in conversation with one another and sometimes lapsing into thoughtful silence as the hours crawled by. Down here in the blue depths, Gale lost all sense of time, though he noted the waters getting darker and darker.

Although Lae’zel was reluctant to hand over the slates she had with her, she did show Gale how to identify separate words in tir’su and briefly explained how the written language operated. Between the journal’s account of the journey as it would have been 4500 years ago and the somewhat more recent githyanki’s explorations in the same area, they were able to narrow down a few possible areas on the maps as viable locations to search. They marked these on the map of the sea floor.

“It’s curious,” Gale said, as the navigator picked up the map they had marked and took it over to Gortash to consult with him. “Why would the githyanki be interested in an ancient elven city?”

“The githyanki are interested in many things,” Lae’zel said. “Not the least of which are powerful artifacts.”

“Ah. So you’re interested in the lost mythallar as well.”

Lae’zel frowned. “I said nothing about—”

She broke off at the sound of a commotion outside the helm. They and several others in the room turned to see three figures struggling just beyond the open metal doorway. Gale rose from his chair right as they burst into the room—two dark-clad drow soldiers and a pale, white-haired elf held firmly between them.

The elf struggled and bared his teeth, revealing two sharp fangs. “Unhand me you vile—” He stopped as he noticed his audience, his red eyes widening. “Ah…oh dear.”

“What is the meaning of this?” Gortash asked, handing back the map to his navigator. Minthara made a signal with her hand and one of the drow kicked the back of the pale elf’s knee, causing him to grunt and crumple. His knees hit the metal floor with a painful thud.

“A stowaway, Nightwarden,” the second drow said, ignoring Gortash to address Minthara. “We found him sneaking around the supply room.”

[rachelillustrates]

Realizing I haven't posted many of my Gnome Wings on here, whoops!!

Correcting this.

For reasons.

~

Question - if Gnomes are faeries too, where did their wings go? Answer - They fluttered off to bless others even more!

[arviyya]

Firstly, when you get this, you have to answer with 5 things you like about yourself, publicly. Then, send this ask to 10 of your favorite followers (non-negotiable, positivity is cool)!!

Omg okay here goes - also hi :]

My unhinged dark humor, it's pretty fun to be a total vagrant (Why I love Barty lets be real)

My freckles; I used to hate them but I told myself to knock that attitude off

My creativity; I have a lot of hobbies and I just love to make things, whether that's art, or needle felt gnomes, or stories

My perception; I've always had a very strong judge of character

My loyalty; I'll go to bat for my friends, like you can tear me down all you want, but when it comes to my friends I'll bare my teeth and relish in the taste of blood

Well that hurt my brain

Also, thanks @xjustkay and @my-castles-crumbling for sending me these too (tagging you on this one saves me from doing this again, so yes I'm cheating)

[tracingpatternswrites]

Hello, hello, helloooooo!

Tell me (and everyone else) everything about Barty, pretty please!

(i'm not excited at all)

Well, HELLO my darling. Oooh, I'm so happy you asked because I'm excited too.

A while back we did a grey/dark character study workshop in the writing server that I'm a part of, and I wrote about Barty. I've kept those notes and now I'm attempting to make a fic out of them.

It's basically a character study that follows Barty's journey to taking the Dark Mark. Here, have a little snippet.

“What d��you think they’ll make us do?” Evan continued, whispering now that they were in the library. “D’you think it’ll be dangerous?” “Of course it’ll be dangerous,” Barty huffed, then added when Regulus threw him a look. “Well, what’s the point if it isn’t?” “Really?” Evan asked, chewing on his bottom lip. “D’you think it’ll hurt?” “Probably,” Barty shrugged, absently tapping his wand against the piece of parchment in front of him to soak up a couple of ink stains. “The cruciatos, maybe.” “You think he’ll do that?” asked Evan, his voice a little hesitant, and Barty could tell he was worried even though he did his best not to show it and he turned to Regulus, as if hoping that he would say something different. “Just…just like that? Torture?” Regulus’ gaze shifted between Evan and Barty, his lips pressed together into a thin line before he exhaled sharply. “Maybe,” he conceded after a while. “But it won’t be just that, not just torture it’s too…crude,” he pulled a little grimace. “It’ll be something more. He’ll test us, somehow, I’m sure.” “Like an exam?” Evan asked and Barty rolled his eyes with a snort. “Not like an exam, you gnome.” “Hey,” Regulus interjected before Evan could retort and the other boy snapped his mouth shut. “Probably more like…a mission maybe.” “Can’t you ask your cousin?” Barty questioned lightly, smirking a little at the twitch of Regulus’ lips. “I thought you could get all sorts of information from her.” Regulus threw a quick look around them, muttering a Muffliato under his breath. “We shouldn’t be talking about this here,” he said, gruffly, and Barty felt a little flare of satisfaction at being able to needle under his skin, but then Reg raised his chin haughtily. “It’s because of Bella we’re even invited to this thing, but she knows better than to betray the Dark Lord’s trust. She says we’ll know when we need to, and I trust her just as I trust the Dark Lord. Don’t you?” He looked at Barty, eyes a flinty sort of grey, challenging, and eventually Barty dropped his gaze back to his essay with a jerky little nod. “Of course I do,” he muttered instead. “That’s why we’re even doing this, isn’t it?” “Right,” Regulus confirmed, his voice tight, and Barty pretended to focus on his essay, tired of the conversation already. “I hope it doesn’t hurt too much,” Evan said after a beat, his voice unusually small.

[agentsquirrelsgotrobots]

Kade didn't expect to find two kids at a garage sale.

But when he tested an old TV to hook up his film reels to, the two kids (and a small gnome that he didn't see) fell onto his lap.

Then, the kid in the yellow raincoat bit him and tried to eat his arm.

Luckily, Doc Greene and Charlie were right behind him, so the three of them managed to get the feral starving child that looked to be about five but couldn't weigh more than twenty pounds off of him and placated with a meal replacement bar Kade had in his pocket.

The girl BIT THROUGH THE FOIL to get to the chocolate covered protein bar.

Doc and Chase drove all of them to the health department because human bites without tetinus shots = long and painful death. Of course, Doc drove Kade.

The boy, who with a fair amount of prodding introduced himself as Mono once Charlie had thrown (not literally) into Chase's backseat and threw several packages of fruit snacks onto the backseat so she could be buckled in.

The two of them were clearly not from this dimension, considering that he called Chase a trolley.

Kade was already being seen by the time they got there, and not unsurprisingly, the girl, which Mono called Six (Charlie was sensing a theme here), was sedated in Chase once Mono was escorted into an exam room. Charlie followed Mono because he didn't want to be in the room with Six if it turned out that she did end up having rabies.

Mono did not know what was going on, but at least Six got fed. He had brought her a gnome, but they had to escape through a TV before she could eat it.

Now, he was taking off his trench coat and shoes while he only understood one or two words out of every sentence because these adults liked using all kinds of extra words, and he could not keep up.

He understood lay down though, and breathe in and out, and open your mouth and stick out your tongue and keep your mouth open with a cotton swab in it.

Then there was a folding chair with a tray attached that he had to put his arm on and squeeze a ball and do not pull away when prickly liquid is rubbed into his skin and look at the doctor as he asked him questions he didn't understand and -ow. It feels like he stepped on glass, but just in his elbow. He looked down and saw a needle wedged into his elbow, the glass oddly clean, not yellowed or broken. He felt more prickly liquid on his shoulder and winced again as three more needles pierced his skin, the third one making his shoulders burn, and that was when he started to cry.

The man in blue - Charlie - offered him a hand and his little handheld screen, like the one in his trolle- car. It's a car. It had a simple logic puzzle game, a piece of bloatware that came with the phone, and he tore through the levels as the people with him talked, and Charlie signed papers, and he had to sign a paper, but it was just him and a puzzle that for once wasn't a death trap in disguise.

He gave it back after beating the game in under an hour as they waited for Six to be done. She also had to get a battery of vaccinations, but while Mono got away with one, don't - die - of - rabies shot, she had to get four, along with iv fluids and feeding. She was dangerously underweight. They both were, but she was bordering on critical. She was being released to the Burns on the caveat that she would be encouraged to eat and drink as much as she wanted and had to have a healthy amount of weight gain on her next appointment.

Mono was stuck with a mostly clean bill of health, and they managed to barter him down to a black cloth mask instead of his paper bag. (He would make himself another one out of cardboard by the end of the week.)

After dropping off Six and the medications she and Kade needed, Mono insisted on going with Charlie to pick up Cody from school.

Charlie had already told him that Six and Mono were taking Graham's and the guest room, and of course, he found the missing gnome. Mono gave it a hug and refused to let it out of sight until Six felt like herself again.

Dani was done handwashing Mono's clothes and Six's raincoat by the time they got back .

Neither kid fit into any of the clothes they kept in storage, so after dinner, they went to the department store in downtown Griffin Rock. Unfortunately, Huxley was also there and had no sense of self-preservation, as he repeatedly tried to ask Six, who was sitting in the cart, while Charlie helped Mono with finding his size and humoring him by letting him try on half of the boots in the store. He cleaned up after himself without being asked, and Six had a whole bag of snacks, so surely, nobody is that stupid to get close to a child that still had blood on her teeth and hands?

Huxley is.

The answer is always Huxley.

Fun fact, it is very easy to make a knife out of a pencil if you chew on it enough while fantasizing about eating a sentient gnome.

Also, it makes a fun squishing sound when combined with the lenses of a broken pair of glasses, all being shoved into Huxley's hand and shoulder.

Don't fuck with Six.

And for the love of God, don't try to take her mini wheats.

The knowing look from Mono made Charlie realize that this just might be his life now.

It is his life now. It's his feral demon children, watch as they never grow up due to the immortal cycle of a parallel dimension where Mono grows up to be an extradimensional entity that gets trapped and traps Six in a never-ending loop that is now paused indefinitely.

Yay