#Tales Of No One

[thetalesofno-one]

The outsiders meet Ireena within the Kolyanovich home where the corpse of their father lays without rest within the home he died to protect.

This chapter will be out June 5th!

[toyastales]

Crockpot French Dip Sandwiches

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Happy one year anniversary to In Stars and Time!

[britneyshakespeare]

I'm curious about people's levels of familiarity; I intend no judgment or elitism and it's absolutely fine not to be a completionist, btw. I didn't think I would've intended to have read them all at age 25; it just sort of happened that after I passed the halfway point in the middle of 2023, I came out of a reading slump and was motivated to finish. Fwiw I consider myself a hobbyist (I am not involved in academia or professional theater) but I realize that that label is usually attributed to people with less experience.

I also have always loved seeing other bloggers' Shakespeare polls where they put certain plays or characters up against each other, but I'm often left wondering if it's really a 'fair' fight all the time if you're putting up something like Hamlet or Twelfth Night against one of the more obscure works, like the Winter's Tale. It's not a grave affront to vote in those polls if you don't know every play, but I am curious about it.

Please reblog for exposure if you vote; I would appreciate it a lot. Also feel free to elaborate on your own Shakespeare journey in tags, comments, reblogs, because I love to hear about other people's personal relationships to literature.

[demaparbat-hp]

Hiya!! 👋🏼😄 How's it going? Your fashion taste for Zuko in a Modern AU seems to be artsy, or maybe "formal" is the word. That shirt he wore when he gave Sokka romantic song advice looked Versace🧐. Anyway, I was wondering how you came up with it, he always struck me more as the type that didn´t care much about fashion, so I'm curious about other´s opinions and heacanons about it. And do you have any other fashion headcanons for the rest of the GAang? Also, their music tastes. How did you come up with them? Especially Katara's! 😍

Hello! As it happens, I have a lot of Thoughts and Feelings™ about this, so I'm leaving these over here, and the rest of my ramblings down below the cut!

Let us begin with the Gaang, shall we?

SUKI always struck me as that Pretty Girl from the Gym. She is so incredibly fit it isn't even funny. She could kick anyone's ass, and we'd all thank her. She has this casual gym style that somehow always looks glorious on her, as it should! Comfy yet fashionable clothes for a nice workout or a day in town.

Her music tastes are basically any and all power songs from the eighties and nineties. (Eye of the Tiger, anyone?) She also enjoys metal via Toph, and bands like BSB, NSYNC, or Boyz II Men with Katara. My girl has a very eclectic Playlist and we all love her for it.

SOKKA is That Guy™. Loose T-shirts and shorts everywhere he goes, no matter the weather. He's stupidly into fashion but it doesn't show! At all! And everyone teases him about it. His closet is about 90% Cactus Juice merchandise, hence the "it's the quenchiest!" shirt.

His fashion and music tastes are pretty much the same. He loves poetry but isn't really into lyrics. He'll misinterpret just about anything you place in front of him. His Playlist is mostly vibes and tiktok songs he kind of enjoys. He isn't really into music...at least not as much as his sister.

AANG owns exactly one hoodie, one pair of shorts, and one beanie (THE beanie). Oh, and the crocs—don't forget the crocs. Somehow, he's always wearing the exact same outfit. Every. Single. Day. Ancient Gaang lore suggests that the day Aang goes out without his beanie, it's the end of the world.

His Playlist is the poppiest, most bizarre thing ever. Every single song is Happy by Pharrell Williams levels of happy. Yet sometimes, among the bouncy dance-to songs, you'll find the strangest of things... (He does know what Good Day by Twenty One Pilots is about. That's the reason he likes it so much, actually. And it's so weird.)

KATARA is all about sundresses and loose pants. The epitome of comfortable loveliness. Light fabrics in blue shades, careful embroidery, delicate shoes, and little to no accessories—hers is a simple, yet quite adorable, style. She just needs to add more colors to her usual palette...

She is, first and foremost, a Florence + The Machine girl. It's the Dark Goddess of the Sea vibes, to be honest. Florence Welch is her idol and yes, she will fight you about lyrics interpretation, and win. It may not seem like it, but her music tastes are also very varied.

She draws a little from each member of the Gaang, so you'll hear her humming along to Gorillaz (where did you even find out about them, Aang?), The Weeknd (I...don't think this song means what you think it means, Sokka...), and Hozier (Zuko why did you dedicate Talk to me, Zuko WHAT DID YOU MEAN BY THAT).

TOPH...ah, lovely girl. I'll summarise everything about Toph’s fashion sense in two words: comfort and rebellion. Stuffy dresses forced on her by billionaire parents? No thank you! Give her tank tops with loose shirts and short pants. Bandaids shared with Aang, bracelets from Katara, and even piercings she got in tandem with Sokka. Shoes? What even is that?

Something I love about this fandom is our collective agreement that Toph is into the dirtiest, heaviest, most ear-splitting and soul-crushing death metal of all times. Her Playlist is full of the most obscure names to ever exist, and she can and will blast through your walls with the sheer volume of her speaker.

Zuko. ZUKO.

Even in a modern AU my boy must suffer. That being said, I envision Tales from the Couch as—well, exactly what it is: an ATLA modern AU. While there is not a war to fight, and a lot of plot lines are discarded or expanded upon, much about the core story remains the same.

This is my way of saying that Zuko still goes trough his redemption arc, and it reflects on his fashion choices.

The way you described it works perfectly because of one single reason: in this AU, Zuko is an artist. He had to suppress his love for writing and drawing because of his background and the expectations Ozai had for him (taking over the family company), and a very large part of his redemption arc directly affects his relationship with art.

In the Couch equivalent of S1, Zuko has fallen out of Ozai's graces, and is desperate to protect his place in the company and the Kasai household. He's pretending to be someone he isn't and trying to live up to his Father's image of a perfect heir while still being somewhat cut-off financially, and it shows.

He's all about imposing long coats and a semi-formal style, imitating what he knows Azula and Father would respect. He's striking and sharp and dark. But no matter how he dresses or carries himself (that air of cold superiority and arrogance)—it won't help him when he needs it the most.

In S2, Zuko has hit his lowest point. He's officially disinherited and tossed away by his father, and would be out in the streets if it wasn't for Uncle Iroh. He goes from sharp, high-tailored outfits to old second-hand clothes that hang loosely on his frame. He starts smoking and cuts his hair off, forgoing the undercut for the first time in years.

But then...Father accepts him back. When Zuko returns home, it's with respect to his name and a very high position in his father's company. He's finally the perfect Kasai heir, dressed in overly expensive suits and finery, even at home... But Father forbids him from wearing Lu Ten's earring, and Zuko can no longer recognize himself without the familiar glint of gold dancing on his peripheral vision.

When Zuko leaves the Kasai name behind him and goes back to living with Uncle Iroh...he's finally at peace with who he is, and what he wants in this life. The sharp edges aren't gone (they'll always be a part of him, after all), but now they're dulled by looser clothes and softer hairstyles.

He's an artist, and for once in his life, he is determined to pursue his own ambitions. Zuko's outfits may not be designer-made anymore, but he takes what he has and makes himself look like he wants to look, like the person he wants to be.

He doesn't read fashion magazines or keeps up to the latest trends like Azula does. He's just...Zuko. And his newfound confidence makes everything he wears look like it belongs on him.

As for music...well, Ursa raised a literature boy.

He loves lyric-heavy music and natural voices, be they soothing or powerful. Dissecting song meanings and possible interpretations with Katara is one of his favorite parts of the day. They're both very passionate and strong-minded individuals, so it stands to reason that their debates can get quite...heated.

Zuko's Playlist is both incredibly eclectic and somehow very...him. There's a common thread that binds together every song and artist he likes, and he's hilariously unaware of this. To take a look into his Playlist is a higher honor reserved only for those closest to him.

In the wide spectrum of things, it is no wonder that Zuko is, first and foremost, a Hozier man. But though Andrew is his God in all aspects of this life, there's someone else that has had a huge impact on him...

Two someones, actually.

Zuko refuses to tell anyone how he got into Twenty One Pilots, but it's kind of a moot point when the beginning of his obsession is nothing compared to everything that came after. They have just about the right amount of everything that makes Zuko...well, Zuko. The poetic lyrics, the soothing or raging music, the heavy, intensely resonant themes...

Up there, in the second artwork, I placed an album cover behind each period of Zuko's life. The election of these records is intentional, as I feel like their general themes work incredibly well with Zuko's arc and growth.

Blurryface in S1. For the demons within us. For giving a name to our fears and shame.

Trench in S2. For escaping the confined walls of a depression city, and fighting to understand the depths of the map of your mind.

Scaled and Icy in the first half of S3. For returning to places you had left behind. For convincing yourself and everyone around you that you're fine, that you're perfect, even though everything is crumbling inside...

Clancy in S3. For recognizing that you can backslide, that you can have fears and shame and pain—but you're shaping yourself with each step you take. For knowing that seeking help from others is okay. Nobody learns to walk on their own.

(And, in the end, you'll always be better than the person you were yesterday. If only because you're still here. You're still alive. You're still yourself.)

.

Overall, I rambled a bit too much, don't you think?

If you made it all the way down here—thank you so much for reaching out and being interested in this crazy AU! I hope you enjoy these ideas and tell me some of your own ❤️

[bronzeplates]

The weight of your own actions can get heavy...

[trashytracktales]

Omg can you please write some smut with Lando about the FIA gala??? He looks so hot in that suit and I need something about it🥵😭 Maybe after the gala ended and they’re back to their hotel or they fuck while they’re on the plane back to Monaco.

The FIA (Feral Instincts Arise) Awards | LN⁴

💌 REQUESTED by anon ──── I knew there would be requests for this the second I saw Lando on that carpet. Bon appétit 😛

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𐙚 summary ──── It's the 2024 FIA Awards, and Lando and his girlfriend can't help but steal a moment of passion, unable to resist the tension built through teasing touches and glances during such a glamorous night.

𐙚 pairing ──── Lando Norris x she/her reader

𐙚 rating ──── explicit

𐙚 category ──── F/M

𐙚 warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, established relationship, teasing, mild public intimacy, smut, descriptive language, fingering, bathroom sex, swearing.

𐙚 word count ──── 3.2k

𐙚 date ──── Dec. 14, 2024

𐙚 a/n ──── I have nothing to say except that I am absolutely devastated that my role model and inspiration, Michèle Mouton has officially retired from her role as FIA Safety Delegate. I love her so much and will forever be grateful for the representation she provided for women in motorsport throughout the years. In other news, at least everybody looked so fucking hot last night.

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﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

IT WAS PURE torture for her to see him up on that stage from the beginning of the evening. She’d sat in the audience, her heart swelling with pride and gratitude for being able to be by his side during this exciting stage of his life — witnessing his hard work, his wins, and his dreams becoming reality. It's more than she ever imagined.

As she watched him, she realized she wasn't just proud of his accomplishments, but thankful to be the one he comes home to, the one who gets to share these moments that will live forever in both of their memories.

Standing up to cheer for him, as Lando’s name was announced for finishing second in the Drivers’ Championship, was a natural reaction. The applause was loud, a mix of respect and so much admiration for her determined racer boy who had fought tooth and nail all season.

McLaren’s triumph in the Constructors’ Championship only added to the celebration, the team beaming as they ascended the stage to accept their award.

While the room celebrated them, all she could think about was him — her man, standing under the spotlights, looking impossibly handsome in his perfectly tailored black suit and crisp white shirt. He looked perfect, from his styled curls to his sharp jawline and sweet, nervous smile. She felt very conflicted, overwhelmed with pride and love, yet squirming with a different kind of heat every time he looked for her in the audience. The way his dimple appeared when he smiled, the casual confidence in his voice as he gave his speech, and the glint of determination in his eyes as he thanked the team for having faith in him — every bit of it was intoxicating.

Now, at the dinner table, the atmosphere has shifted.

Glasses of champagne catch the glow, sparkling like liquid gold, as conversations hum softly among the elite of the motorsport world.

Lando sits beside her, relaxed in a way only he can manage after such a long, eventful evening. His suit jacket is draped over the back of his chair, his shirt sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal his forearms. He holds a champagne flute in one hand, the other resting lazily on her thigh beneath the table.

She can feel the warmth of his palm on her skin, his fingers flexing ever so slightly. It’s a casual touch — he’s sipping champagne, laughing at something Oscar just said — but the effect it has on her is anything but relaxed. Her heart races every time his thumb brushes against her soft skin, slow and intentional, almost like he knows exactly what he’s doing to her.

Her own glass of champagne sits untouched in front of her, her attention split between the conversation around them and the heat blooming under Lando’s hand. She tries to pay attention, nodding along while Andrea talks about some funny incident that happened in the garage during the last race of the season. But her thoughts keep drifting back to him.

She glances over at Lando, her breath catching at how effortlessly handsome he is, now that he’s more relaxed and in his element. The golden light softens the sharp lines of his face, making him look almost ethereal. But it’s the dimpled smirk that forms as he catches her staring that sends a shiver down her spine.

“Everything okay, gorgeous?” asks Lando, his voice low enough that only she can hear.

She nods, swallowing hard. “Positive. I'm just incredibly proud of you, that's all.”

His smirk widens, his thumb stroking her thigh with more purpose now. “You’ve said that already,” Lando murmurs, leaning in just enough that his breath brushes her ear. “But keep going. I like hearing it,” he adds, pressing his lips to her cheek.

She smiles, looking away, determined not to let him fluster her further.

However, Lando has other plans. His fingers trace unhurried patterns on her inner thigh, edging closer to the hem of her dress. The movement is subtle — nobody at the table would notice — but to her, it feels like her skin is burning. Her breathing gets heavier, and she shifts in her seat instinctively, her legs parting just enough under the table to grant him more access.

“My good girl,” whispers Lando, smiling against her cheek, then turning his attention back to the conversation.

Her heart skips at the quiet praise, and she shoots him a quick, warning glance, her eyes wide with panic.

Lando looks completely unbothered, taking part of the dialogue like he’s the epitome of innocence. The slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips tells a very different story, though. A secret one, that only they know about.

“Stop it,” she whispers through gritted teeth, her voice so low that it’s practically a breath.

Obviously, he doesn’t. If anything, her quiet protest seems to spur him on. The pads of his fingers creep higher, brushing dangerously close to the heat between her legs. She grips the stem of her champagne flute tightly, her knuckles white as she tries to take her first sip of alcohol of the night — at least then she'll have something to blame if anyone asks her why she got so flustered all of a sudden.

“Lando,” she warns, her voice soft but firm.

“Hm?” he hums, his expression completely neutral as he keeps his attention to Oscar, who’s recounting his Turn 1 incident from Abu Dhabi.

She bites her lip, willing herself not to squirm in her seat. She almost can not believe how shameless Lando is, then she remembers all the times he tested her patience when they were in public. At that, her free hand drops to her lap, fingers wrapping around his wrist in an attempt to still his movements. He doesn’t pull away, but he also still doesn’t stop. Instead, his thumb presses a little harder, a constant reminder of his presence.

“You’re squirming, baby,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with amusement. “People are going to notice.”

“Then stop,” she repeats quietly, her tone sharp enough to earn a quick, curious glance from Andrea, who's sitting across from her. She ends up forcing a small smile, nodding, then turning back to Lando.

He chuckles under his breath, leaning in just slightly so his words are for her ears alone. “But we’re having so much fun,” he teases.

Her body betrays her as heat pools low in her belly, and she can’t stop herself from shifting again, her legs spreading a fraction wider. Lando takes full advantage of the movement, his fingers grazing higher until they’re just shy of where she needs him most. She glares at him, her eyes filled with need and her cheeks burning when his fingers slide easily over her lace panties, pressing harder on her warmth. As a response, her body jerks, and she barely suppresses a gasp, her nails digging into his wrist.

“I hate you,” she mutters under her breath, her voice shaky.

His grin returns, and he tilts his head, finally looking at her again. His gaze is dark, heated, and he looks entirely pleased with himself. “No, you don’t,” says Lando, so sure of himself.

It’s a miracle she doesn’t combust on the spot.

Because he's right — she doesn't hate him, she hates the fact that they're in public and she's incredibly turned on, but there's nothing she can do about it.

Finally, she can breathe normally when he withdraws his hand from between her legs, just as casually as he’d started. Her body is still buzzing with the lingering traces of his touch as she places her hand lightly on Lando’s shoulder. Slowly, she rises from her seat, her fingers squeezing just enough to send him a silent message only he’d understand.

At that, Lando’s heart stutters for a beat, his mouth suddenly dry as he watches her glide gracefully toward the bathrooms. The way her dress hugs her curves doesn’t help the growing situation in his pants — it’s like she knows exactly what she’s doing to him, a small punishment for what just happened between them. He tries to act like he's not affected, emptying his glass of champagne while his eyes turn back to the table, but his focus is scattered.

His hand still tingles from touching her under the table, and now he’s left to deal with the knowledge that his teasing had gotten to her.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

Minutes tick by, though they feel like an eternity.

Lando finds himself forcing a laugh at something Oscar says, remembering how impossibly talkative his teammate gets when he has a few drinks on board. He shifts in his seat, trying to mask his growing anticipation, but she’s all he can think about. His fingers drum against his empty glass, the weight of the moment making it almost impossible to sit still.

Then, his phone buzzes inside his pocket, her name lighting up the screen.

He doesn’t need to answer to know it’s just a diversion, and she’s not waiting for a conversation, either — she’s just giving him an out.

Lando clears his throat, “Sorry, I have to take this,” he says, giving the table an apologetic smile, as he pushes back his chair and making his way out of the dining area with purpose.

His heart pounds in his chest as he walks toward the bathroom, careful not to seem too rushed, but acutely aware of the tension building inside his body with each step he takes.

The hallway leading to the bathrooms is quieter, lined with soft, ambient lighting and artwork that screams understated luxury. He takes a turn, his steps slowing as he spots her standing in front of the mirror inside the women's restroom. The space itself is elegant, all marble countertops and gold fixtures, with sleek stalls and huge mirrors.

She’s touching up her lipstick, her purse resting next to her, the subtle curve of her smile betraying the fact that she knows he’s behind her. Lando approaches slowly, his footsteps soft against the polished tile. When he’s close enough, his hands settle on her waist, his touch firm yet familiar as he pulls her closer.

“There you are,” he says, his voice low and full of heat. “Worried about your makeup when it’s just going to smudge off you anyway?”

Her smile turns into a smirk as she meets his gaze in the mirror. “God, you’re the worst,” she teases, her tone light but laced with something more intimate.

Lando chuckles while she turns in his arms. Her hands slide up his chest, her touch lingering as she looks up at him, her eyes dark with intent.

“Are you sure it can’t wait until we get back to the hotel?” asks Lando, even though he already knows the answer, because he knows the look she has painted all over her face very well.

Her lips brush against his cheek in a warm, lingering kiss before her breath tickles his ear. “Baby, that's hours away.”

She intertwines her fingers with his, and leads him to one of the stalls at the end of the bathroom. The space is just as luxurious as the rest of the venue — tall wooden doors that reach from ceiling to floor, polished brass locks, and a sense of privacy that makes it feel more like a secluded room than a bathroom stall. As soon as they step inside, the door locks with a soft click, and every ounce of restraint disappears.

Lando’s lips are on hers instantly, hot and demanding, his hands already traveling to the hem of her dress. There’s no time to waste, with all those people back at the table who could realize at any moment that it is no coincidence that they are both missing at the same time.

His hands slide up her thighs, pushing the fabric of her dress higher until he reaches the thin band of her panties. His fingers slip beneath the lace, tugging them down in one swift motion before his hand returns, sliding between her legs and finding her completely soaked.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his forehead resting against hers as his fingers dip into her heat. “All this from a bit of touching?”

Her breath comes out in a shaky laugh as she clutches his shirt. “No,” she whispers, “All this from watching you on that stage, sitting next to you the entire night, seeing how people were cheering for you — and then from a bit of touching.”

A cocky smirk tugs at Lando’s lips. “That so?” he asks, pressing a finger into her, his pace measured as he stretches her slowly.

She gasps, her head falling back against the door, and he takes the opportunity to kiss her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. A second finger joins the first, curling inside her as his thumb circles her clit, making her see stars.

Her hands, trembling with anticipation, move to his belt, fumbling for a moment before she pushes his pants down just enough to free his hardened cock. Her touch is soft at first, her fingers wrapping around him and stroking slowly, making his jaw clench.

She looks up at him, her lips curving into a teasing smile as she echoes his earlier words. “All this from touching me under the table?”

“Shut up,” he growls, grabbing her thigh and hitching it around his hip. His cock presses against her entrance, teasing her as he slides the tip through her slick folds.

“You shut up, and fuck me already,” she says, her voice thick with desire.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. With one swift thrust, he buries himself inside her, both of them gasping at the full sensation. The stretch is so sweet and perfect, and he pauses for just a moment, letting her adjust before pulling back and thrusting again, harder this time. Her back presses against the door, the cool wood contrasting with the heat of his body as he sets a relentless pace, in and out of her tight pussy. His hands grip her thighs, spreading her wider for him as he drives into her, each movement hungrier than the previous.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Lando groans, his lips brushing against her ear. “Perfectly thight around me, baby. Always so sweet and eager, aren’t you?”

She clings to him, her nails digging into his shoulders as he angles his hips, hitting a spot that has her biting back a cry. “Lan,” she breathes, her voice shaky and full of need, while trying to mimic his rapid movements.

“That’s it,” he encourages her, his voice rough as his fingers dig into her hips. “Let them hear you, baby. Let everybody know how well you take my cock.”

Her head falls on his shoulder as he thrusts deeper, harder, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside her. The tension coils tighter and tighter in her belly, her body trembling as she teeters on the edge.

“Lando, fuck,” she moans wetly into his shoulder, feeling her pussy clenching around his length. “Shit, baby. Yes, don’t stop.”

As he buries himself so deep inside her, Lando realizes that's what he wants to do for the rest of the evening — the rest of his life, as a matter of fact. His lips part as he feels her walls twitching around him, making him — if that's even possible — even harder for her. His breaths come out in spasms, letting out a small cry of pleasure as his chest crashes against hers violently.

Sensing that she’s so close, Lando’s hand ends up slipping between their bodies to rub her clit in time with his thrusts. “Come on, baby. Let me feel you.”

“Are you—oh, fuck,” she tries to speak, but all her thoughts are focused on how good he makes her feel.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lando assures her, “Right behind you, love.”

It only takes a few more thrusts before she shatters around him, her walls clenching hard as her orgasm washes over her. Her moans are muffled against his neck as he continues to fuck her through her release, chasing his own high. His movements grow erratic, sloppier, his grip on her tightening as he finally lets go, spilling into her with a low, guttural moan.

For a moment, they can’t hear anything else except the soft whir of ventilation and their labored breathing. Their bodies stay pressed tightly together as the echoes of their pleasure lingers in the small space.

Her chest heaves against his as she exhales shakily, her lips brushing his neck, then up his jaw in a silent thank you.

Lando smiles, slowly pulling out of her, his cock still hard and sensitive from his release. She shudders at the sudden emptiness, but before she can speak, his hand slips between her thighs again. His fingers slide inside, pushing some of his cum and their mingled release back into her.

“Lando,” she gasps, her body clenching instinctively around his fingers.

His breath falls hot against her skin. “Gotta make sure you feel it all night.”

Her cheeks flush at his words, and she bites her lip, torn between glaring at him and melting into his touch. He strokes her lazily, savoring the way her body responds to him even now.

“Insane behavior, Norris,” she exhales sharply, finally looking up at him.

“My brand,” he smirks back at her. “But what about you, hm?” he asks, his tone soft, but teasing as his eyes rake over her wrecked expression. “Going back knowing you’re filled up so good?”

She rolls her eyes at him, but the heat in her gaze betrays her. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You love it,” he quips, fixing a strand of her hair and then kissing her deeply one last time.

She smiles against his lips, brushing her thumb over his mouth to wipe away the faint smudge of her lipstick. Then, leaning up, she presses a soft kiss to the tip of his nose. “Don’t take too long, champ.”

With that, she exits the stall, glancing once in the mirror to make sure she looks composed, and collecting her purse before heading back to the table.

When she returns to her seat, the conversation flows just as before, no one paying much attention to her absence beyond a polite glance. Her heart pounds in her chest, the sensation of being so intimately connected to Lando still fresh in her mind as she settles into her chair. She picks up her glass of champagne, finishing it in one go, her hands steady despite the warmth still coursing through her body — and the wetness between her legs.

A few minutes later, Lando comes back, his phone pressed to his ear as he pretends to be mid-conversation. His expression is casual, his voice light as he murmurs something unintelligible before slipping his phone back into his pocket and taking his seat.

But as soon as he sits down, Oscar’s eyes narrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

Lando catches the look, frowning slightly as he tilts his head. “What?” he asks silently, his expression confused.

Oscar doesn’t answer, instead he points directly at Lando’s bowtie, which is noticeably crooked.

Lando’s eyes widen as he glances down, and straightens it as casually as he can, his cheeks turning faintly pink.

“It's windy outside,” Lando mutters under his breath, low enough that only Oscar can hear.

His teammate just grins knowingly, leaning back in his chair. “Whatever you say, mate.”

PREVIOUS LN⁴ ONE-SHOT

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© trashy track tales, 2024

[egophiliac]

So.... what are your thoughts on Ace's UM, if you haven't been asked this already?

sneaky magic for the sneakiest boy

no but really, I think it fits him really well! I had thought his UM would probably involve something kinda sleight-of-handy or pickpockety! and I looooved that it made such a nice loop-around back to episode 1. ❤️ I was. kind of half-expecting him to just run out and punch Riddle in the nose again. but instead this time 'twas he who offed the queen's head! it was great! and he did it while stone-cold terrified out of his mind! because Ace is the only remotely normal or well-adjusted person at NRC and therefore the only one who is like "we're going to literally die, this is super effed up". but he did it anyway!!!! I AM SO PROUD

[r-aindr0p]

✨Merry Christmas and happy holidays ✨

Initially meant to draw art of the actual nutcraker tale but I blinked and this happened. Anyway, I'm not good with words but I wish nice winter holidays to you all and a nice day/evening✨ Bonus Idia as the crazy uncle Drosselmeyer scribble under the cut

[yayan-dmenace]

ITS JUST AN INFAANT~~

ITS JUST A BOOOYY~~

Ahem. Epic musical brainrot activated 🤌✨ Nm is so daddy here. But forgot he's a grandpa 🫠

[aline-spice]

Any blocktales fan on tumblr ? maybe ? hiiiii ? :) pretty hatred creature i drew during class

[thetalesofno-one]

Curse of Strahd, Act I: Pt. 1, Ch. V -Shadow Of Barovia-

D&D Campaign Retelling Part 1/6 Chapter 5/5 ~5.1k words Content Warnings: Curse of Strahd typical content, Read at own risk

Summary Free of the deadman's path, the disparate travelers continue on across the misty lands into the shadow of a ruined village. Barovia. Civilization found, and hopefully answers, unknowing that their troubles have only just begun. Read Previous Chapters also available on AO3

Emet stares at the empty ground where the corpse grew its roots the last they passed this tree. The dirt empty and undisturbed, yet the deadman gone. No footsteps scar the mud, no scrabbling prints of some beast come to claim its rotting meal. And yet the body is gone.

He checked for undeath. His god may have forsaken him, but the remnant of that divine power granted to him when he first took his oath never faded even after all that happened. He felt the power, sensed it in his veins like a presence. A doorway he can still open. One his god did not lock and one Emet would have tried to break down if he did. But he hadn’t needed to. When he called on that power, it answered. And that power sensed no undeath when he used it. The body should still be here. 

Evrrot steps widely over the area to not sully any trail, his cognac eyes sharper than bourbon checking for any sign of what happened. Finding none he sinks an accusing glare into Emet.

“I thought you checked this shit.”

“I did.”

“Clearly not well enough.”

Emet’s lip curls in a half snarl and he turns back to the wagon path. The road stretching on, open now as freely as when they first walked it. No trick, no compulsion to continue circling the deadman’s path, no clawing thoughts at the edge of their minds, urging them to try again, try again. So why did the deadman obsessively run himself into exhaustion? Why continue clawing tallies into trees on a path that went nowhere when he must have crossed the wagon trail forty-three times? What made death by exhaustion a better choice than following this road? Or did the road not exist for him? The trail clearly started and ended where this group’s feet first set foot in the misty forest. Perhaps their arrival carved it into the land like a sign post, guiding them somewhere. Or perhaps it only exists for those it’s meant to exist. But then where else would the deadman have come from? 

Roshan clears his throat though it doesn’t clear the tension in the air.

“I am not the smartest man, but surely the man could not have been this dumb,” Roshan says, confirming Emet’s own thoughts, “Forty-three times.”

“Unless something addled his mind.”

“Maybe he thought he had to,” Evie adds. She looks back at the road that started them on this path and then ahead to wherever it might lead. Glancing at the spot where the body once rotted, her eyes flicker to Emet a moment. She’s the one who knew how he checked, so what does it say to her that he failed? That he is a liar? Or his god?

“Maybe the flaming horseman chased him off the wagon road,” Roshan nods as though that is the only possible answer. He points down the wagon trail, “But this is our only path left now.”

Emet wishes he was wrong—certain the others feel the same way by Evie’s wary look down the road and Evrrot’s scowl—but that may have been the deadman’s wish and look where that got him. Perhaps wishes are dangerous things in this place. 

Evie slips the compass from the pouch on her belt again, setting the bronze device in her palm and giving the needle a moment to settle. Her other hand twists the brooch about her neck, unconsciously mimicking the back and forth movement of the red needle still refusing to find North. Roshan twists his feather in a similar fashion, praying to it like a stick of incense and Emet finds himself absently checking the amber shard lashed to the back of his hand, seeking any guidance that led him this far. But the stone remains dark and empty and the compass needle never finds North. It no longer whirs violently beneath the glass at least.

Evrrot glares at them all.

“What do all of you have?” He narrows his eyes, “What are you playing with?” 

Roshan looks up from his feather, “I told you. It is a blessing from my god.”

Evie quickly drops the brooch, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Just my spell casting focus,” Emet lies, though only partially he supposes.

“Got any spells that can get rid of fog?” Evrrot asks sarcastically.

“Afraid not.”

Then what good are you, the tiefling’s expression seems to ask. Evrrot clearly doesn’t believe any of them and other than perhaps Roshan, Emet knows he and Evie are lying. They all saw each other get pulled into the mist by these trinkets. All except Evrrot who seems to have nothing as far as Emet can tell. So why did he follow?

The glares persist, each person daring the other to question their answers in silent challenge. But the standoff is quickly broken as Roshan starts trying to blow away the fog with his breath, the mist only swirling about lightly. 

Evie smiles dangerously and points a finger at the charmer. Magic infuses her words as she whispers, “I can’t dispel the fog either, but does this make it creepier?”

Her tinted lips move, forming words without sound, her finger still pointed sharply at Evrrot like a dagger. Emet hears nothing, the magic of the message spell stealing away her words and giving them solely to Evrrot. The tiefling flinches suddenly. Emet almost laughs thinking the charmer has never been on the receiving end of a message spell when Evrrot grabs his head and winces painfully, roaring.

“What the hells?! Stop it!”

Evie’s eyes flash wide at the outburst, holding up her hands and ending the spells casting.

“Devil boy, what is the matter with you?” Roshan demands, sounding exactly like a father tired of his son’s dramatics.

“She’s casting spells!”

The initial concern on Evie’s face rolls away with her eyes as she gives Evrrot the ‘done with your shit’ expression of an older sibling realizing their kin reacted to a pat on the shoulder like it was a slap to the face, “It was a joke, man. Chill. No one’s ever been hurt by a message spell.”

“Jokes don’t hurt!”

“Hurt? I did the little sneaky message thing—”

“That wasn’t a little message,” Evrrot mocks, “That was the voice of the damned screaming in my head. I don’t know what you did, but stop casting spells on me.”

“Mate, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Look, I’m not very magical, I can send little messages and I can do this,” she lights up her armor again with the deep bluish light.

Evrrot stabs a finger, still rubbing his head, “Watch her.”

“My magic is very bad, basic at best!” Evie continues, snapping her fingers to summon a small burst of green flame. She double takes a glance at the flickering fires dancing atop her pinched fingertips like she’s never seen such a thing before. “And that’s green now for some reason—” 

A dull whispering voice follows the flame, every ripple of the fire like a whisper from beyond. The green flames dance wildly along her chipped painted nails, more erratic than typical arcane flame. Evie stops talking, staring at the small magical fire with wide kohl painted eyes and a genuine expression of horror. Either this is new and she’s not lying or Emet has sorely misjudged who needs to be watched in this group.

“Okay that’s creepy.” Evie snuffs out the flame.

Roshan eyes her warily, “Did you kill someone in your past life?”

“No!”

“Then this place is haunted.”

Evrrot sweeps an angry finger across everyone again, backing up with his body lightly curled in a fighting stance, hand somehow always near a weapon at any given time with a well practiced ease, “We’ll all playing nice now, but I’m watching each of you. And if anyone stabs me in the back I will not hesitate.”

“Devil boy,” Roshan sighs, “Take the gnarled branch out of your ass. We have to be together for this, okay?”

Evrrot gives him a derisive snort and twists on his heel, the tiefling storming down the wagon road without another word. 

“Follow me,” Roshan sighs, waving to Evie and Emet like a father herding his unruly children after one threw a tantrum.

“We’re all walking in the same direction!” Evrrot growls ahead, “We’re not all following you.”

“Okay, whatever you say, devil boy.”

Roshan grins mischievously before jogging ahead to catch up with Evrrot and irritate him further. Emet sighs and offers Evie a shrug that says, this is our life now, and follows. The half elf groans behind him. It’s a moment before he hears the sound of her heavy platform boots stomping reluctantly behind.

Emet tries not to look back at her. The whispers of her green flames echo dully in his memory, haunting soliloquies at the edge of his mind. They did sound like the dead. Voices distant and stolen away. Here, but leagues apart. The desperate cries of spirits screaming into your ears, yet the fathom between life and death dulls their screams to a barely heard whisper. Words shouted right into your ears, yet too distant to make out.

He wonders if they cling to her too or if her flames merely gave them voice.

The dark woods fall away like words at the end of a page. The tree line breaking apart and stopping with the sharpness that can only come at the edge of an axe. Nature halted by the hand of civilization. Beyond the edge, the lands arms open wide and stretch across a large sweep of grassy valley. Only a ribbon of river bisects the knolls, cutting through the fabric of the fields. Still gloomy and misty, the fog drifts as low as a blanket across the gentle hills. It pours out from gnarled forest behind them like river water over a dam, thinning to the swirling stream dancing over the whispering fields of tall grass. Above, roiling thunder clouds twist and boil the dark skies, choking out whatever sun must hang above into little more than thin grey light.

Sharp jagged mountains pierce their teeth into the skies beyond the shadow of the vale, evergreen trees spilling down the mountainsides and enclosing this valley between sharp stone and needled trees. Snowcaps bleach the jagged grey edges of the stone teeth towering imperiously over the land, the vale swallowed in the maw of some godsbeast. 

And yet it is still a far more welcome sight than the forest behind.

Ahead, sickly yellow grasses and farmland sway in the ever shifting tides of mist and wind, wrapping around the sharp edges of some small settlement hunkered down in the trough of the valley. The pale river cuts past the settlement, the winter blue ribbon reflecting the roiling sky in its crystalline waters. 

And looming high above the settlement, perched at the edge of a sheer mountain cliff, a dark twisted castle, all spires and stone spines sitting alone in silent oppressive watch. A stone beast haunting the cliff’s edge, the village below its hapless prey. A thread of lightning cuts across the dark skies in a flash, casting the keep in sharp shadow and violent light before a sudden swell of thick fog sweeps across the vale in a wave, concealing both castle and settlement from view.

But at least they know that it is there. 

“That place looks pretty nice,” Roshan comments wryly.

Evrrot scoffs, “Yeah compared to here.”

Roshan claps his hands together, “We can all rest up and have a good night’s sleep. And then everyone will be less stressed.”

“Let’s hope it’s not one of those crazy villages where they believe the weather is controlled by sacrifice or some shit,” Evrrot mumbles. “You’d be the first to go.”

“Some gods do like you to sacrifice people, but that is a whole ‘nother thing.” Roshan waves everyone forward, “Come along.”

Emet barely cares where they are going at this point. His stomach stopped its complaining hours ago to settle into a disapproving dull ache and his leaden legs have resigned themselves to swinging forward with each step by momentum alone. It’s only when he stops that Emet feels like he could simply sink into the dirt and never move again. Better to keep trudging along until they find a real bed to rest, lest his body decide the ground is good enough after all. 

He’s not sure how long the others have been on their feet, but more hours have passed since they left the deadman’s trail and he’s guessing they are nearing eight or more hours since the mist swept them into strange lands. He was ready to end the day back in the leaning Daggerford barn, now he is close to collapse. 

The slate grey armor hanging from his shoulders felt like bars of iron back in Daggerford, now they sit like anvils after so many hours. The clothing beneath is soaked entirely between the rain and the sweat, and the black cloak draped over his shoulder hangs as heavy and damp as a wet blanket. If it wasn’t for the constant chill of this place freezing the sodden wear to his skin and the ever present sense of danger prickling at his frayed nerves, Emet would have started drifting off to sleep long ago whether he was on his feet or not.

Evie seems equally exhausted, her arms wrapped around herself and tugging at the short skirt beneath her armor as though she can stretch it out to keep the wind off her exposed legs. She chews at a lip piercing irritatedly, occasionally blowing a strand of fallen hair from her face with a huff. 

Evrrot seems warm however, that charcoal scented leather long coat of his keeping his clothing suitably dry and warm in this winter breeze. Emet wonders absently if his infernal blood warms him as well or if that’s only a rumor. He’s known a few tiefling in his long life, but mostly as clients. Never well enough to venture such a question. And he certainly won’t ask this man lest he give him the fire he needs for warmth through irritation alone.

Misery keeps their company and exhaustion their silence. Only Roshan clings obnoxiously to every fragment of hope this gloomy place spits at them. Where the old man gets his vitality, Emet will never know. The old human looks as weathered as old leather draped in scratchy white cloth—now soaked—but somehow his every step bounces with a spring in it and that near constant smile of his curls up the edges of his salted beard as reliably as the sun rises each day.

Evrrot glares at the old man every few paces with the irritated hatred born from a day that’s gone on for too long and Evie lets slip a small smirk when she thinks no one is looking, but Emet finds his mind drifting to Azem. Roshan’s bouncing gate reminds Emet of the sun elf every time they had set out together on a journey. No matter how long the day or early the morning, Azem always finds a way to brighten it. 

Sun elf and sun god, both so bright.

The muddy wagon path twists ahead of them, rolling across the grassy hills down into small valleys thick with puddles before rippling up again. The land folded and rippled like cloth. And all the while their sodden boots trudge it further still with the hope that the mist doesn’t completely swallow up the village ahead in more than sight. It already devoured their last one after all.

Evie nods toward something off the road, not daring to unwrap the warmth of her arms from around herself to point. “What’s that?” 

All heads swing to where she stares off the trail into the strange mist and the veil of it thins briefly to see a dark weathered stone atop a small knoll.

“Maybe it is a mile marker,” Roshan’s voice betrays the tiredness he is hiding better than the rest, “I will go have a look.”

“I’ll join, shouldn’t be splitting up,” Emet says, not wanting to stand still.

Evie shakes her head, “Don’t worry about it, we should keep going.”

“It is barely 20ft feet away,��� Roshan waves his hand at the stone definitely more than 20ft away, “We will be fine.”

“I’m getting bad vibes from this place, let’s not go and explore every weird, creepy thing we come across.”

“Yes, let’s definitely go and together.”

Evie frowns, “That’s not what I said.”

Roshan trudges off path, sweeping aside the tall grasses with Emet in tow. Neither Evie nor Evrrot follow. 

Certainly isn’t a mile marker, Emet thinks as they get closer to the dark stone. The stone is slick with rain and soaked through, but rain-darkened words are carved into its rough surface in the common tongue—a good sign. Emet reads the epitaph chiseled into the gravestone. Rose and Thorn, and beneath the inscription the phrase, Lost to the world, Found in Judgement.

“This is a burial proverb of Kelemvor, yes? The God of Death in our Faerûn?” Roshan asks, kneeling beside the stone and brushing away the grasses already grown long around it. Emet notes the grave marker barely looks as though it has weathered a year. Roshan looks up expectantly at the tall moon elf, but Emet keeps his silence hoping the holy man will mistake it for ignorance and not familiarity. 

The holy man shrugs, “I think it is.”

Before departing the holy man offers a brief blessing, his hand marking the symbol not of Kelemvor, but of Lathander. Emet doesn’t quite remember which domain that god embodies, he never was the most devout in his order. Maybe that’s why things ended up the way they did. But then again, Roshan seems to have an abundance of faith and he’s still here in this mess beside Emet. So maybe the answer is that none of the gods care.

Roshan slaps his knees as he stands, breaking Emet out of his thoughts, “All done, thank you for waiting. We should head back now.”

The two trudge back through thick grass and uneven ground to Evie and Evrrot, the half elf and tiefling watching them carefully and impatiently. Evrrot’s horns drip droplets of water past his shoulders, hair more slick than ever in the wet rain and wetter still for them having made him wait as the rain picks up a little heavier. Emet is half surprised the tiefling didn’t simply leave as he’s so fond of threatening at every occasion. 

Evie just stares past them, out to the stone marker, her mohawk nearly flattened and drooping half way to her armored shoulders. She’d dug a ditch in the mud with her platform boots while waiting, chewing on her darkly tinted lips as though she half expected some terrible thing to burst out of the fog and snatch away Emet and Roshan on their way back. Not out of the realm of possibility, unfortunately.

“It was a just tombstone,” Roshan offers as Evie lifts her head expectantly.

“Ah yeah, nothing creepy about a random tombstone in the middle of nowhere,” she comments.

“You never know, this could have been their favorite hill.”

Evrrot uncrosses his arm, “Alright, you’ve had your fun. Follow me.”

“Of course, devil boy” Roshan grins, “We follow you.”

Devil and holy man walk side by side, already having forgotten Emet and Evie in their unspoken competition. Emet shakes his head and is about to follow when he realizes Evie doesn’t move. She stares off at that grave marker, arms crossed across the wet chainmail on her chest. She barely seems to realize half of them have left.

Evie takes a breath and steps forward, but not toward Emet. She determinedly marches for the gravestone alone. Emet nearly follows, wanting to keep anyone from being alone in this place, but something tells him to hold back. 

Platform boots slipping in the thick wet grasses up the knoll’s side, Evie barely realizes she’s gone to the grave marker before she finds herself standing in front of it. It’s not like she wants to be here, just that…she needs to. Or that she should. She doesn’t know anymore. 

Her eyes trail over the stone’s carving catching on the curl and slant of the ‘R’ in Rose and the sweeping ’T’ in Thorn with a prick of familiarity. She shakes her head and rereads the names and that small sense rewrites itself in her mind as coincidence. Found in Judgement. A familiar proverb from a familiar god. One she’s probably read or said a hundred different times in her twenty-something years. 

A snake curls in her stomach reading it. 

She never really knew how she felt about that phase. Evie knows it’s supposed to be a source of comfort, that the bad will get their due and the good will be absolved and find their eternities in their heavens. But at the same time, it feels like a watchful gaze. A reminder that everything you do, every mistake you make, and every person you disappoint becomes another tally in a book made to immortalize your every sin. A permanent record of every failure that you’ll carry forever…

Evie sighs and quickly makes the symbol of Kelemvor.

Duty fulfilled, she wraps her arms back around herself and trudges back through the mud to where that giant shadow waits for her. She narrows her eyes at him, giving him a look that asks Why are you still here, poncy idiot before angrily stomping past him. He keeps pace, not trailing behind as if he actually remembers she doesn’t want him behind her, and they hurry to catch up with the angry tiefling and the endless well of happiness irritating the ever living shit out of ‘devil boy.’ She almost wants to laugh seeing them both still vying to stay ahead of each other, but it catches in her throat and the sound is all too similar to a sob. She bites it back and keeps walking.

Emet keeps to Evie’s hurried pace, careful not to fall behind.

The ever present mist has thankfully not swept away the settlement like a vision, the tall shapes of stone and wood structures looming within the fog, slowly peeking out between the waves. Mud gives way to slick wet cobblestones beneath their feet and for the first time since the barn, Emet doesn’t feel like he’s in a dream.

Dwellings border either side of the main thoroughfare with windows as empty and dark as the dried broken sockets of a skull. No sound to cut the silence, no light to signal life. Emet has lived through conflicts before in the extraordinarily long life granted to those of elven blood, and the buildings here look like those who have suffered much and been afforded little in the aftermath. Crippled things, wood and stone scarred by blade or claw with glass long shattered and replaced by crooked planks of wood, all leaning against another as though the wall beside it is all that keeps it standing. Remove the one and all will crumble.  

Only the flapping of wings fills the streets as a raven swoops toward them from across the way. The little bird settles, perching with a flutter of black feathers atop an errant railing. It fusses with its wings a moment, a curious shade of blue tipping its silken edges before folding them neatly behind its back. It stares at the group expectantly. 

Evie’s eyes light up a moment when she sees it. The blue-tipped raven caws loudly and stomps its little feet before taking off, following the street toward what must be a town square up ahead. Beyond this lane, the buildings open up a bit more with what appears to be a statue of some kind at its center.

“I think it wants us to follow it,” Evie says.

Roshan squints after the raven as though seeking some sign, “It looks like a normal bird.”

“It cawed when it looked at me though. When you look at most birds, they just…” Evie flutters her hands, mimicking wings taking off.

Roshan gives Evie the same look the others have given him whenever he pulls out that feather of his to seek guidance. Seems the only one allowed to have signs from the gods is the holy man. 

The raven perches on a signpost across the town square, too distant to read from here at the edge of the village. None seem eager to take the first step into unfamiliar territory—and ruined territory at that, the buildings abandoned and dark as far as they can tell. But they all know there is no where else to go. 

“Should we be nice to anyone we come across?” Roshan asks.

“Don’t see why not. They’ve not done anything yet,” Emet’s eyes search the darkened windows, the quiet streets, “If they’re even here.”

Roshan studies the grim group. Weary from the days of travel, edges frayed and nerves short, they all wear a mask of misery. Were this a normal town with streets filled with souls, all would avoid them warily with the grim air about them.

“Maybe you should smile, Emet.”

The words slide between Emet’s ribs with a dagger’s edge and drift down his throat like poppy wine. Both numbing and warm and stealing away the pain long enough to feel the heat blood spilling over his ribs and mistake it for comfort. Memory is held in that painful warmth and he doesn’t hear Roshan’s voice, but Azemir’s. A faint smile, hollow and a ghost of what it once was answers and flickers across Emet’s face before the words turn sharp and he feels the dagger behind the wine. The pain of remembered words once spoken dearly by another soul awaiting his return.

The smiles fades as quickly as it appeared, yet none see the blood.

The holy man moves on, unknowing of the bittersweet blade he buried in Emet’s chest. 

“And maybe you should be happy, Evrrot. Angry devils are usually a very bad thing. Evie, you are fine.”

“Do I not come off as a happy person,” Evrrot comments, face as grim as a gravestone.

“Do I not come off as a miserable person?” Evie asks, affronted.

Roshan grins, “No and no.”

“I’m very cheery,” Evrrot glowers.

“Maybe once you’ve had some food in your stomach.”

“That’s probably the first thing you’ve said that’s made any sense.” Evrrot throws caution to the wind once more and strolls down the street, “Let’s go find an inn and see if you’re right.”

Muddy cobblestones scrape beneath their boots, the sound as loud as horse hooves in this eerie silence. If this place is occupied, there should be at least one or two people in the streets, shouldn’t there? Someone fetching the days errands, or a merchant tending their harvest stand, a kid chasing a dog, anything. But no, hollow as a tomb and quiet as the crypt. Only the wind whispering through the broken glass windows gives voice to this dead village. The swift breeze creaks a few half broken signs with rusted wails.

As they near the square, a beam of light briefly breaks through the darkened clouds and casts a pillar of pale white glow upon the statue. Even freed from the prison of clouds, the sun’s light is choked and faded, sapped of all warmth as it falls upon the figure dominating the square. Carved of old stone, the armored man’s shoulders are chipped and cracked from disrepair, matching the destitution of the village it protects. He holds a blade triumphantly aloft in stark contrast to the loss echoed all around him, a heavily booted foot resting atop the severed head of another man. Fangs jut from the severed head’s mouth, the snarling lips curled back with its jaw hung open at a broken angle. A sign of protection for those who live here and a warning to those with ill intent, but one that rings hollow through the empty shell of ruins. 

The metal of the weatherworn plaque at the base carries the green tinge of aged copper. Deep clawing gouges from some beast cut across the words hammered into the surface, but the name is still legible. 

Ismark Antonavich the Great

Burgomaster of Barovia

Bane of Vampires

618-662 BC

BC? That’s not the common dating notation utilized in Faerûn or anywhere that Emet’s heard of. And Barovia is equally an unknown. Granted, the moon elf isn’t the most well traveled, or even the most well read despite his past, but one glance at the others tells him he is not the only one lost as to when or where any of this is.

Roshan is the first to voice their questions, “What is Barovia?”

“What is BC?” Evie asks.

“Oh, is that strange too? I don’t know the actual years, so I don’t know what it is supposed to be.”

Emet and Evie’s eyes settle on the holy man. Not knowing the day or maybe the month is understandable, but the year?

Evrrot remains fixated on the plaque, “Bane of Vampires…”

Roshan lifts a finger, grinning, “That word I do know.”

“Are there vampires here?” Evrrot wonders.

Emet tilts his head to the shrouded skies where the dim light of sun weakly pours through the heaviest of the storm. Its beam sallow and faint as though the skies themselves suffocate their star. Every day a slow and agonizing breath above the land, a single gasp above the night’s waters before it is dragged below each night into stillness.

“If there aren’t then there were,” he answers. 

Evrrot joins him in squinting up at the skies, the thin beam snuffing out at last as a wave of thick clouds rolls overhead, “It’s certainly ideal if this is the weather every day.”

A shrill caw breaks their conversation, the blue-tipped raven shouting its displeasure at being ignored like a lordling demanding attention. The bird stomps its small feet with little clicking sounds as the talons dance along the top of a wooden post jutting out from the side of a building no more remarkable than any of the others. Though its build and size suggests it may indeed be an inn. A wooden sign hangs precariously from the post by a single chain—the other broken and clinking lightly in the wind—is painted with a once vibrantly green vine dripping in what may be blood or wine. The paint half chipped and cracked by the natural fissures in the wood still bears the name. 

The Blood on the Vine Tavern. 

“Hey, look at that.” Evrrot casts a hand toward the sign, “The raven led us to beer.”

Satisfied its message has been received, the regal raven quickly flutters off into the mist. If Emet were a faithful man, he’d call it a sign.

“Seems your prayers were answered,” Emet murmurs as the tiefling makes his way to the double doors.

NOTES

Thanks so much for reading Part 1! I'm going to be taking a brief hiatus to catch up on some writing and notes, but I will be back. Part 2 will be available on April 23rd, hope to see you then

[toyastales]

Cheeseburger tortellini

[westywallowing]

my favorite scene redraw from S5E13: "Migration"

[keeryd]

Has this been done yet?

Anyway, for context: Kim SeokJin is a bts member, and bts got this lil YouTube show where they played games and stuff (which you can watch here if you wanna) and sometimes when they make teams, they name one Kim seokjin for the funsies, and usually the team with that name wins lol, it got luck!

[demaparbat-hp]

Let there be damage ensued and tabloid news in that kind of love.