#Orin is her own trigger warning

[sky-kiss]

Orin/GN!Durge: Pride (18+)

A/N: Look just. I dunno. There's that fun lil' solo-satisfaction challenge going around but this is NOT tagged for that because no one should be burdened with Orin lol. But like...I thought it'd be a fun character study? So... now this exists. I'm sorry.

Orin/GN!Durge: Look, by Orin Standards this is Tame

Pride drives her to her bloodkin's bed. They are gone again, off to do the slave-lord's bidding. It tears at her. The memory of their last exchange haunts her, heavy like a touch, like lips tracking up her spine, a tongue pressing to the small of her back.

"Off again, is it? You fly from our pasture so often these days. Our sheep whisper, bloodkin." 

They smile, so pretty, so pale, teeth white, white, white—she likes them better flecked with blood, sank deep into the throat of their shared kills. "And what do Bhaal's sheep say?" 

Pride is why she touches herself. Bhaal's Chosen needs reminding. Orin slips beneath their sheets, leaving her scent on them. She winces, fingers dipping between her legs and finding herself dry. She rarely takes pleasure in something so banal, and the touch is such a little thing. Not sweet like a blade, barely anything at all. 

But she thinks, rotates the memory in her mind, and there. Better. 

"That you have made yourself the Tyrant's toy. Bane's Chosen, they say." 

And her bloodkin had laughed at her. Foolish Orin, fool child—always kept in the dark about their plans. Father’s plans. Orin bares her teeth, twisting. The sheets catch about her legs, silk-slippery, too soft, all of it. Hollow thing, empty thing—and the fingers are not enough, no, no. She thinks of the knife again (their knife, and Orin's stomach clenches, a sharp pang of arousal tearing through her), but cannot find the will to move.  The world narrows to a single point: their laugh. It echoes through her damned skull, slips its tendrils into her flesh, and so she slips a finger inside herself. 

Bhaal's Chosen crooks a finger, making her cross the space between them like one of their supplicants.  

Her heart thunders against its cage of bones, threatening to snap them, as her bloodkin's hand settles at the curve of her throat. They press—delicious pressure until the world's edges go black and curl inwards. "Sweet kin…you doubt our Dread Father?" They trace her cheek with their nose, voice like honey, syrupy-thick. Their left hand comes up, fingers curling against her clavicle, scratching, tapping, in time with her heart. 

She swallows, snarling. Tear it free, yes, tear the traitorous thing from her chest. It ought to have beat for Bhaal alone, but it hungered for her Bloodkin's touch. Weak-flesh, pathetic thing. She lifts her hips to press deeper. The moment she breaks from the memory, the pleasure washes back out to sea, and she cannot will it back. Orin thumps her fist against the mattress, turning her face into the pillow as if to suffocate herself with their scent. 

"The Lordling calls you away, and away you run. He bleats, and you turn your ear." 

Bhaal's Chosen ignores her. "Look at you." 

Her bloodkin hums, curling their fingers, breaking her skin. Orin chews the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood. It aches to have them close—like her flesh is too tight. Like it should give way. Heretical thoughts flood her head—they are flawed things. Father made them incomplete. Orin's stomach twists. The answer is to tear them open, yes. Crawl inside, stitch their seams to hers—only then can they be truly whole. 

"Sweet Orin…my gift." 

Orin turns onto her belly, letting instinct wash over her as she sinks further into the memory. Her hand shifts, bones rearranging, stretching, setting until it's their hand. All its familiar calluses, nails sharper, threaten to tear at her insides. Good. Good...oh, it is written, decreed. It is Father Bhaal's will that they should tear one another apart.

"It will be you and I at the end of all things." 

They have whispered this same promise to each other over the years. They will drown the world in blood and carnage. They will build their citadels with its bleached bones and stand amidst the hollowed shells of its corpses. They will kill and kill and kill until it is only them. 

Pleasure swells, and she whimpers, dragging her nails up her belly to cup her breast. She clutches until the flesh gives way. She must imagine it's her bloodkin's nails, taking those few millimeters to press nearer to their heart. 

Orin thinks of the light leaving their eyes, burying her dagger in their heart. Perhaps she will pierce their lungs first, yes—swallow the last of their air…

The changeling shudders, fucking herself harder, gasping at the thought of her kin's knife finding its mark between her ribs. Yes, together. They'll go together, just as promised, just as…

Orin pulls taut, her cry short and clipped. The savageness of her orgasm and its suddenness catches her by surprise, her body clenching on nothing first and then gripping her fingers hard enough to hurt as they press back inside. The longing, the hunger, the emptiness…oh, all these wretched sensations remain…she is never enough to chase these things away. 

It will take more whispers in the dark, more blood, more promises…it will take their lips on her throat and the press of them between her legs as they bask in a fresh kill…

…it will take death, yes. Their blood and flesh mingled. And then Orin will be satisfied. 

[quill-pen]

I have to wonder how Bess would act in regard to actually meeting Orin for the first time, and how that would go.

She’s only heard of his through second hand stories from Connie or TeTe. She also sees articles and news stories about him - this handsome, Dutch-American man with obsidian hair (now graying slightly at the temples), aquiline nose, and uncannily blue eyes. He’s very tall and sleekly dressed with perfect posture with graceful poise. Even his voice is deep and resonate in interviews, and he’s very well-spoken and charismatic. He has every interviewer beaming ear-to-ear after their interview with his wit and humor.

When he arrives in London, man is in full-acting mode with his charms with her.

“Elizabeth Sullivan. My, I’m charmed to finally make your acquaintance. I have heard much about you from my wife. It’s such a joy to find some pleasant company in this abyss of a city, and I believe we can do good by each other.”

AKA, ‘I’ve got a blank check with your name on it for details. Where is she?’

Ooh, the potential was amazing here! So, we did the thing again! I hope it's what you were expecting from all the previews I sent.😉

Spilled Soup

Warnings: mentions of past abuse, mention of addiction, abuse of women, violence, language, blood, looming dread, Orin Spiegler (he's a trigger all on his own), Bess' puns, sickeningly sweet, cute, and sappy couples, one of whom just needs to KISS ALREADY YOU BLOODY DAMN FOOLS

Rated T

~⚔️🌹⚜️🌹⚜️🌹⚜️🌹⚜️🌹⚜️⚔️~

"Well, that's the last of Eddie's potholders sold. Can't believe how they flew out of the stall! Like hotcakes!"

Bess snorted as she reorganized the produce again. "More like hotpads," she remarked, shooting a cheeky smirk her bestie's way.

Connie looked up from their money box with a slightly puzzled expression. For a few moments, her eyebrows were lightly knitted together as she worked through Bess' statement, but then her face lit up with realization. "Oh!" With a beaming grin, she threw back her head in a snorting laugh. "I get it!"

"Sounds like we missed out on something quite amusing," a familiar voice that was smooth and buttery declared.

Both American women looked up from their work to be greeted with the lovely sight of two handsome gentlemen headed towards their market stall. Standing at least a head taller than every other person in the farmer's market, billionaire twins, Ebenezer and Ebenezar Scrooge already made a sight in the little square. Their tailored suits and manicured good looks only added to the entrancing sight.

Bess had heard Connie mention the choice brand for the Twins was "Brioni". That didn't really mean all that much to Bess besides the fact the men wore the suits well and looked breathtakingly sharp. Particularly her dear Wolf, Ebenezar. As it was, with the way the afternoon sun was shining on her favorite twin's silvery locks, making them glint like warm steel slowly melting from his crown towards his shoulders, Bess had to lean against the veggie stand to keep from feeling as though her knees would buckle at the sight.

Great job, Bess, the snarky little voice inside her head cut through her thrall. You just had to pick today to look like a bum. Couldn't even put on a little makeup or pick a shirt that actually fits. At least she'd knotted up her oversized t-shirt around her middle; so it was apparent she had a waist. And the way the overly large neck hole fell down over her shoulder did have a flirty little vibe to it. She hoped. It helped that it had slipped down over her less scarred shoulder. She hoped her Wolf would notice, but it was impossible to tell behind the stylish sunglasses he wore. He was smiling though; that was always a good thing. He was probably smiling at both her and Connie, but Bess liked to think his smile was specifically for her.

Connie beamed towards the men and moved out of the stall's working station. "You did!" she chirped as she sauntered towards Ebenezer. Happily, she slipped a delicate hand into the large, extended one of her beau and let him pull her in for a sweet kiss of greeting. She splayed her free hand over his heart as she leaned into it, slightly popping a heeled foot skyward as she did so.

Bess couldn't help but smile at the couple. The pair had been officially involved for several months now, and it was beyond apparent that they were simply falling ever deeper and deeper into love every day. Bess' heart swelled with joy for Connie. The woman was loving kindness incarnate who deserved a wonderful man who loved her just as much as she loved him. And Ebenezer Samuel Scrooge (or "Adonis" as Bess enjoyed calling him) continued to prove himself as such a man.

Bess flitted her eyes from the lovers back to her handsome Wolf and couldn't help but snort in amusement. Even with his glasses, it was obvious that he was also looking at the pair, as he was grimacing in a cartoonishly disgusted way. As a sibling herself, Bess felt it; she would react the same way if she witnessed any of her siblings snogging (and it would be even more traumatizing for her, as she was the eldest by quite a margin and had helped raise her brothers and sisters from babies).

Her stifled giggle apparently caught the attention of the tall, broad-shouldered billionaire as his head turned just a bit more in her direction and he smiled, perhaps a little sheepishly. Bess' stomach did ecstatic somersaults over that soft little curl of his mouth. She hoped the flush she felt in her face could be played off as working in the summer balminess. And now you look like a damn strawberry--great.

Adonis and Connie parted lips, and the ginger slipped under the lanky man's arm into his side. His arm wrapped easily around her, his hand coming to rest naturally in the curve of her waist, just above her hip. They fit so wonderfully together. "Bess made a rather clever little pun," Connie explained her laughter moments before.

A dramatic groan left Wolf and Bess turned her gaze back upon him, mischief sparkling in her midnight-colored eyes. "And just what are you groaning for, Mister?" she drawled, perching her fists sassily upon her hips. "You didn't even hear it."

Wolf smirked right back at her, matching her playful energy. "I don't need to have heard a pun to know it was rubbish," he remarked. "They're all rubbish by default."

"Hmph. Your attitude is rubbish."

"Well, as a Yank, you would know, wouldn't you?"

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, a certain tea party from long ago comes to mind."

"Oh, puh-lease!"

"And ever since then, you lot have been quite determined to be characterized as snappish and uncouth."

Bess let out a squawk of mock-offense before curling up her fists and moving into a ready position. "Okay, you smarmy Redcoat," she snarled playfully. "Come on--get your dukes up. I'll knock the couth right outta you."

Wolf folded his hands behind his back and stood tall as he took a long step toward the fiesty woman. He chortled teasingly, "And here I thought you were going to say something about rubbishing my face in my words."

Bess shot straight up with a maniacal grin and pointed sharply at the man. "Ah-ha! A pun! I'll convert you yet, Ebenezar Charles Scrooge!"

The Englishman chuckled as he braced an arm against the support pole Bess stood beside and leaned into it. He bowed over Bess' smaller size a bit as he smirked roguishly down into her pretty, freckled face. "I very much doubt it," he chuckled. He removed his shades to expose the playful twinkle in his slate-blue eyes. "But I'll enjoy watching your attempts." The man had the audacity to wink.

It was all Bess could do to not melt into a puddle. The wink, his proximity, his crooked smile, the way a rebellious lock of hair curled down his brow from his slicked-back, lengthening mane, the adorable little creases that formed at the corner of his eyes and around his mouth and nose; it was all almost too overpowering for her pathetically smitten heart. If only she could reach up and take his gorgeous face between her palms and kiss him stupid. But that was completely out of the question, so the young woman silently hoped he would smile at her like that forever instead.

"Far stranger things have happened," Adonis responded to his brother's prior statement. There was a bit of significance in the tone of his voice.

"Well, are you lovely ladies finished for the day?" Adonis quickly moved on, turning his attention to the woman held in the crook of his arm. He smiled dotingly at her, his icy blue eyes sparkling and warm. "I was thinking it might be nice to sweep you off for lunch," he murmured to her.

Connie beamed back just as besottedly. "Oh, that sounds lovely," she agreed. "But I'm afraid we're not quite finished. The market still has another couple hours."

"But it's pretty much over," Bess added. "Business is usually a snail's pace the last hour or so. We might get a little surge near the end, but mostly anybody who was gonna come to the market has been here already. Why don't you go on to lunch, Con? I'll close down the stall."

"Oh, Bess, that's so sweet of you, but I don't want to leave you to finish up alone. That's not fair. And do you remember the last market day? We had a tidal wave of customers in the last 30 minutes that cleared us out. Even with all of us here, we almost couldn't keep up."

"Don't be ridiculous! That was one bizarre market day out of all the ones we've sold at. If it happens again, I'll handle it."

"What about change?" Bess notoriously struggled with counting back change. And with most numbers in general, honestly.

"... I'll just tell people we're taking tips."

"Which is no more than you lovely ladies deserve," Wolf chimed in earnestly, "providing such exemplary produce and unique, quality merchandise at such affordable prices."

Bess smiled at him. Maybe it was silly but hearing such compliments about her produce come from the handsome businessman filled her with a wonderfully ticklish pride. "Precisely. Thank you."

Connie snorted and rolled her cornflower blue eyes in amusement. "Be that as it may," she agreed half-jokingly (Bess really did deserve some extra gratitude for all the diligent time, work, and love she poured into her garden, as far as the redhead was concerned), "I think it's better two people close the stall. Just in case things do get crazy again."

"I'll stay and help her."

The declaration was something of a surprise, and all eyes that turned to Ebenezar displayed it. However, the man didn't even seem to register anyone else's gaze except that of the curly-haired woman. He smiled down at her as she stared up at him in amazement.

"I... Y-You will?" Bess practically croaked. Her throat suddenly felt dry and her tongue clung to the roof of her mouth like it was glued there. Heat flushed throughout her body at the thought of being left alone with her handsome and charismatic muse of a crush. Excitement and existential dread curled around and danced in her stomach.

What if something finally actually happened between them, while they were closing the stall? Maybe they'd reach for something at the same moment and touch hands and there would be that electric spark that was always mentioned in love stories. Then they would meet eyes and realize feelings that had been there all along and the rest would be history. Maybe they'd be working in the back of the stall and keep bumping into each other and surrender to hidden passions with a kiss. Maybe Wolf would declare that he'd had feelings for her all along, that the look she sometimes thought she caught in his eyes was real, and he would ask if she'd be interested in a relationship.

Or maybe, Wolf would see just exactly how stupid she was on the cashbox and when it came to math, and he would just write her off as a complete moron and Bess would never hear from him again: "It's been a pleasure knowing you, Ms. Sullivan, but I'm afraid being around someone so imbecilic could only hamper my own intelligence. In my line of work I can't afford to risk such a thing. Good luck to you and, please, don't seek me out again."

As all scenarios swarmed her mind, Bess wasn't sure whether she felt more like walking on air or crawling into a hole; her stomach decided for her and settled on mildly ill.

"You don't mind staying?" Connie asked, something that was a hint of a smirk curling her painted lips as her gaze flickered between the two.

"Not at all," Ebenezar assured them. "With Bess working the customers and merchandise and me on the moneybox, we'll have everything in order." Almost without thinking, the Englishman reached out and wrapped an arm around Bess' shoulders, tucking her into his side. "Shipshape and Bristol fashion, yes?" He grinned between the two Yanks, eyes lingering on the woman at his side as she continued to stare up at him in awe, the freckles on her face popping through her adorable blush. The grin at play on his lips softened rather significantly as he gazed at Bess. A slight pinkish hue spread across his own cheeks, the cheerful spark in his eyes mellowing into an affectionate warmth. "I'm sure we'll make... quite the team," he murmured so softly he could only have been speaking her.

Somehow, his touch and those words soothed Bess turbulent emotions and quieted her mind. A gentle smile curled her mouth as her eyes softened. Instinctively, she leaned into the man's side, bringing an arm up around his back to anchor herself to him. "I'm sure we will," she agreed quietly. Once again, she felt the overwhelming urge to surge in and kiss him. And, perhaps it was wishful thinking, but she thought she caught a glint of longing flash through the man's eyes as well, perhaps a slight flicker of his gaze from her eyes to her mouth and back again.

A loud throat-clear broke the daze the pair was caught up in and drew their attentions to the couple, both of whom were smirking and sharing knowing looks. But before Wolf and Bess had a chance to inquire about it, Adonis and Connie were taking their leave.

"We'll leave you two to it, then," Ebenezer stated as he led Connie away, his arm still wrapped comfortably around her waist. "We're off."

Connie followed, practically floating on air within his embrace. "Good luck!" she chirped with a small wave. Then she added with a rather suggestive wink, "And have fun!"

Bess and Ebenezar watched after them in some bafflement.

"What was that about?" the Englishman muttered.

The American shook her head as she raised a confused eyebrow. "Search me."

~⚔️🌹⚜️🌹⚜️🌹⚜️🌹⚜️🌹⚜️⚔️~

"Well, it certainly seems as though you did well today, Pet," Michael Pippersnipe commented, his Irish brogue chipper and optimistic as always. The wiry little Irishman formally served as the girls' landlord, but he was truly much more of a friend and surrogate grandfather in many ways, a fact which was currently showcased in how he was helping Bess and Ebenezar pack up the market stall.

"It was a good day," Bess agreed as she carefully packed away the few jars of homemade, canned soups and stews left. Her gaze flitted towards Ebenezar. True to his word, the man had spent the last couple hours by her side, bantering and joking with her as he helped with last-minute sales and yet another final frenzy of late customers right before the market closed down for the day. Now, whistling as he worked, the banker picked up the box of upcycled and thrifted treasures he'd just finished packing and carried it away to pack into the bed of the classic, pine-green farm truck of Pippersnipe's. Catching Bess' gaze as he walked off, her smirked and winked at her.

The woman's speckled cheeks heated with a blush, her plump lips arching into a smitten little smile. Her Wolf was even more of a sight now than his had been at his arrival, blazer and waistcoat discarded, tie loosened, shirt partially unbuttoned with the sleeves rolled back, and suspenders hanging loose from his waist. Bess bit her bottom lip. She could still clearly see each moment he'd disrobed (for lack of a better word) fresh and vivid in her mind; how his shoulders moved, the flex of his muscles, the nimbleness of his fingers as he'd expertly rolled those sleeves back. Couple that all with the grin that hadn't left his face all afternoon, the clear, hearty laugh of his that she'd heard so often for the last two hours, and the way he had interacted with the customers in such a kind and genuine manner, somehow, Bess was now even more infatuated with Ebenezar Scrooge than she'd ever been. And that was a feat.

Yes, Bess thought to herself as she turned her focus back to packing boxes. Butterflies tickled through her insides. It's been a very good day.

"You got that, Pip?" Bess asked, her attention suddenly snapping to Pippersnipe with worry as the little man hefted up a box of leftover produce. While he was quite healthy and spritely for his age, Bess and her friends were always careful to make sure their darling of a landlord didn't try to strain himself. After all, he was a good man that had worked hard to be able to attain his current status and privileges in life, and he deserved to take it easy in his late years. However, much to their (often) terror, the man simply seemed to refuse to slow down.

Pippersnipe just beamed a grin as he walked off. "Needn't worry you lovely head about me, Pet," he assured her without a hint of strain in his voice. "I've got it."

Bess nodded, her nerves for her friend tempering some. Then she focused on her work again; she was going to need some more packing material to fill in all the empty space so the jars didn't clatter around. Luckily, they always brought plenty of extra old newspapers and cloth bits to the market days, just in case of such a need. The young woman slipped into the little tent at the back of the stall that served as their storage area (and, occasionally, a safe place for parents to attend to the needs of their little ones).

Bess was gathering up all the material she thought she might need into another crate when a voice reached her:

"Hello? Anyone here?" It was a man's voice, but that was all Bess really registered in her currently distracted mind.

"I'll be right with you!" Bess called back automatically. "Just a minute!"

By the time Bess had her crate full of newspapers and cloth scraps, a shadow had come over the entrance of the tent and there was a sharp tinkle of shattering glass. Ruined lobster bisque splattered over the cobblestone and Bess' blue, floral-patterned rain boots. Bess gasped and jumped with a start.

"Oh!" the voice from earlier exclaimed, coming from right behind Bess in the tent. "I do so apologize for that. I'm afraid it wasn't wiped down properly; it slipped from my hand." Something in his voice sounded insincere, almost mocking in tone. And now that it was much closer and Bess wasn't distracted by something else, it sounded much more familiar.

A chill settled over Bess as a vehement bitterness ensnared her insides, hardening every last nook and crevice of her being to stone. No. It couldn't be! The woman slowly turned to face the figure behind her and, most unfortunately, found that it could be. And, in fact, was.

A towering, broad-shouldered man filled Bess’ view, his eyes fog-bright even against his otherwise ghostly pallor. A crown of offensively jet-black hair, streaked with a few grays, shimmered like an oiled cap in the London sun. In some ways, very slight ways, there was a resemblance of the Scrooge Twins within him. Unfortunately, aesthetics were only as deep as the similarities went.

Bess went rigid as a statue. How?

“Do you have a moment to chat?” the man asked. Then, he laughed softly at his own jest. “Well, silly me--of course you do.”

Bess barely held back a grimace. Compared to the easy grace that someone like Ebenezar spoke with, every syllable of this man’s cadence was just slightly unsettling. It reminded Bess of trying to play an out-of-tune piano. The whisper of normality was there, but each sound was... off. There was a forced levity to his greeting, like an inexperienced adult trying to make small talk with a frightened child. Or someone they saw as a child, more accurately. The man even stooped over slightly to speak with her, his gaze licking up and down her frame.

Bess fought back a disgusted shiver.

After examining the cuff of his Kiton suit sleeve to make sure that it was unsullied from the accident before, the man flashed her an uncannily white smile. “Are you all by yourself here?” he asked, as if he couldn’t already see she was. He glanced around the booth, humming idly while doing so. “What quaint little offerings and… trinkets. Hm.” He nudged a wicker basket with his toe like it was roadkill in the way of his car. With a shake of the head, he refocused on the woman before him, giving her another look of appraisal.

“…You have an American accent,” he stated. “I heard before--when you told me to wait. Haha. It’s so nice to hear a familiar voice here.”

Bess said nothing, simply continued to stare him down, refusing to tear her eyes from him.

He partially circled her, slinking like a panther as he moved. “What’s your name?” For such a simple question, it sounded so sinister.

Perhaps that was what broke Bess' stupor. "I think you probably know exactly who I am," she finally answered, her voice even and controlled. "Orin Spiegler."

The man paused in his stride, and for a moment Bess thought she caught a glimpse of annoyance cast a pall over his conventionally handsome face. Perhaps it was just in her imagination because barely a blink later, Orin was smiling at her. It was probably supposed to be an amiable smile, but all it did was give Bess the creeps. "You know who I am," he stated.

Bess hoped the tinge of worry she heard in his voice wasn't just wishful thinking. She wanted him nervous of her; afraid he couldn't pull the wool over her eyes and charm his way around her. She wanted him scared. Scared in the same ways he'd made Connie feel for nearly twenty years and then some. "I'm very well aware," she assured him, giving him and up and down with her eyes to be sure he understood the emphasis.

There was a near imperceptible twist of the businessman's mouth. "Ah. I see there's little need for pretense then." His smile straightened out again and he tilted his head just so as he met Bess' gaze directly as if in challenge. "Elizabeth Sullivan."

It sickened the woman to the pit of her stomach to hear her name fall from the lips of this snake of a man. But she stood her ground.

If Orin was waiting for her to have some sort of physical reaction to her name and was disappointed that she hadn't given him any, he hid it well and moved on quickly. "My, I’m charmed to finally make your acquaintance, Elizabeth. I have heard much about you from my wife. It’s such a joy to find some pleasant company in this abyss of a city, and I believe we can do good by each other." He extended a hand, evidently expecting Bess to take it.

"I sincerely doubt that," Bess countered, not even flickering a glance toward the appendage.

"You seem quite certain about that."

"Because I am."

Orin stood silently for a beat, blinking at her as if trying to understand. Or, perhaps, to decipher something. Finally, his thin lips curled into a wiseass smirk and his eyes glinted. "Ah-ha," he chuckled wryly. "Ah, I see. Smart girl, you. Money up front it is." He pulled his hand back, reached into a pocket of his blazer, and whipped out a richly bound checkbook. Pulling out a pen, he clicked it and flipped the checkbook open before scribbling with a bit of a flourish on the muted green paper of the check before ripping it from the binding. "Ah. There we are."

Holding the check between a middle and forefinger, he extended it towards the young woman. "One thousand dollars," he announced. "I'm not sure what the exchange rate of that is here, but it's all yours if you might just help me locate my wife."

Immediate indignation burned through Bess' veins, making her blood hiss a bit in her ears. She was unable to stop her lip twisting into a disgusted sneer and physically recoiled from the offered check. A wry laugh escaped her. "Connie was right: The nerve on you really is something else."

Orin raised a much too perfectly manicured eyebrow. "Pardon me?"

Bess narrowed her eyes at him. "You honestly believe you can pay me off to get to Connie?" she challenged. "After everything I've heard about you and what you did to her? Surely you must know that if you know enough about me to come to my market stall looking for Connie, I know even more about you, considering I've been living with her."

In the back of her mind, Bess knew she was potentially backing herself into a hazardous corner. Orin Spiegler wasn't some typical creep who tried to make time with her at the lounge bar; he was a perilous man with a volatile temperament who didn't hesitate to lock women outside in freezing cold weather in just their night things or throw them down flights of stairs to break their legs. But he was also a pathetic, spineless, slimy son of a bitch--lower than scum. And Bess had been raring to rip into his worthless hide since the moment Connie had recounted how he'd slapped her hard enough to give her a nosebleed on their wedding night.

As far as Bess was concerned, Orin didn't deserve to be feared; he deserved to be beaten into the ground and dragged through the mud. He deserved to have every bit of his rotten existence ripped asunder and utterly ruined. She was more than willing to do the dirtiest work.

That was probably why the way anger flashed in Orin's eyes and his face distorted into a fearsome glower didn't cause her to so much as flinch. However, her hands tightened into fists, and her muscles were already preparing to swing it if she had to. If he wanted to get physical, she would gladly oblige him.

"All right," Orin replied after a moment, taking a deep breath to calm himself though his expression didn't appear any more even-keel. "Fine." He drew the check back and ripped it in about a dozen different ways before dropping the pieces and dusting them from his hands.

Bess' gaze flickered to the soft green pieces, watching them float gently to the cobbles like confetti. That was her mistake.

Quick as lightning, Orin seized a nearby crate by the handle and swung it as hard as he could, catching the distracted young woman in the shoulder and side.

"ACK!" Bess stumbled sideways to trip over several boxes and fall to a heap on the ground. Dazed and trying to get her wind back, she didn't even have enough time to think to react before he was on her, grabbing her by the ponytail and wrenching her up again. All Bess could do was scream in pain and alarm.

"Shut up!" Orin growled viciously. He dragged her around and partially-threw, partially-shoved the young woman out of the tent into the front of the market stall, where she crashed heavily into the table holding the box of soup jars. Both she and it went toppling over, the box spilling its contents to the ground to shatter upon the cobblestones. He stalked after her. "You smart-mouthed little bitch!" he seethed. "You're going to tell me what I want to know, even if I have to beat it out of you!" His hands and fingers flexed as he tried to decide whether to continue the assault open-handed or closed fist. He cast a furtive glance around the courtyard to find that they appeared to be quite alone, so it probably wouldn't matter what he did.

He never got the chance to decide.

Orin's slow, ominous advance and indecision gave Bess enough time to gather herself and get some bearings back. When she did, she was mad--a snorting bull, seeing-red sort of mad. Oh, this jackass was going to learn a thing or two!

Lurching to her feet, the American woman charged headlong into the oncoming man with an enraged yell. She drove all of her considerable weight and size into him, knocking the breath from him, trapping him between strong arms and broad shoulders as she football-tackled him like a linebacker. She caught him at a perfect angle to lift him off his feet and drive him back. Her stepfather would have been fit to burst with pride over how beautifully she carried it out.

"Hhhhaaahhhhh-RAUGH!" Bess drove Orin down into the ground against the hard stones. And then she was on top of him, straddling and pinning him beneath her as she began to draw back her fists and start laying into his face and chest with all her might. Her bare knuckles throbbed from the onslaught and the cobbles painfully dug into and scuffed her knees, but Bess didn't let up for a second. She was much too angry; intent on giving this brute a well-earned taste of his own medicine.

"C'mon!" she screeched, her American accent slipping into a posh, English one as it was prone to do when she was impassioned with rage. "Fight back! Hit me! Hit me, Orin! I dare you! C'mon, I know you like to hit girls! I know you like to beat your wife! C'mon, Spiegler! Hit back! Or can't you handle a woman who actually fights back?! You gutless, ball-less wonder!"

That seemed to stir fury into Orin's soul (or whatever he had in place of one). With a savage roar, the man desperately shot a hand upward, blindly reaching, grabbing for anything he could snag hold of. By some miracle he found purchase on Bess' throat; without a second thought, he squeezed tight as he could, long fingers coiling around to the back of her neck. Then he shoved her to the side with all his might, throwing his weight up and over as they went to end up atop his opponent.

"You... crazy slut!" he puffed, chest and shoulders heaving. "Goddamn you're a hellcat! Gah! Stay still!" The man continued to grapple with the woman as she thrashed and fought beneath him. He tightened his grip on her throat, trying to choke her out, but it wasn't the easiest thing to do one-handed, and his other hand was currently having a fight of its own trying to pin both her hands to the ground. He could not risk those getting free again.

Bess only struggled harder. She glared daggers up at him, her airway too constricted to allow speech but not enough to black her out yet. So long as she was conscious, she would make this a war for the loathsome rat.

Her defiance unsettled Orin. Even pinned beneath him, one of his hands strangling her, she refused to back down, refused to surrender, refused to submit. She's not afraid of me, he realized, and the thought made his blood freeze. Dread settled deep in his gut like an anvil. This wasn't how it was supposed to go!

Desperate to put an end to this... unnatural feminine rebellion, Orin squeezed her neck all the tighter and bashed her head and shoulders into the stones beneath them. "You worthless cow--do as I say!"

Bess winced and let out a croaking groan as she was slammed into the ground. But if her resolute defiance wavered, it was only because of pain; that mutinous flame in her dark eyes blazed obstinately bright. "Fuck... you," she managed to crackle out.

That was when Orin was broadsided, sharply slammed into at the side with such force he could have sworn his ribcage dented in. "Ugh-oof!" The blow was more than enough to knock him away from Bess and send him rolling across the cobblestones.

"Get the hell away from her, you bloody bastard!" a snarling, rather feral voice boomed with fury.

Bess' lungs finally expanded to capacity with a full, unfettered breath; she coughed from the sudden, forceful change. "Wolf!" she rasped in great relief, eyes turned upward to the tall, imposing figure standing over her.

Like a gallant knight of yore, forming a protective wall between her and the savage beast that was her attacker, Ebenezar Scrooge had come to her rescue yet again. His slate-blue gaze, bright and blazing with lividness, bore down on the dark-haired man still trying to collect himself. But even as he kept his eyes on Orin, he turned his attention to his friend. "Are you all right, Bess?" he asked obvious concern for her beneath his otherwise caustic tone. He unfurled a fist and reached a hand down and back toward her.

Bess didn't think twice about sitting up and reaching to take and grip onto the offered appendage. She held his hand close with both of her own, pressing her cheek to the back of it. He probably meant for her to pull herself up with it, but all she wanted at the moment was to hold onto him and feel the security of his presence. "I'm okay," she croaked, absently nuzzling against his knuckles. It was mostly true; she wasn't unscathed but definitely sounded far worse than she actually felt. though she knew there would be some gnarly-looking bruising around her neck later. And perhaps a decent-sized knot on the back of her head too.

Her Wolf squeezed one of her hands into the comforting warmth of his own and Bess watched a bit of the tension seep out of his stance. Still, he kept his eyes on her assailant, ever alert. "What happened, Brightness?"

"It's Orin," Bess informed him breathlessly.

At first the name and significance of it didn't quite register for the billionaire: He'd met a few Orins in his time. But those Orins wouldn't mean anything to Bess. And he certainly wouldn't have found any of them pinning her to the ground next to her farmer's market stall and trying to strangle her.

Then it finally clicked. Ebenezar clutched Bess hand even tighter and stepped closer to and even more in front of her. His glower at the dark-haired man deepened. "Spiegler," he snarled. It wasn't a question.

Having gotten some of her breath back, Bess started to clamber to her feet. Her legs still shook and she clung to her handsome knight for support, leaning heavily into the back of his shoulder as she hugged his arm and continued holding his hand. "H-He's looking for Connie," she wheezed.

Her Wolf just growled, his ribcage rumbling under her touch.

The pair watched as Orin writhed around on the cobbles. When the suited man finally started to rise, Ebenezar pushed Bess to further safety behind him. He was not about to let this bastard lay another hand on the woman he loved!

"You have a nerve, Mr. Spiegler," Scrooge remarked. His usually mellifluous voice rumbled savagely with ominous thunder.

If Orin was surprised that billionaire banker and philanthropist Ebenezar Charles Scrooge was also aware of who he was, he didn't display it. Instead, he tried flashing a rather bloody ingratiating smile at the elder businessman. As if that would get him places. "Ah, you must be one of the Mr. Scrooges," he chuckled before coughing and groaning painfully at the effort. He took a moment to spit some blood from his lips. "Ugh... pardon me. D-Do I have the pleasure of meeting Mr. Ebenezar Scrooge or Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge?"

"The former, and also the Scrooge that's about to put your arse under the plane you arrived on."

Bess snorted as she scowled at Orin over Ebenezar's shoulder. "Why not put him under the dirt? Give me a shovel--he sorry carcass might still be worth decent compost."

There was no mistaking the anger that flashed in Orin's eyes at Bess' comment; the man truly did not handle derision from a woman well at all. However, he tried to hide his true emotions by making another wry chuckle. "I-I can see I've upset you, Mr. Scrooge. Or might I call you "Ebenezar"?"

"You call me anything or say another word at all, and you'll never speak again, you smarmy kissarse," Ebenezar replied. It was both a statement and a threat.

At that comment, a brief shadow of anxiousness came over Orin's swelling, bloodied face. Apparently, his usually potent and influential silver-tongue failing him was something he was used to even less than a woman standing her ground. "I'm afraid we've got off on the wrong foot, Mr. Scrooge," the man implored, a hint of pathetic desperation in his voice. "I can't say as I blame you for your anger, considering how you found the lovely lady and I, but let me assure you, Ms. Sullivan and I--we simply had a misunderstanding. Or rather, she misunderstood me--you know how women are. Hahaha-AHHCK!"

Orin fell to the ground again, partially crumpling in pain and partially being sent there with a resounding thwack! of a hard, wooden cane upon his skull. The dark-haired man clutched at the side of his head, cursing and sucking air sharply through his teeth.

Pippersnipe, wee little man though he was, was standing as tall and square as he could draw himself up to be. The effect was actually rather noteworthy, especially since he also held his cane like a master swordsman, one hand primly folded behind his back. His usually warm and inviting face was set like granite, with hard, ominous lines etched deep in his visage as he glowered at the younger man rolling upon the ground.

"I'm not sure I do know women, as it happens," the Irishman replied, a very dangerous lilt in his smooth brogue. "At least, not as you do. But what I do know, is we don't take very kindly to the disrespect of our ladies around here." With that statement, Pippersnipe drew his cane back and made an expert twist of the handle which unlocked and smoothly released a glinting rapier blade from the shaft. "If I was you, I'd watch my tongue, boy." He threateningly directed the blade in Orin's direction. "Or risk losing it."

Orin stared at Pippersnipe in silence for a moment. Whether he was still reeling from the whap the little man had delivered him, or he was struck dumb with terror at the sight of a real sword blade in his face, no one could tell. But, finally, after a minute or two, the American man seemed to pull himself together a bit. He managed a sneer and a chortle, though both looked and sounded quite nervous. "S-So," he attempted to chuckle condescendingly, "England still settles disagreements with swordplay, hey? How utterly barbaric."

"You're one to speak of barbarism from what I hear," Pippersnipe countered, voice even and soft but somehow bitingly cold and intimidating at the same moment.

"Then you've heard wrong," Orin hissed.

"Have I seen wrong, too?" Bess challenged, unable to keep the rising fury from her voice. For this man to have the nerve to act like he hadn't done all the things he'd done when almost every day she saw the scars left on Connie's body. When she had to help monitor Connie's medication intake to make sure she didn't slip back into the habits of addiction. When she'd had to hold her best friend through the painful tears and panic attacks brought on by chronic pain, withdrawal episodes, unexpected triggers, night terrors!

Orin turned an icy glare on her. "Whatever you think you've seen, you're mistaken," he bit back. "But you women always are."

"That's it!" Seeing red again, Bess flew around Ebenezar and threw herself on top of the dark-haired man again. She managed to get a couple more solid hits into him before she was pulled off and away by strong but gentle arms and hands.

"Bess, enough!" Ebenezar grunted as he hauled her a safe distance away.

Bess struggled in his grip to get back to Orin. "You bastard! You come anywhere near Connie, I'll rip your throat out! You try to touch her, I'll cave in your skull!"

Orin jeered at her. "You think I'm afraid of you, girl?" he chuckled with a bloody sneer.

Bess simply responded with an enraged vocalization that was half-roar, half-growl and violently lunged against Ebenezar's grip. He managed to hold her, but that didn't stop Bess from experiencing the ecstasy of watching Orin's infuriating smirk quickly be replaced with barely hidden terror as he flinched away. Excellent! Now he knew how Connie felt for all those years!

"Control your bitch, Scrooge!" Orin spat, scuttling backwards on the cobbles from her. He probably tried to sound authoritative and angry, but all he managed to sound like was a dog that was all bark and no bite.

"Call her that again, and I'll tear your throat out myself!" Ebenezar warned him, slate-blue eyes driving daggers at the American man.

"You don't seem to be making a very impressive stand, young man," Pippersnipe remarked, voice still calm and collected despite the brawling chaos around him. His rapier blade was lowered to his side now but still poised to be swiftly brought into play at any moment.

Orin let out an affronted, biting laugh as he struggled to finally rise to his feet. "You Brits!" he huffed. "Letting your females walk all over you! Having leprechauns brandish swords in the square! Threatening bodily harm on a poor man visiting your pathetic dump of an island to just try and find his beloved wife!"

Bess screamed in indignation. "Don't you dare call her "beloved"! Not after everything you put her through! Not after you almost killed her! You don't get to call her that!" She lunged again and managed to break away from Ebenezar's grip for a split second before he snatched her back up again.

Orin flinched away, terror he could no longer conceal leaping onto his face. It seemed he did have enough sense to fear the wrath of a fury.

"I don't know how much longer the poor man can hold her," Pippersnipe remarked in almost a mocking tone. "And I have no intentions of trying to hold her off you myself. I'd leave while I had the chance if I were you, son."

Orin's gaze flew to Pippersnipe, and from Pippersnipe to the enraged pair. His eyes flitted between them, taking in each furious visage as they both heaved with hardly restrained wrath. It was clear to see how much it irked him that his plans had gone so wildly different than he'd probably thought. But it was even more clear just how desperately he just wanted to get out of this unexpected scenario alive now.

The man's dark eyes lingered on Bess alone for a long moment. They held gazes, as if trying to peer into each other's souls to find their other's weakness. There was something processing in Orin's eyes behind the overwhelming terror, but it was impossible to decipher before he finally managed to replace his mask of reticent collectedness.

"Very well," he said, voice once again that overly rehearsed, oily, dignified tone he'd introduced himself with. "I can see that we've reached something of an impasse today. I can tell when I'm not wanted, and I'm not one for sticking around where I'm not. I'll go. But don't think this will be the last you all hear from me, because it won't be."

"If you have any self-preservation at all, it had better be," Ebenezar rumbled.

Orin met his scowl with a rather haughty look. "I'm afraid I'm not a man who will be threatened or dictated to, Mr. Scrooge," he stated. "Try to stick me back on a plane and get me out of the country all you want, it won't work. I'm not going anywhere until I have my wife firmly beside me again."

"Over my dead body!" Bess snapped venomously.

Orin's gaze flew back to her, and Bess swore she saw a bit of vengeful fire roar through it. "You know, she's not worth it," he said.

"Says the jackass who probably hired p.i.s to spy on her life here and flew hundreds of miles to try and track her down at a farmer's market to get her back instead of just cutting his losses," Bess retorted.

"You're just an unwanted little girl. You don't understand these things."

"Go jump, you worthless sad-sack!"

"I would take that as my leave," Pippersnipe cut in. The icy gleam in his eyes was now deadly. He drew up his blade and fingered the point as if testing the sharpness.

"Wouldn't want to overstay your welcome any more than you have," Ebenezar agreed.

Orin looked around at each of them again, gazing at them all with some level of disbelief. Again, his eyes lingered longest on Bess and the young woman could have sworn she saw something like a silent vow lock into place inside his slimy skull. Admittedly it unsettled her, made her gut feel uneasy, but she refused to hold an ounce of fear concerning this scumbag.

"Well," the dark-haired man finally said. "I'll be taking my leave then." He couldn't seem to help the slight smirk that caught up a corner of his mouth as he met Bess' gaze again. "Give Constance my regards."

Bess glowered savagely at him, letting out a snort like an angry fighting bull.

Orin chuckled, daring to shoot an infuriating wink at her. Then he finally turned and limped away.

When he'd finally disappeared from sight behind a line of hedges, the tension in the area eased off; the group let go a collective breath of relief. Relief for the time being anyway. Things had just gotten more than a bit complicated with the arrival of the infamous American businessman.

Without warning, Bess found herself manually spun around and facing a rather concerned-looking Ebenezar.

"Bess, are you all right?" the tall man hastily inquired. "How badly did he hurt you? Is anything painful?" As he interrogated her, his slate-blue eyes were racing over her, examining her, taking note of every bump, bruise, and scratch. When his gaze lowered to her neck, it stayed there locked onto the finger-shaped bruising that was already beginning to form around the soft column of her throat. Anger and agony both shone in his eyes, and he lifted a hand to run his own fingers ever-so tenderly along the discolored marks.

Bess felt both touched and guilty; touched that he was so worried for her wellbeing, guilty that she was, in fact, worrying him. Unable to help herself, she reached up and cupped one of his sculpted cheeks in her palm. "I'm all right," she assured him. She didn't sound like it; her voice sounded rather crackly and soft, probably from both the attempted strangulation and the barking she'd done at Orin.

Obviously, her Wolf wasn't all that convinced. "Don't lie to me, Elizabeth." Oh, her given name--he was worried. "Please. If you need to go to a hospital-"

She silenced him with another hand gently covering his lips. "Wolf. I don't. Trust me, I'm okay. I sound a lot more rough than I feel, honest. I am a little sore, probably gonna have to ice and wrap my knuckles, and I'm gonna have a bump on the back of my head, but I'm okay." Without realizing, she let her hand fall from his lips to rest flat over his heart as if trying to physically soothe his worries with her touch.

One of his massive hands automatically drifted to cover hers upon his chest, pressing it closer. "You're certain? It's just... when I saw you on the ground... the way he was holding you down..." he trailed off with a pained sigh, guilt taking hold of his handsome face and lodging itself in every crease.

"I'm so sorry, Brightness," he murmured, bringing his hand from her throat up to smooth some curly fringe back from her face before holding her jaw. "I should have been beside you. I should have hurried back from the truck sooner. If I had-"

Bess quickly cut him off, taking his face between both of her scuffed and bloody hands, her expression firm but not unkind: "Ebenezar, no. You're not doing that: You're not putting any blame on yourself--I won't allow it. The only person at fault for all this just skulked off with his tail between his legs. Orin and Orin only gets all the blame here, okay?"

Wolf didn't look quite convinced. "I still should have come back sooner," he insisted. "He never would have tried to harm you if I'd been here when he arrived."

The woman gave him a small smile. Her hands slipping from his face, she pulled him into a hug, easily shifting closer until she was flush against him when his arms instinctively embraced her in turn. "Hey," she cooed, voice as soft as though she was trying to soothe a hurt, frightened animal. "I'm okay, Wolfy. All right? I promise. I'll let you take me to a clinic to get checked over if it makes you feel better, but I swear I'm okay. I've had way worse than this, remember."

Ebenezar's eyes drifted from hers to her left shoulder now poking out through her shirt's askew neck hole. Without thinking, he let a hand drift up and gently ghost over the textured, slightly shiny, mottled scar of her long-since healed scald burn. Yes. Bess had been through much worse before. But that was why it bothered him so to see her hurt, however minimally, now; she should never have had to endure abuse from another ever again. Especially not when he was here for her now.

Still, her indomitable spirit about it all and her refusal to be sucked under by it was inspiring.

Sighing heavily, the man affectionately smoothed his hand over the young woman's head, trying to tame the untidy curls that had broken free from her loosened ponytail. "Built like a warrior goddess," he remarked with a tiny, wry smile, "and strong as one too."

Bess blushed, her gaze falling sheepishly from his. "I don't know about that," she muttered, gently biting her lip as she smiled, peeking back up at him from beneath her lashes.

A twinge of tenderness struck her as his hand passed over the goose egg forming on the back of her skull; Bess slightly winced, hissing through her teeth. A whisper of "ow" slipped by her lips before she could stop it.

Concern shadowed Ebenezar's face again and he gently prodded at the tender spot, examining the swelling. "Oh, my dear," he sighed sympathetically. Cupping her nape, he gently drew her head forward a bit, bowing his own into her hair to press a soft kiss close to the injury. "My brave Yankee girl."

Bess pressed her face into his chest, smiling against the softness of his shirt. Sore and aware of the looming threat to her soul-sister as she was, it was impossible to not feel safe and secure in her lovely Wolf's hold.

The sound of tinkling glass caused the pair to look towards the overturned table to see Pippersnipe gently nudging at bits of broken jars in puddles of wasted soups and stews with the end of his reunified cane. There was little emotion in the elderly Irishman's face, but his jaw was clenched, the muscles of it steadily working. It was a tick Bess and her friends had come to learn meant the little fellow was contemplating serious business. Fitting, considering who had just dropped into town.

"Pip?" Bess' voice was quiet, tinged with trepidation.

Her landlord and friend looked her way, held her gaze a moment, then looked to the gentleman embracing her. "I'd take her to be seen to, Mr. Scrooge," he stated, voice even and calm. "I'll finish the clean up here then take things back to the cottage."

Ebenezar nodded. "Of course."

"Oh, you don't have to clean up," Bess protested. "I'm fine. I don't need to see-"

"Elizabeth," the banker cut her off, voice firm but not unkind. He gave the Yank a stern look when she turned to him again. "You said you'd let me take you to be examined, so you're going to be examined. I'll hear no more about it. Understand?" He lifted a single, bushy brow, as if challenging her to say anything against him.

Usually Bess would have been annoyed at being told what to do, but with an order like that coming from her Wolf, all she discovered was that she felt warm inside and all over. Warm, protected, and cared for. She couldn't find it in herself to argue with the only other man in existence apart from her step-father to make her feel in such a way so wholly, so, with the tiniest smile, she nodded. Her heart cartwheeled in her chest when Ebenezar's severe, no-nonsense expression softened. Seriously, how could a man be so damn pretty without trying?

"Good girl," Pippersnipe said. Then he shooed them with his cane. "Off with you now. Don't worry here--I have it handled. I'll see you at the cottage later."

Snagging up his suit jacket from the hook on one of the stall's support posts, Wolf wrapped a protective arm around the young woman and gently led her off. "Come on, Brightness. Let's go have you seen to."

Bess much too easily notched herself into his side, slipping an arm around his waist. "You're the boss, Mr. Scrooge," she teased with wink.

The tall man rumbled a chuckle. "Well, it seems your cheek is still intact."

"Well, that's one less thing they'll have to cheek out."

"Ugh."

"Oh, come on, even you have to admit that was a clever one."

"I don't have to admit anything."

"Maybe while we're at the clinic we should see if there's anything they can do to loosen up that humor of yours a bit too."

"I beg your pardon? My sense of humor is excellent."

"And so are my puns."

"Debatable."

Pippersnipe watched after the playfully bickering pair before turning back to again assess the damage around the market stall. His gaze lingered on a dark puddle of Gal's acclaimed Melas Zomos, the ruined black broth slowly oozing over the stones, releasing its thick, unctuous, bloody scent into the air. The pit that has settled in his stomach upon first catching sight of Orin Spiegler only grew. Things weren't just about to become more complicated in London: They were also about to become much more dangerous.

~⚔️🌹⚜️🌹⚜️🌹⚜️🌹⚜️🌹⚜️⚔️~

🎶Dun-dun-DUUUUHHHHHNNNNNNN!!!🎶

[rom-e-o]

So in the spirit of the soon-to-be Christmas season, I was rereading 'Begin Again' and got to the part where Orin's in jail and all that and like-

What do you think Orin's haunt was like? How do you think the Christmas Ghosts + Marley would speak to a man like him? I know Present would probably a lot less jovial with him-

Oh my gosh, you're re-reading "Begin Again"? For the holiday season? That makes me so, so happy. ;;

(I'm currently working on their wedding in-universe, so that is just lovely extra inspo. And Marley would be making an appearance, haha.) Ah, yes. Orin's haunting.

The spirits would be far less kind to him, as would Marley. Past and Marley would be equally brutal. Marley, for all his faults, was not an Orin. Marley might be condemned, but Orin?

Past, taking Connie's form in wax and using her voice, glares daggers at him as they watch the memories. If Scrooge got ping-ponged through dimensions with some whimsy and regret, Orin gets an exclusive trip to his very own Silent Hill with her.

Trigger warnings for abuse, su*cide attempts, SA, violence, drugs, alcohol.

PAST:

They go over everything:

The day Orin's sister, Juliet, left home and told nobody. ("She didn't leave an address for you to write her at. Interesting.")

The day Orin lied on his paperwork to get out of the slums close to Arthur DoGoode, then sees his daughter for the first time. ("Did you know all along what you planned? I wonder.")

The wedding night, when he first hit her and forced her into acts. Then the honeymoon in Switzerland, where he forced himself and friends/colleagues on her. Some paid good money too. This part goes on for hours, hearing her screams and sees her thrashing and tears from a whole new angle as man after man descends upon her. ("That's when she started drinking, because it helped her black out, and took away the pain. No powders yet. Those came later, after you broke her bones. And her dreams for love.")

The Christmas he locked her on the balcony and left her to freeze. ("You said she was sleepwalking. The idiot police believed you, but did your neighbors? Did Connie's mother?")

The Christmas he locked her in a closet when she objected to him swindling with complex financial contracts. ("She was in there the whole holiday. Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Alone in the dark. Thirsty. Trapped.")

The night Connie slit her wrists in the bathtub, and Orin saved her, complaining about all the blood. ("Theresea locked you out of the hospital room. She knew. And Arthur ... did you know he brought a pistol to meet you? He really thought about it, but I bet you never noticed. Too busy feeling invincible. Besides, the idea of dying in prison away from his wife and daughter is what stopped him, not any mercy for you.")

The day of Arthur's funeral. It's a huge event, with hundreds of people gathered. ("More than you'll ever have at yours. You keep checking your watch. You were bored, Spiegler? Or thinking about what you'll ask Connie to make for dinner? ... You know, Arthur never forgive himself for introducing you two.")

The Christmas he shoved her down the stairs of the Astor House, breaking both her legs. He waits fifteen minutes before getting help. She cried for help the whole time. "O-Orin, h-help ..."/"Stop talking! J-Just shut up! I need to think."/"If I don't ... I love you ... Orin."/"Stop talking! Are you deaf? You idiot!" ("You didn't want people to find out. You'd become too bold.")

The trip to the hospital, and the discovery there. ("It was always convenient. You didn't bed her often, but when you did, you weren't careful. Any time she needed a doctor's treatment, you paid them off to ... check. And when it was true, they did their duty before she ever woke up. You thought she didn't know. It's her body. She knew. She would have probably agreed, you know. Any spawn of yours shouldn't exist")

Then, finally, the day she says goodbye. Withdraws money, sneaks out, and throws her wedding ring in the ocean before hiding away in the basement of the boat. ("Does it infuriate you, Spiegler? That she outsmarted you? It shouldn't. She was always smarter than you. With money. With people. Her biggest mistake was actually falling in love with you.")

There is no whimsy in looking at his Past. There are no happy memories. No good times. It's just mistake after mistake. And seeing it all before him ... it makes Orin panic. He never thought he'd have to pay. And Past taking Connie's form, glaring at him as he world literally fractures apart? Reality crashes into him.

PRESENT:

Present? There's no jolly song-and-dance. Orin arrives in his chamber, and finds Present standing amidst towers of food and sweets. But ... all the dishes are wrong.

It's all the foods Orin used to ask Connie to make regularly. Eels in aspic. Tournedos de volaille. Pots of rarebit and bread. Peanut brittle. And it's all rotting.

"You have immaculate timing," Present would tell Orin, his voice booming. "I can not take you anywhere this night - it is New Year's Day, and I am bound to Christmastime in my travels. But the veil is thin. I can show you what happened ... mere days ago."

And Orin sees Constance and Ebenezer. At first, his anger returns. The bitch, he thinks. Then ... he keeps watching. There is no casualness to their movements. Nothing steamy or sexual (well, not in that moment). They don't act like two people having an affair. In fact, it's ... tender, what he sees. Loving.

The couple is standing before a roaring hearth in the otherwise dark mansion, their bodies bathed in firelight. Mr. Scrooge's mansion, Orin notes, with all the tacky yuletide decor. With a saunter that's almost bashful, Ebenezer crosses the room and overturns his hand to her in welcome. Slowly, she accepts it, drifting closer in foolish hope. Then, he leans down and brings their lips together. It's not a frantic brush of contact, but rather, it smolders like a lit ember. Tilting her head slightly, she welcomes the new angle. One strong arm cradles her shoulders while another is slung low around her waist, steadying both of them. He dips her backward, allowing gravity to help deepen their kiss. When they part for air, he grins at her sheepishly. He looks so young, almost boyish, with his blushing cheeks and sparkling eyes. Orin notes that he looks ... besotted. In love. “Merry Christmas, Constance,” he whispers. “I … hope you made some better memories of the holiday this evening.” So, she'd told him. Constance nods. Just as he was about to drift away, she grabs his shoulders to stop him. Not wanting to leave him emotionally abandoned, her lifts her hands to cup his face. She moves so slowly, offering plenty of time for him to move away. He never does. With her fingertips skimming his sideburns, she leans in and kisses the side of his aquiline nose. “Merry Christmas, Ebenezer,” she says. “And, um, yes. I would say I most certainly did.”

He also catches a glimpse of New York. His coworkers. They don't mention him.

The next thing he sees is fire. Endless, hot flames, before the final ghost appears.

YET-TO-COME:

Yet-To-Come would treat him with the same indifference. After all, no matter your status or wealth, death plays no favorites.

He is shown two futures. The first is right after he brings Connie back to New York from London. She doesn't go easily, but he prevails. She's his wife, after all. There's nothing she can do. She knows that.

She fights him at the docks, and finally, in a blaze of fury, he pushes her one last time. She flies off the bridge and crashed into the Hudson, where she drowns and dies. Dead, by his hands, finally.

When Ebenezer arrives in port the next day to find the memorial to her, his pained scream is enough to shake the heavens.

Then the scene changes. The second future. It flickers to Orin's funeral. Not a soul is in attendance.

MARLEY:

For Marley, it's personal. Think about it - he dies, yet finds a way to come back with Three Spirits to make sure his only friend/partner doesn't share the same horrible fate as him. This work provides him with no benefit. No salvation, no do-overs, nothing. The only benefit is saving his partner from the same eternal damnation as him.

An Marley sees Scrooge change. He sees Scrooge become a giving philanthropist. With his help, the "Festive Fund for the Poor" grows too big for tip boxes to contain. He's present for the birth of Harry and Hela's child (specifically, he keeps his nephew from pacing a hole in the floor while she pushes) - he sees his family legacy continue, and sees him holding their baby. He's turned everything around, and in such a short time. Marley is even okay with Cratchit's name replacing his on the doors. They needed new signage anyway, he thinks fondly. Something newer and more in-fashion.

Then, he sees Scrooge find this sad, frail, and frankly kind of pathetic woman in the streets. ("Look at her dress, poor thing. Old boy better buy her something nice.") Interesting, he thinks. He sees them fall in love, and quickly. He saw how he acted with Isabel, and even then, he wasn't so besotted. Plus, she's a perfect clerk, and rounds out the counting house team splendidly.

When he sees Ebenezer embracing happiness and the promise of romance anew with this woman, it feels like they've finally come full-circle. He's going to be okay, Marley thinks. That fills him with all the happiness he could hope toy have in his afterlife.

Then this corrupt, New York businessman barges in and tries to undo everything. To rip it all away. To undo an entire year of growth.

Absolutely not.

"Orin Spiegler, the Spirits and I have only intervened with individuals like you on Christmas. To right wrongs and to help others, as we can. However, your past and future are so vile .... you are the only exception thus far. Our end goal for these lost mortals is usually redemption. However, in your case ... our only hope is change. To cut to the bone to foster regret. Pray that is the worst of it."

Then ... Orin wakes up. Honestly, he contemplates hanging himself in the cell, but what will that do?

Moved by Past and Marley's actions, he asks for the constable. He confesses to everything, but asks for a pen and paper.

He has two letters to write before he goes.

[mythrae]

An Appalling Ally

Summary: Orin the Red reveals to Lord Enver Gortash how she got rid of her competition as Bhaal's Chosen.

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: 18+ (minors do not interact), discussion of graphic depictions of violence, non-consensual, incest, also some light smut

Author's Notes:

Not beta'd so please be kind

Thank you to everyone who read the first part! 🫶🏻🥹✨ love u

Please pay attention to warnings I listed, I know these topics can be very triggering!

Click to read Part One here!

Click to read on AO3 here!

“WHAT IN THE NINE HELLS DID YOU DO TO HER?”

Lord Enver Gortash stood and banged his fists on his wooden desk, knocking over his wine-filled chalice. The deep red liquid bled on the table and spilled to the floor, dripping on the feet of Orin the Red. She stood patiently, a grotesque smile stretched across her face.

She had summoned herself to his study, upsetting his guards as she broke into Wyrm's Crossing late in the evening under the guise of a fan-girl, seeking the soon-to-be Archduke's affections. When he had invited her in, hoping for a little amusement from the halfling, she had transformed in front of him, showing her true self — and her true intentions for gaining an audience with him.

“I told you, Little Tyrant. I simply got rid of her.” She replied with a smirk. “And so I am here to fulfill my duties as Bhaal’s newest chosen, including helping you and Ketheric enslave the Elder Brain with the Crown of Karsus.”

He reached over his desk and grabbed the changeling’s shoulders. “Mythrae has been missing for days, Orin. Where is she?” He shouted at the woman in front of him, his fingernails digging into her pale, marbled skin.

“Now now, no need to get so hasty!” She laughed, shrugging his hands off and flashing her ring of teleportation to him. “If things get too out of hand, I have my grandfather's gift, hm? So let’s try and be more… civil, shall we?”

His face turned to stone as he sat back in his seat. He knew he had to take control of his temper, or the little minx would be out of his grasp. He already detested her, from what Mythrae has spoken of her sister, but actually working with her sounded abhorrent to the Chosen of Bane.

But how else was he going to find his betrothed?

"Speak, Orin. Tell me where she is."

“Oh, but that would be no fun, wouldn’t it?” She asked, placing her hands on the table. “It would be more thrilling for me to show you instead.”

The stench of death and blood filled Gortash’s nostrils as she leaned in close to him, her blackened lips dangerously close to his own. Her eyes, fully white, looked at him like a piece of meat, asking to be devoured by her alone.

Gods, what a truly vile creature.

He waved his hand at her, reclining back in his chair and opening the space between them. “Fine, have it your way. Show me what happened.”

“With pleasure.” She sneered. “I’ll put on quite a show for you, Enver.”

“Don’t call me that.” He nearly spat. “It’s Lord Gortash to you.”

“Whatever you say, Little Lordling.”

Orin's body started to transform, the sound of her bones cracking and skin shifting making Gortash feel uneasy. She was truly a lover of the macabre and grotesque, and loved putting on quite a disgusting show whenever she morphed herself. Before long, he saw she had become a reflection of himself.

"Remember that letter you wrote to her? After the two of you stole the Crown of Karsus?" She asked, his own voice filling his study.

Gortash nodded. Yes, he remembered. It was the last correspondence he had with Mythrae.

"Well, what you had written was very lovely, but I had to make some... changes, you see. Put my own spin on it." His reflection, controlled by Orin herself, paced around his desk as he spoke.

"What did you tell her?"

"There was no way I could get her alone up here," she gestured out to the window behind Gortash, the city still alive so late in the night, "so I told her to meet me — or I guess, you — in the Temple of Bhaal. Oh, and she looked rather ravishing. Of course, she would if she was planning on seeing her betrothed..."

So she knows, he thought to himself, and that's why she's acting this way.

"My dearest kin looked too exquisite, you see," Orin continued, "I just couldn't keep my hands to myself."

The tyrant's stone face quickly changed to one of worry. “What… what did you do to her?”

“Patience, patience, patience, boy!” Orin growled at him, “Now, where was I…”

Enver’s composure with the changeling was wearing thin, his fingers anxiously tapping on his desk while straightening out his back.

“Ah, yes! When I had Mythrae all to myself at the Temple of Bhaal. If only her guard was higher, hm? She wouldn't have been such an easy whore for me."

“You did not…” He started, struggling to find the words he wanted to say.

“Oh, yes I did!” She cut him off before he found his voice. "And you should have heard her cries for help, they were quite lovely!”

He watched as his reflection reached for their head, the sick sound of cracking neck bones pounding against his eardrums, and now his lover stood before him.

“Gortash, no! Please, stop! It hurts!” He heard Mythrae’s voice leaving the changeling's lips.

He could feel his anger boiling through his entire body as the sound of her voice filled his thoughts.

“Enough of this!" He yelled, his tapping fingers now balling into a fist. "Tell me where she is!”

“What, you don’t want to hear more about how you deflowered her?” Orin teased, taking her arms and pushing everything off of Gortash's desk. She laid her body — Mythrae's body — on top of it, lying back like she was relaxing in a field of flowers.

“How I plucked all her petals using your body, like a child to a daisy," she reached up and pulled at the air with her fingers, "pluck, pluck, pluck, until I made a mess of her? The audience truly loved the show!"

"I wish to hear of no such horrendous things. I only want to know where Mythrae is." He repeated his request, doing all that he could to hold back his rage for the Bhaalspawn.

"Oh, if only you could have seen her face, Gortash." She drabbled on, ignoring him. "The look of betrayal she gave me when I had her trapped on Bhaal's altar, how her face contorted in pain when I first ent-"

"What happened to her? Out with it!"

“And when I could use her no more, after she was spent," Orin pulled out a short sword, tainted dark red, "I took my very favorite blade, and sliced her head right open!”

Gortash froze in his seat, processing the words she spoke.

Did Orin... kill her?

"Oh, and her blood was so warm as I felt it spill out of her skull. Delicious indeed. A moment I will cherish with my very favorite blood-kin!"

He still was at a complete loss for words, staring at Mythrae's form lying in front of him.

"... though it is a shame, really." She tutted while toying with her blade. "She was no true Chosen if she was able to let you in and distract herself from her real purpose. I will not be as easily swayed, Lord Gortash." Her skin began to shift once more, the changeling back in her original form as she sat up on his desk, spreading her legs wide open for him.

In some grotesque form of seduction, she placed the blade of her short sword in between her legs and rubbed it against her armored mound. Gortash watched as her fingers tightened around the hilt as she moaned dramatically, getting off from the pressure on her arousal, as well as the eyes of the dark haired man watching her.

Vile, wretched woman.

"As if I would ever bed with someone like you." He uttered as he looked away, disgusted at the slightest thought of touching her skin in any sort intimate way.

"I have my ways, Little Tyrant." She hissed in disapproval, turning away from him and sliding her body off his desk. "If I could take your pretty little wife all to myself, I can take you, too."

In that moment, Lord Enver Gortash lost all control.

“Fuck you, Orin." His words were filled with poison, "You are no true Chosen of Bhaal. You’re an imposter!”

“Angry, are we?" Orin laughed, licking the essence of her arousal off her blade. "Be careful now, for we need to work together. Unless you think that I should become the Archduchess? You and I would have so much fun together."

In a fit of rage, Gortash reached for chalice on the floor and threw it at the dastardly changeling. Before the glass left his hands, Orin already had her fingers wrapped around her ring, and he heard the glass shattering into pieces against the wall.

With a displeased sigh, he fell back in his chair, still in shock of it all. Being forced to work with Orin the Red. His future as the Archduke potentially at risk. His woman, his love, his equal stolen from him.

He didn’t even know if she was alive, though he assumed if Orin got her hands on her, she was as good as gone.

He filled his head with thoughts of her, in much happier times. The first time he saw her, when he had completely bewitched him by her looks alone. When they kissed for the first time, right in his office. When he first told her that he loved her, the way her eyes sparkled — one red and one grey — as she repeated his words back to him. That night when they looked over Baldur's Gate as he slid the ring on her finger, when she had promised herself to him.

They were supposed to rule together. They were supposed to have a family together. But now, it was as good as gone.

Gortash was not a crying man. Being a politician, he kept most of his emotions locked away. And even then, he never liked to shed tears, for he felt it was a sign of weakness in a man.

Tonight, he cried. Oh, hells, he cried.

Tomorrow, it would be back to business as usual. He had a plan, after all, and although he needed the help of Orin the Red, he intended to follow through. He would not become a failure like so many others before him.

But for now, he wept in his chair as the new moon rose above the city, mourning the loss of his one true love.

[beecreeper]

17, 21, 22, for all 5 of the fellas >:3

Sorry this took so long to answer!

Answers under the cut as usual, with a cw for suicide, grooming, and some of the nastier durge elements.

17.) What is your OC’s greatest failure?

Briar: Letting herself get got by Orin. She should NOT have been so easy to get the jump on

Molli: Hmm I think I would say it’s how she failed to take over her dad’s textile business after he died. She got really overwhelmed by it, especially since she was dealing with grief at the same time, but she also just was not at all suited to running a business. The business quickly started to flounder and she was strong armed into selling it off for way less than it should have been worth.

Ferox: If you asked him pre-tadpole it would be his inability to take himself out of the picture 🙃

Myrala: In her tav au, she spends years in Baldur’s Gate trying and failing to establish a church of Eilistraee. In 15 years of work she’s barely gotten a ramshackle meeting room and a handful of refugees to take care of and she’s constantly struggling to keep even that much afloat.

Poppy: I don’t have a specific instance in mind. She’s certainly prone all manner to classic nat 1 shenanigans, but there’s nothing that like, sticks in her mind as anything more than a misadventure because she rarely has much emotional stake in it. You can’t be a failure if your ambitions never extend beyond winging it :)

21.) What is the worst thing your OC has done?

Okay so. BIG trigger warning for this section. Mentions of grooming, cannibalism, necrophilia,

Briar: Oh man. Oh man. So much. You know durge canonically ate a baby?? But I think one of the worst things she did that isn’t just *gestures vaguely at durge stuff* is when she was back in her circle. Briar had been groomed as a teenager by her high druid but, as Briar aged into her twenties, said high druid started to get more cold and distant towards her. Then a new young elf joined the circle that the high druid turned her attentions on instead and Briar got mad mad mad about it. So Briar framed the new girl as a spy and got her executed by the circle. I call that one particularly bad because it was way more premeditated than can be blamed on her urge alone.

Ferox: Again *gestures vaguely at durge stuff* but one of the worst ones that I know for him specifically is that you know how durge is canonically a necrophile?? Well Ferox first did that with Myrala after he killed her. And since then that particular urge tends to focus itself on drow.

Molli: Molli has never done anything wrong in her entire life thanks for asking.

Myrala: Killing a person during a mugging when she was a teenager in Menzoberranzan. She had steadily been moving up from “petty thief” to “proficient thief” to “gang member”. Less pickpocketing and more robbery. Well, one day things turned bad, she panicked, and she stabbed the person she was robbing in an alleyway. As a cherry on top, even while horrified at her own actions, she still took their stuff before she ran. That whole incident made her rethink the path she was on and led to her eventually turning to Eilistraee.

Poppy: Poppy grew up as a mercenary and has been on some... less than ethical jobs before. I haven’t thought of specific instances on hand, but there have definitely been jobs where it’s like “if you interrogated this for more than a few minutes you’d realize you were in the wrong”. But she’s never done anything that would get her slapped with an “evil” label. Solidly morally grey territory.

22.) What is your OC most guilty about

Myrala: During Myrala’s aforementioned years of struggling to keep her tiny floundering missionary work afloat in Baldur’s Gate, she’s given in to the temptation to turn back to stealing to get by and it tears her apaaaaaart. She feels like it’s spitting in the face of the new life she found in Eilistraee, like she’s no better than the desperate street rat she was in Menzoberranzan. She feels like she’s supposed to be better than this but! It’s just so hard! Every time she even gets *tempted* to steal again she feels like a failure and a hypocrite and The Worst.

Already answered this one for the main three here, but here’s the other two

Poppy: Leaving her family behind. She looooooves her mercenary family but the wanderlust is too strong. She writes them letters constantly.

[unsoundnovel]

#unsoundnovel : oujia tabletop rpgs, the seven seconds of silence between the groans of dialogue as you shuffle through half-a-presses. your pinky ache—the pinching where it holds up the whole world in your phone, the gods’ and google earth’s last atlas. this is not real, this is not real—and that makes it safe, that you can scour the universe with just two thumbs and a handful of buttons. what is delusion, and what is real hurt? the weird kind of fantasy, the weird kind of anxiety dream, you can’t even explain to a therapist.

somehow pretending makes it hurt worse.

it still makes more sense than whatever’s going on on facebook.

carrd. a herbert sherbert (he/they, 25+, white and asian) multi-muse / video game / dnd / gothic writing blog. muses under cut.

general horror / gothic trigger / christian imagery warning. i also write soft things! i am made of multitudes and maxed out mediums.

BALDUR’S GATE / DND ( in order of preference for interaction!)

MINTHARA. bisexual, she/her. 300+. abandoned by lolth, absolutely.

LAE’ZEL. bisexual, she/her. 20+ (time works differently in the astral plane.) // from slaver to slaver. bow down.

ORIN. lesbian, she/her. 20+. // if you do not choose me, i will force your hand and cut off every finger.

LOLTH. bisexual, she/her. older than you could possibly understand. // still researching.

RAPHAEL. bisexual (with heavy m lean), he/they. devils don’t keep track of such things. // hold your applause!

MYSTRA. bisexual, she/they. older than you can comprehend. // still researching.

by request only : shar / ketheric / dame aylin / shippe / sisyphus. / karlach.

DRAGON AGE. (in order of preference for interaction!)

DORIAN. gay, he/him, 30. // does nothing by halves, except to push and pull people away.

ISABELA. bisexual, she/her, 40. // i have big commitment issues, and i often lie.

THE IRON BULL. bisexual, he/him, 45. // what’s better than an ex-cop? an ex-priest. what’s better than an ex-priest? a spy.

by request only: bubbles aka hawke / morrigan.

FINAL FANTASY (in order of preference for interaction!)

BARRET. bisexual, he/him. 35+. // can’t you hear her crying? i feel her. i weep with her.

GLADIO. bisexual, he/him, 22. // one of the best men. the shield, the sword flower.

LULU. bisexual, she/her, 25. // too young to be so old. i wear so many belts to strap me in, and keep me safe from a world that drives too fast and crazy. i am a test track dummy.

FANG. lesbian, she/her, 27. // i tore the sky down, and i’d do it again. anything for her.

ZACK. bisexual, he/him, 22. // haunting the narrative, i am still the hero of your dreams and the undead nightmare of my own.

GENESIS. bisexual, he/him, 27. // theatrical! insane! i perform for the back seats! i perform for god and heaven!

by request: lightning.

OTHER.

LESTAT. bisexual, he/him, haha! // prancing pony on amphetamines.

MARUKI. lesbian, he/him, 32. // god complex, mind control, i can make you happy.

BEATRICE. bisexual, she/her. // tear out its guts.

BATTLER. lesbian, he/him. // incompetent.

[ascianblood]

Eva Lore (FFXIV) - 6/15/23

A dump of lore for my FFXIV au oc Evangeline for my own archival. Not to be mistaken for Alaqa, who is the canonical version of Eva. TRIGGER WARNING FOR: Mentions of mental and physical torment, suicide, and homicide. 

Basic Information: Evageline Kagon (born Alaqa Kagon). 25 years old. Au Ra, Xaela. 4′9.  Alaqa was as any other Kagon tribeswoman, who spent most of her time under the cover of the night hunting beasts for meal and sport. She was very good with blades, but preffered her dual knives over a more traditional spear. She was so remarkable with her blades that the tribe often relied on her to bring back game from hunts and prepare them accordingly. There isn’t much to mention about her childhood or family, but they were stable and very close. She had one older brother, Orin, and two younger brothers, Dei and Dodai. I’ll probably make a more in-depth post about her familial relationships at a later date. 

As she grew older, she started having rather violent nightmares out of nowhere; horrible views of people being ripped to pieces, their flesh torn asunder, as well as vicious screams. She could hardly even stand to sleep, let alone hunt or participate in tribe activities. She found herself feeling isolated and perturbed, anxious that what she was seeing was a premonition of suffering from the Dusk Mother. Her family worried for her, but she refused to elaborate on her sudden changes. Eventually, the terrors became so pronounced that she refused to sleep altogether, for she would wake in a writhing fit, unaware of her surroundings. 

And then came the voices. Rather than the screams she had known, these voices whispered to her in frightened tones, and repeated over and over for her to leave. She couldn’t stand it anymore, so at the break of dawn before the sun could crawl over the Steppe’s hills, she left her home. She knew that she would never be allowed to return, but the voices urged her, almost controlling her. So she fled, as far as her meager feet could take her.  Upon the shores of the Ruby Sea, she stowed away within a Confederate vessel and prayed that Nhaama would release her of her torment. It must have been over two weeks of scavenging within the small confines of the ship when she landed in Limsa Lominsa. Her condition had stabilized since leaving the Steppe, but the voices had been replaced by a burning migraine so heavy she felt as if her whole body was a flaming ember.  She needed money. Badly. So when she arrived in the city proper, she lent her blades to odd causes. The procuring of meats, perhaps bodyguard duty here and there. Sometimes, a hit request; her first real taste in spilling mankind’s blood. Her Lominsan connections grew, and she was forwarded to the Adventurer’s Guild. There, she was officially enrolled, and continued with her tasks until she was approached by Jacke, leader of the Rogues. Dual blades being her specialty, she agreed to join them. It was here that she adopted the name that Jacke gave her, Evangeline, or “angel”. Her membership within the Rogue’s guild ultimately lead her to the Scions as well, where Minfilia promised her aid from her migraines. The story goes as MSQ does, but Eva never truly becomes better. In fact, she becomes more and more unstable the more animals, men, and gods she fights. Every ascian battle left her uncomfortable, but for a reason she could not place. Unknown memories started finding their way into her mind, like lost puzzle pieces. Minfilia never could rid her of her pain, and after her passing, Eva felt as if she had been cheated. Once friendly and outgoing within the Scions, she became colder. She still seemed kind, but on the inside, she was becoming jaded; nihilistic, even. In SB, she truly changed for the worst when Zenos made an appearance. At this point, she had grown an aqquired lust for blood, whether it be man or animals. She needed to kill, and Zenos matched her need with his own. She was beginning to lose sight of reason. It took all of the patience within her not to cut down the very beings she called friends.  And then in ShB, Eva is met face to face with the ascian Emet-Selch when he so kindly introduces himself. It is then that she remembers fully. The Sundering, her relationship with him, and how their beautiful life had turned sour so quickly. She knows she must speak to him, and they do, alone in her chambers of the Pendants. He reveals to her that he had been calling her for years now, hoping she would find her way to him. The Nightmares, the voices, the constant headache, and the memories; all of his design, for he had forced her sundered soul to remember things which she otherwise would have never remembered in the first place. She hated him. Despised him. It mattered not their previous relationship, as loving and gentle as it was. The pain of thousands of years was still fresh within her mind, a gaping wound pried open that she had not had sufficient time to heal, unlike his millennium of recovery. Yet she knew that she still loved him, as vile as he had become, and when he offered her his hand in comaraderie towards the goal of recovering the sundered world, she accepted. All of ShB is spent with the two together, secretly working together in favor of the rejoining. Emet is always with her, but not in view. The only times the Scions know he’s there is when he willingly allows himself to be seen.  Their relationship becomes one of physical desire and lust, but being far beyond the path of reason, also becomes one full of pain. A love and hatred so deep that they know not how to deal with it effectively, leaving only a truly broken reflection of their previous relationship. Emet enjoyed using her like a tool or a toy, and often reveled in the monster she had become. Eva, in turn, grew so restless that she craved for the deaths of anyone she did not care for. There is a constant battle throughout ShB because Eva wishes to slay all of the Scions, but Emet refuses to allow her to do so as it would completely ruin their plan. She even thought about the death of Emet herself. She wanted things to return to how they used to be, but at the same time, she was so far removed from feelings of love. In the end, she figured that the sooner she died and was reborn as her full self, the better.  This continues until the final battle with Hades, where Eva pretends to kill him. No, she does not kill him. She knows she could, but he had become her only source of entertainment, and she knew that their plan would ultimately not fail. She was a rabid dog on a leash, following his command. Elidibus is another story. I’ve not fully thought out why she fells him, but for now, let’s say it was because she cared for noone at this point other than Emet, though she despised him.  In EW, Eva’s story ends with the end of the entire world. Fandaniel’s summoning of Zodiark marks the end of her life. In the original version of this story, I let her and Emet die, but not be returned to their ancient days. I am thinking of allowing the possibility of the rejoining working, and them returning as whole beings with all of the trauma still stockpiled from their previous incarnations.  This is all for now. I really just like to draw them and their ridiculously horrible relationship. 

[rinwellisathing]

You're Awful, I Love You: Part 46

We spend a moment with Orin here, trigger warning for misgendering and also there is definitely some grooming going on...Just Sarevok being generally kind of a piece of shit

Enver Gortash/Trans Male Tiefling Dark Urge

Sentry's siblings kept hard at work in their respective hunting grounds. The Baldur's Mouth was soon brimming with stories of whole families in the upper city falling violently ill of a mysterious hemorrhaging disease from which no healer could save them in time. A horrifying specter haunted Rivington in the night when the fog rolled in, leaving the headless corpses of hapless lovers out on a stroll or a picnic. In the lower city, a shadow stalked the alleys and back roads, leaving the corpses of young woman strewn across the pavement in the early hours of morning. By the docks, bloody stabbings and bodies left arranged in tableaux with odd notes and sometimes, strange disappearances which left no body at all.

Orin did not enjoy competition. Her own slaughter-kin had criticized her art when his rarely if ever honored father, always honoring that Banite filth. She clenched her hands, fingernails digging into the skin as she thought back to a time when Sentry had not been her rival, her enemy. She bit her lip as the memory formed in her head. She had been young, just entering pre-teens, laying on her stomach, hands coated in blood, pressing them to paper on the floor of the temple. Grandfather had entered, flanked by Fel and a tall, thin boy a few years older than Orin. She'd looked up curiously, white eyes focused on the newcomer. He had been spattered in blood and gore and seemed...sad, maybe. “Lady Orin, this strapping young lad is Sentry Ojeda, your elder brother. You'll recall I had been searching for him for some time.” Fel had announced. Orin had noticed Sarevok sneer slightly at the introduction, but was silent for the time being. “Are you...are you making a painting?” Sentry had asked, slowly approaching Orin and kneeling beside her. “It's quite good. Want to paint together? I've got some special paints with me.” He'd fished some crimson vials from his pockets and set them out on the floor. She had smiled at him.

The following year or so, she recalled being close with Sentry, tagging along with him when he would go out to fetch materials. She remembered a blacksmith had leered at Sentry and the boy had simply smirked. “Now, Orin, you see how his teeth glisten? Gold. We can use that for our sculpture work, wouldn't that be fine in our sculpture of father? He loves gold and jewels, yeah?” He'd explained quietly as he'd approached the blacksmith, swaying his hips, letting his tail flick back and forth teasingly, beckoning the man into the shop and discreetly nodding for Orin to follow. She recalled giggling and clapping her hands in delight as Sentry had wrenched the man's jaw open, the sickening crack of his skull separating, how his blood spilled across the floor. She and her brother had knelt in the red puddle and prayed to father reverently before Sentry had handed her a pair of pliers to extract the teeth while he perused the walls of murder implements. When the task was done, he had presented her with two fine stilettos with gold hilts set with rubies. “A present for my favorite assistant.” They had spent the next several days in Sentry's sculpture garden, building a replica of father from bone and flesh, seating him atop a throne of corpses. A throne Orin knew now held a different lord...That pitiful Tyrant.

She remembered visiting grandfather and telling him all of the things she and Sentry had done, the fun they'd had, calling him her favorite slaughter-kin, beloved big brother. But grandfather hadn't smiled, he'd simply given a mirthless laugh.

“You cannot have a 'favorite' sibling, Orin. You know father's will: there is only one chosen, the rest are destined for slaughter.” Sarevok had reminded her with a cruel sneer. “Do you not know what your 'brother' truly is?” Orin had stood silent, looking at her feet. Speaking to grandfather was difficult, she could rarely find her words in his presence. “SHE is Vereena, the breeder. Meant as a vessel to bear unholy assassins for Bhaal. She is beneath you and you must remind her of her place.” Sarevok's voice dripped venom. “But...he is my brother...” Orin started. “No. She is merely a vessel who has convinced herself she is your better....Will you allow this insult?” Sarevok leered down at Orin, his expression filled her with fear. Perhaps if Sentry really was lying to her, if he really did look down upon her... She had to convince herself it was true. The alternative was too painful. Besides, had her own mother not tried to kill her in her bed? Why should Sentry...no...VEREENA be any different? She could not look at the beautiful stilettos in her hands as the thoughts filled her mind. She pushed away their silent side by side prayers on bloodied floors, surrounded by viscera. Their sculptures, their paintings...it all meant nothing. This so called chosen was just another liar waiting to slit her throat to get one step closer to being father's favorite, a place which should he hers by right.

These thoughts blurred through her mind as she stood by the docks, staring out at the sea. She had taken on the form of a half orc woman today, dressed in simple sailor's attire, reddish brown hair pulled into a careless braid to keep it off her tanned face. Several feet away, a vessel was docked and while no one knew it yet, the entire crew was dead, laid out perfectly to symbolize another piece of father's legacy. Sentry had called her art amateur...pedestrian...the art he used to sit by her side and create with her. It confirmed everything grandfather had ever said about him. Unfit to be chosen, an upjumped breeder with delusions of grandeur, refusing to even fulfill that simple task. He'd maimed Jackal, killed him at least once. He refused Sarevok, ignored his summons and denied him. He chose instead to rut with the chosen of father's own sworn enemy. Sharing father's own flesh with a simple Banite. His death would be a blessing, a fine tribute to father. He was poison to the family, a tumor to be excised.

[richardsphere]

My BG3 review

Full disclosure: Havent finished the game yet, currently deeply into act 3 but not yet reached a true ending, Act 1 is good at getting you invested and setting up a solid narrative foundation, but is actually sort-of bad at telling players which characters are playable. I legitimately didnt find the vampire until i wanted to go through the mountains and the game prompted me to grind for EXP lest i get my ass stomped, and was convinced that the druid was a camp-buddy like Withers, Scratch or the Baby Owlbear instead of a full-blown partymember. Also the Tiefling Party is weird? The option to romance characters at that moment felt weirdly early, and it didnt comunicate properly that you'd have the option to say no right now and pursue them later should your character come to like them in the future. So I as a player felt really put on the spot. (I regret making my character pick a romance in that moment. But I did see they could come to like Karlach in the future and didnt want to be locked out of it. In hindsight i regret picking romance) Act 2 is bad at telling you where to go. the Cursed Lands are drab, boring and have little in the way of recognisable landmarks, and the quest to un-curse the land requires you enter a random room in the inn to talk to a stranger unprompted and uninvited. I basically spent act 2 lost as fudge, unaware of anything that was going on and only met any of Throms kids after i finished the questline because the town they live in looked like a generic ghosttown that couldn't possibly have antying more to offer then more generic shadowmonsters. Act 3 is bad, like crumbling under its own weight bad. Questlines are interwoven with eachother in ways that basically force you to quit a quest half-way to get on with the another quest they dont actually tell you where to find. (the Gondians) and so many of the quests feel like sudden timers? (first it's "rig the printing press before tonight or be slandered", then its "be quick or Orin kills Zevlor without warning", then it's "You dont know how long you have before Orin kills the Hostage" followed by "defeat the Farslayer in 5 turns or less" and "stage a prisonbreakout in less then a single in-world minute). A lot of the quest objectives in Act 3 feel like annoying time-gimicks. Meanwhile the Act 3 Recruit can only be recruited after going far enough into the sewer to trigger the Hostage, yet refers to the hostage as if they've been allies a long time. Gale refers to Raphaels Contract as a signed thing when I refused to make a contract and just came home from a long day of KILLING HIM IN HELL, and Vos just WONT SPAWN so Lae'zel's questline is actually unfinishable. Act 3 falls apart on a script level as a result of its own attempts at complexity, and makes the world incredibly unbelievable as a result. Act 1 feels like the set-up for a brilliant game, Act 2 feels bad and lost. Act 3 just plain sucks to the point im not certain i'm finishing this game at all. Also tip for Larian: If you do produce some DLC: Please stop hiding your questgivers inside random buildings with closed (but unlocked) doors. Not all players are breaking into every strangers home hoping to beg them for Quests unprompted. I didnt find Marinya in act 3 until I looked up a guide to see if she even makes it there or that I was supposed to find her somewhere in Act 2 and got her killed because i didnt. Meanwhile I couldnt find the Remove The Shadow Curse quest because as far as I can tell from what i read online, starting it involves entering a random hotelroom for seemingly no story-prompted reason at all to speak with a random harper.

[brightbeautifulthings]

Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace

"'What if sometimes there is no choice about what to love? What if the temple comes to Mohammed? What if you just love? without deciding? You just do: you see her and in that instant are lost to sober account-keeping and cannot choose but to love?'"

Year Read: 2014, 2020

Rating: 5/5

Context: It's hard to know where to begin writing a review for this book. I read it for the first time in graduate school in about five weeks (alongside everything else I had to do in grad school, so I don't recommend that), and it basically blew my mind. At the same time, it's hard to imagine tackling it any other way for the first time. Despite its difficulty, there are things obsessive and immersive and, appropriately, even addictive about it. Full immersion might be the only way to read it for the first time, and I obsessed about it for months afterward. Since I'm not on any deadlines, I took it more slowly this time (21 weeks) so I could enjoy the writing and the nuances without the pressure to finish. For my less coherent weekly updates in real time, see my blog posts. Trigger warnings: Everything, everything. Death (on-page), child death, animal death, suicide, suicidal ideation, rape, pedophilia, possible incest, child abuse/abusive households, graphic violence/gore, eye horror, severe injury, drug use, addiction, alcoholism, mental illness, depression, OCD, grief, racism, ableism, transphobia, sexism, inexplicable hostility toward Canadians.

About: If it's difficult to know how to write a review, it's equally hard to describe what Infinite Jest is about. It's about so many things, tennis, addiction, communication (failures), and entertainment among them, but I'll do my best. Beneath all the numerous characters, timelines, and subplots, the main plot is about a film so entertaining that it kills anyone who watches it, robs them of all desire to do anything but watch it until they die, and what a faction of Canadian assassins will do to possess it. The auteur is James Incandenza, a suicide whose son, Hal, is a prodigy at Enfield Tennis Academy. Next door to E.T.A. is Ennet House, a drug rehabilitation center where Don Gately, former thief and Demerol addict, is taking it day by day to stay sober. Though they don't know it, Hal and Gately are connected, and the deadly Entertainment and those who seek it draw their paths closer and closer together.

Thoughts: It's rare to find a book that is actually as smart as it claims to be, but IJ is--certainly much smarter than I am, despite all my attempts to make sense of it. It starts off strong and doesn't let up for several hundred pages, which is a huge achievement all by itself. Wallace excels at writing extremely polished sections that could almost function alone as short stories, and the first chapter is one of my favorites in all fiction. It's reassuring, I think, to start the book off on a strong note, in case we worried we were in for a thousand pages of tedious slog. It can be both, but it's often heartfelt, insightful, and funny as well, and the payoff is well worth the effort. I don’t know how Wallace manages to pack every page with so much meaning. Anybody can put tedious lists in their books or make reading purposely difficult (and I have attitude about writers who do this for no reason), but there’s nothing haphazard about this book, despite its size and varied focus. Everything seems utterly intentional. The conversations are really top-tier; Wallace has a great ear for how people talk, and it's a fascinating look at how communication works and doesn't work.

Thematically, I think the book succeeds on more than any other level, including plot or structure. If we could say this book is "about" anything, we would almost certainly start with the themes and not the plot, which is often secondary to whatever point Wallace is trying to make at the moment. It takes an in-depth looks at things like addiction, depression, loneliness, failed communication, sincerity v. irony, critiques of postmodernism and metafiction (while being very meta itself, at times), and the very specific selfishness of an American culture that insists on freedom even to the point of self-destruction. At times, it feels a little heavy-handed or like it was yanked right out of an intro to philosophy course, but I suppose something in a thousand pages has to be obvious if we're ever going to pick up on it. A lot of these themes resurface in his other work, from "This is Water" and "E Unibus Pluram" to Orin Incandenza's Brief Interview style Q and A (and he would be a perfectly fitting character in that book).

The characters are some of my favorites in literary fiction as well, particularly the Incandenza family and Don Gately, and to a lesser extent Joelle Van Dyne (although Wallace typically doesn’t write female characters very well, and she comes with some issues). Hal and Gately couldn't be more different; Hal excels at everything he's ever done, and Gately has a record that includes accidental homicide on it. Hal is the hero of non-action, since little that happens in the book is engineered by him, while Gately is closer to the more typical hero of action, who defends the undeserving at great cost to himself. Yet their struggles with addiction are similar, and they both manage to be incredibly sympathetic characters. In my opinion, the book is always at its best when we’re with Hal or Gately, but I’m strongly driven by good characters. Despite being dead, James Incandenza's presence is also felt all over the book, from the Entertainment he created to his haunting ETA and sticking beds to the ceiling (probably the weirdest ghost I've ever seen in fiction). He's a tragic character in a book full of tragic characters. The others are too numerous to name, from the other tennis players at ETA and recovering addicts at Enfield, to the various bystanders populating Boston. We get brief glimpses into almost all of them, and while they may not all feel relevant at the time, most are memorable or heart-wrenching or slapstick funny, or all three. It's a book that contains multitudes.

That's not to say it's always on point though, and it isn't. There are a number of very serious problems with representation in this novel, and they're as bad as its detractors claim. A lot of the 90s humor aged very poorly, but that's not an excuse for some of the unabashedly racist depictions of African Americans, the uncharitable descriptions of Steeply's and Poor Tony's cross-dressing, or--however much I love him as a character--the fact that Mario Incandenza’s descriptions are ableist in just about every possible way. Wallace thinks he's capturing "voice" when he's really encouraging harmful stereotypes. The humor of the novel often doesn’t depend at all on these stereotypes and would in fact, be a lot more funny if I wasn’t spending so much energy cringing at it. So many of the little racist and ableist asides could have easily been edited out of the entire novel to make it less offensive. There are also sections where he seems at pains to be as gross as possible for its own sake. There are plenty of things grim or uncomfortable or flat out distasteful about this book, but sometimes the graphic violence kind of jumps out and stabs you in the eye, say, with a railroad spike.

If there are times when I was totally absorbed in the little tragedies of the Incandenza family or Gately's struggles, there are plenty more where it's like pushing something heavy up a hill. No lie, some of it is slogging through tedious minutiae and various experimental writing styles (some more successful and less offensive than others). Wallace has a gift for purposeful tedium; it’s at its peak in The Pale King, but he gives it a nice warm-up round here. The novel is difficult and meant to be, since Wallace maintained that some of the best pleasures are the ones we have to work for, and he's not totally off base. There's something very satisfying about living, for a time, in a book that spans a thousand pages, that demands focus and perseverance, and manages to give back (almost) as much as it takes. The book is always structurally interesting, but it starts to get more complicated toward the end as various characters and plots begin to almost slide into one another. I forgot how frustrating it was to near the end and realize--again--that it wasn't going to wrap up with any kind of satisfaction; the various plots slide, but they don’t meet. I thought if I paid closer attention on a second read that I would pick up more of the plot things I’d missed on my first, but I think the problem is that those answers simply aren’t to be found in the actual text. Of course, they can point us toward various conclusions, and the novel certainly encourages us to speculate and make connections, but I don’t think the actual answers are there.

That brings me to some of my final thoughts, for now. There's no doubt that this is a hugely successful book, and I believe it accomplished exactly what Wallace meant it to do. He jokingly referred to it as a failed entertainment, much the way Jim considered his lethal Entertainment a failure, but I have the sense that Wallace, unlike Jim, failed on purpose. The book purposely pays more attention to structure and theme than it does to plot or character, yet the plot and characters are hugely compelling for what we see of them. Imagine the book it could have been if he had paid equal attention to all of them. Wallace attempted to create a book that people wouldn't want to stop reading. Reaching the end certainly encourages us to begin again, as the first chapter is actually the last in chronology, but that trick only works the first time. By my second read, I realized that starting over wouldn't help me fill in any of those blanks or answer any of my questions, and I was content to let it go. On the one hand, IJ depends upon its structure to tell the story it's telling. On the other, think of the book it could have been if it spent more time telling a story and developing its characters and less time belaboring a point. It's one of the best books I've ever read, and the tragedy is that I think it could have been even better.

[suddenlysomewherethatsgreen]

Sorry!! My bad lol! What do you think Audrey's experiences are with smoking, drinking and the gutter :)

Oh this is an interesting question because it’s not about the show and more about my headcanons. Hmmmm

I don’t think Audrey was a smoker. I know nearly everyone was at the time but she probably wasn’t. Her boyfriends would smoke, Orin was a smoker because he didn’t know it messed up your teeth. But the smell bothered Audrey. She has a keen sense of smell and enjoys nice smells. So she owns a good deal of scented candles, wears perfume, works in a flower shop, and dreams of “the pine sol scented air”. Seymour tried smoking once when he was 12 because he thought it’d make him cool and he coughed his lungs up and had no interest in trying again.

(Trigger warning): Audrey didn’t like drinking but people would buy her drinks anyway, because it would make things easier for them when she let her guard down. Sometimes on dates with Orin when they were drinking, she would take an extra shot or two to make things easier for her too. She loved drinking tea though. Seymour had never tried it before she started working and she sometimes would bring it in and they’d make some. During Grow For Me there’s two cups on Seymour’s table, and that’s why.

Audrey flippin’ HATED The Gutter. I haven’t written much on her experiences there, and I didn’t think anyone wanted me to. Actually, I have been working on Audrey’s life story told in first person for a while now. So that might explore this further. Hopefully you’ll see that published soon. I just have a few kinks.

Once again, these are not facts but the person headcanons of a person who owns Harry Potter pajamas