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there-must-be-a-lock · 4 years ago

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Blood Buzz

Sam x Reader

Word Count: ~1880

Warnings: Smut. Knife play and descriptions of cuts/bleeding. Sam’s high on demon blood and not necessarily in the most healthy headspace, but everything is consensual and steamy af. It’s hot, but I also feel a little guilty for thinking it’s hot, ya know?

A/N: Set between seasons 3 and 4. I made this graphic yesterday and got sorta stuck on the image of Sam + knives, and I was thinking about writing fluff, but then I listened to Bloodbuzz Ohio by the National and... *jazz hands*

“Long time no see, Sam,” she says softly.

She smiles as she lets him in. It’s sweet. She’s sweet. It’s been a while; he forgot how sweet she can be.

Sam’s having second thoughts. She deserves better than him.

They’ve always been so rough with each other that it still surprises him how tender she can be, how beatifically she smiles when he runs his fingers over the bruises, afterward. This is new, though, and he thinks it might push the limits of what she likes. He shouldn’t ask her for this.

It’s not too late to back out. He could ask Ruby. He knows she’d like it.

She’d use it against him, though, with her smirk and her sneer. She’d tell him how fucked-up he is, she’d tell him it’s what he deserves, and that’s too close to the truth right now. He’s not sure he wants to hear it.

He goes to the bathroom, pulls out the flask, takes a long pull. Ruby’ll be back tomorrow; he has plenty to last him until then. It burns a little when he licks his lips. He tucks the flask away and looks at himself in the mirror, baring his teeth to make sure the blood isn’t visible.

Can she see it on him? Does she know that he’s not the same Sam she met two years ago?

His skin is starting to itch. The blood is fizzing as it settles into his veins, like his entire body is starting to wake up, an undercurrent of lust like a hum mixed with a quiet ferocity that has him vibrating with the need to sink his teeth into something. Everything is intensified; the cool air on his skin feels like a caress.

She’s waiting for him on the bed, stretched out unselfconsciously in just a tank top and underwear, and she checks him out with a grin as he pulls his shirt off.

“Lookin’ good,” she comments.

He’s too high for banter.

“I was hoping you could do something for me,” he says quietly, hands in his pockets, fingering the flask in one and the folded jackknife in the other.

She just looks curious. “Yeah?”

He pulls the knife out, unfolding it, eyes catching on the way the wicked edge of it gleams in the low light. He holds it out to her, handle first — trying to breathe steadily — trying not to let her see how much he wants this.

“Me or you?” she asks, barely more than a whisper. She’s staring at him and that’s definitely not fear in her eyes. It’s not fear and it’s not revulsion, even though Sam deserves both.

“Me.”

She nods jerkily and takes the blade. “Sit in the chair for me? I don’t want blood on my sheets.”

He strips down and sits. It’s the chair of her little dressing table, so Sam’s facing the mirror, and his reflection is glassy-eyed and flushed.

He looks almost as fucked up as he feels.

Almost.

She tests the edge of the knife on her fingernail and something about the flash of metal in delicate fingers has his heart pounding. She stands in front of him, between him and the mirror, and if she notices that he’s already half-hard, she doesn’t say anything about it.

He has to look up to meet her eyes, like this, and it’s unsettling.

“Where?” she asks. He shrugs and she presses, “Is there anywhere you don’t want me to cut?”

“Aside from the obvious? Nah. I don’t care.”

She bites her lip at that, something strange flickering over her face, but she doesn’t challenge it.

“Same safe word?”

“Yeah.”

She holds the flat of the knife to his jaw. Sam can feel the cool metal, and he shivers, the thrill of it running down his spine. The way she licks her lips makes him think he’s not the only one enjoying this.

He can still taste copper.

She drags the very tip of the blade down the side of his neck — not enough to break skin, just a graze — and in, to the hollow of his throat. Sam closes his eyes and swallows hard and the movement, the ripple of muscle, presses his skin against the blade. His hands curl into fists where they’re resting on his thighs.

The feather-light whisper of it traces down the center of his chest. Just a few inches to the left, Sam thinks, and if she slid the knife in just right, got it neatly between the ribs, she could stab him in the heart.

Instead she grabs his left wrist and raises it. Sam feels the tickle of the knife point on his palm and his wrist, and then she presses it to the inside of his forearm.

The bright clean bite of it barely registers as pain. His cock throbs and his heart races, and when he opens his eyes and looks down at the blood, his gut twists and his skin sings, like his body is reminding him that he’s had enough; this isn’t for drinking.

She slices again, just below the first, shallow and steady. Sam’s breath catches. He can’t figure out whether it’s pain or pleasure he’s feeling. The two sensations have gotten all tangled together. He doesn’t particularly care. Either way, he’s hard as hell.

She takes his other wrist and does the same thing, slowly, drawing it out.

She’s getting off on this too, Sam realizes; her cheeks are stained red and her pupils are huge.

The peaks of her nipples, hard and obvious, are visible through the thin white cotton of her tank top, right at Sam’s eye level. He leans forward and takes a nipple between his teeth gently. She moans, arching her back a little, and her grip on his wrist tightens. Sam laves his tongue over it and then sucks, feeling the pebbled skin get harder between his lips.

He leans back, admiring the wet patch where his mouth was and the way the fabric clings to her. She cuts him again while he’s still staring; it takes him by surprise and he lets out a harsh, rough groan.

“More?” she asks, breathing heavily. Sam nods.

She drops his wrist and drags the knife along his inner thigh, instead, tracing the thin sensitive skin before slicing just above his knee, pulling the metal across the skin and leaving a trail of fiery pain in its wake. Sam sucks in a deep breath, chest heaving. She repeats it on the opposite side, slow and almost lazy, taking her time, like she’s savoring the sight of the blood welling up and pearling along the cut.

“Enough.”

She turns to put the knife on the dresser, and he grabs her by the waist, holding her there with her back to him as he tugs her panties down. She gets her shirt off, and Sam pulls her down onto his lap, holding her flush to his chest with one arm.

He can see their reflections in the mirror, and he watches over her shoulder as he manhandles her into place and gets her knees hooked over his, so that when he spreads his legs, she has no choice but to spread hers. He dips a hand down to her cunt, using two fingers to bare her completely. It’s obvious, in the mirror, how wet she is, skin glistening slick with arousal. She blushes patchy red all the way down her chest.

Her body is soft and hot against his as she squirms, wriggling into place until the head of Sam’s cock is pressed right up against all that wet slick heat, and she sinks down fast and desperate, head falling back on his shoulder.

The first velvety squeeze of her is almost too much for Sam. The salt of her sweat is stinging the cuts on his arms and thighs, and he moans low in his chest.

She can’t move much like this, but she trembles all over when he starts tracing circles over her clit. When Sam bucks his hips up, a quick little thrust, he can see everything in the mirror: the way her breasts jiggle, the way her mouth goes slack in a gorgeous red O, even the thick, flushed-dark base of his cock, shining wet where it’s splitting her open.

She’s shaking almost violently in his arms. He knows what she likes, knows exactly how to touch her to get her off hard and fast, and she’s already so close. Sam can feel her entire body tense up as he works her swollen clit. Her back arches and she leans back, twisting her hips frantically, giving Sam a filthy, pornographic view of the way she’s stretched around him.

“Forgot how good you look stuffed full of my cock,” he snarls, punctuating the words with a bite to the curve of her neck. She shudders and lets out a long jagged whimpering moan, grinding down, jerking forward against his fingers as she loses control.

It’s too much to feel and see all at once. Sam’s eyes roll back and he squeezes them shut, too overwhelmed to watch as she comes, her cunt clamping down in little rippling waves of drenching silk.

He grips the side of the chair with one hand, giving himself some leverage, and hooks his other arm around her ribs, forearm between her breasts, hand splayed out over her chest as he holds her where he wants her. He fucks up into her with sharp little thrusts.

Sam opens his eyes and the sight punches the breath out of his lungs. It’s not just the sheen of sweat on her skin, or the soft jiggle of her curves, or the obscene glaze of her slickness all over his cock, even though that’s one hell of a view. When he moved, adjusting his grip, the open wounds on his forearms smeared blood up her belly and down her side. The dark streaks of it paint her skin and mingle with her sweat.

A fresh bead of blood from his arm trickles down her abdomen as he watches.

It’s like something else takes over, some feral animal that’s been lurking in his ribcage. He growls, hips snapping up, everything obliterated but the wild primal need, and the demon-ness inside him is screaming as he lets go.

He feels the pulse of his orgasm through his entire body, a head-to-toe white-hot throb, and then wave after wave of relief as he shudders through it. He bites down on her shoulder to muffle the choked-out sobs that wrack his body with the aftershocks. She hisses, pained, but squeezes around him in a rush of flooded heat.

Sam’s shivering.

He can’t look at himself in the mirror, for a moment; part of him is afraid of what he’ll see. Whatever took over his body might be staring back with big black eyes. The high is fading, but the demon blood is still buzzing under his skin.

“We should shower,” she says hoarsely, wriggling off his lap. “Get those cuts clean.”

“Sure. I’m right behind you,” he tells her.

He watches her go, then looks cautiously at his reflection. It’s just the familiar hazel clearly visible around dilated pupils.

No monster. No excuse. Just Sam.

He swallows his rage and reaches for the flask.

If you enjoyed this, please reblog or leave me a message! Thanks for reading.

#supernatural #spn fic #sam winchester fic #sam winchester smut #sam x reader

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bumblebeeappletree · 3 years ago

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youtube

What up guys! So today I'm going to show you how to make some paper.

First a lil Thank you to Squarespace for sponsoring this video.. What ever your making.. Make your next move with Squarespace. Get 10% off your first purchase:) http://squarespace.com/shmoxd

So what you're going to need is a mold and deckle, a blender, a bin to hold water, a rolling pin, a lil plastic sheet, some paper to recycle, and something to soak up water.. like paper towel (or sponge or shammy).

To make the mold and deckle I used two picture frames, two wooden dowels, a drill, a staple gun, and a screen. (I'm the worst tenant in the world and just used a screen from one of my windows)

Remove the prints from the picture frames. I actually made the print on recycle paper. So thats cool I guess ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. Take out the metal clips that hold in the picture.

If you do the next part where I drill holes to put the dowels in as little guides, you'll want to make sure the frames a wooden.

The dowels should fit snug in the deckle.. then make the holes a little wider in the mold so its not a tight fit.

After that cut out your screen to fit and staple on each side making sure the screen is fairly tight. Cut off the excess screen.

To make the pulp.. take the recyclable paper, tear it up, and put it in a blender with water. I got the blender from a thrift store.. cause I didn't want to ruin a nice blender.

Blend it up till its to a consistency where there aren't big chucks of solid paper...

If you want the paper all white you can filter out some of the stuff with just water and your mold. You can also wash the pulp with dish soap or laundry detergent. If you want to bleach paper you can also do that.. just be sure to rinse out all the bleach. The mold makes for a good strainer.

Once you have your pulp add it to a tub of water. The water need to be about 2x as deep as the mold and deckle is tall. That way, you can move the mold and deckle around freely and the pulp mixture will go on top. Pull up the mold and deckle and the water will strain out giving you a nice even layer of pulp.

[ Oh! You can also add shorting to the pulp water mixture for some sizing.. this will help the paper be nice and strong.. ]

take off the deckle and put a screen on top. That way when you dry the pulp.. it won't stick to the paper towel ( or what ever you are using to dry)

You'll see a little later in the video I figure out a better way to get the paper off the mold. You just hold the mold up side down with the screen on the bottom and blow off the paper.

Then put the plastic sheet on the paper side, remove the screen and add a paper towel and use a pin roller to get more water out and also that will shmoosh the paper agains the plastic sheet giving it a smooth side on one side.

I then went a little nuttso.. and tried adding a bunch of stuff to the pulp water mix.. like: Pressed flowers, felt, string, different colored pieces of paper, paint, copper flakes, sprinkles, pine needles, Christmas ornaments, candy, drugs, glitter, fish food, a taco, an iPhone, and oil..

¯\_(ツ)_/¯ soooo you guys could try to put what ever you want in the paper mix.. my favorites were honestly the strings and felt.

SOooooo another thank you to Squarespace for sponsoring the video. If you guys want a website, url, online store or portfolio.. I like square space and you guys can use this link to get %10 off your first purchase: http://squarespace.com/shmoxd

You could also start a free trial today ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Also I'm thinking about starting a Patreon.. if you guys have any ideas or things you would like for the rewards just lmk:)

Equipment:

I got most of the stuff from thrift stores and things just laying around my house this go around..

Plastic Bin ( my roommates drawers )

Blender

Rolling pin

plastic sheets ( I actually just used page protectors )

paper towels

sponge or shammy

(starch for sizing)

Mold and Deckle:

Screen (from one of my windows)

2 picture frames

wooden dowels

drill

staple gun

screen.

Music:

Tusken - Cloud 9

Pulsmu - Pine

CLVS - July

Follow me and watch the art process:

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/shmoxd/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/shmoxd

Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/1214933...

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/shmoxd

Buy some stufffff from me: https://www.shmoxd.com

Subscribe: https://www.youtube.com/channel/shmox...

Like. Comment. Share.. or what ever.. ¯\_ (ツ) _/¯

#Shmoxd #long post #paper #diy #do it yourself #making paper #homemade paper #this goes chaotic real quick holy shit #like hot damn please don’t do the chaotic things he did #please for the love of god #Youtube #Solarpunk #I think

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pinkandgreenarepurpleandyellow · 3 years ago

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So guess who finally got their phone camera to work long enough to actually take photos of all of their Furnace-related sketches! Wanted to start w/this post for all of the possible variations of the candleholders my brain thought of, yes I'm aware maybe 2 are actually canon-compliant. (Image ID below cut) Some misc notes:

- The first one is my favorite, based off of a similar statuette I saw on a trophy. The hair and clothing were über-detailed and look nearly alive, but the faces are always that slightest bit off. The og statuette was decently hefty and it's probably one of the ones most useful as a weapon. (Please, please ignore my shitty erasers not getting rid of the wing outline properly)

- Second one is based off of a combination of miscellaneous past sketches and one reimagining of an angel that I don't remember the source of but thought was a bop.

- Third is a little more in what my brain associated with copper and many sculptures I've seen of women mid-motion, coupled with the idea of simplified hair based on some very cool metal jewelry at art fairs.

- Fourth and fifth aren't per se my favorites, but they're based off of some paintings that I liked so I figure, ehh.

- Sixth is my favorite stylized version (and also the only one that I thought looked nice with outstretched wings). It's not super practical but I think it's pretty.

- Seven is just based off a similar candle-holder I once saw at a Renaissance fair, although it was a jester and not a woman.

[Image ID:

Five photos of a total of seven candlestick holders roughly based off of the one mentioned in "Silent Night". All seven are women, portrayed in various styles and positions. Aside from the first, they have no facial features except noses and ears.

The first woman is standing straight, with her hands cupped in front of her for the candlestick. Her hair and dress are both long and flowing, with lots of lines on both adding texture and illusion of motion. Her hair is curly. The dress is vaguely similar to a greek chiton. She is staring at the viewer and frowning.

The second woman is in a similar position, but looking up. Her hair is to her waist and appears to be straight and moving in wind. Her dress is textured, and goes down to her knee on one side and her ankle on the other.

The third is from the side, raising the candle-holding nook in her hands to about chin level. She stands like someone mid-run or walking uphill against a strong wind, leaning forward and looking up. Her hind foot is flexed. The dress is very simplistic. Her hair is given a few lines to indicate waviness (similar to the two of the muses from Hercules).

The fourth stands in a position with her hands above her head and one leg raised behind her, like a ballet dancer. Her hands make up the candleholder. Her dress is roughly drawn on and is solid black, with sleeves to the elbows and hemline at the knees.

The fifth is another profile, kneeling and looking vaguely above her as she offers the candlestick holder up as though in prayer. She is naked. Her hair is curly, going down to her elbows. She has several rolls of fat on her stomach and slightly pronounced calf muscles.

The sixth is a heavily stylized woman in the same position as the fourth, but from a side view. Her limbs are unnaturally thin and long. She stands on a pointed toe resting on a square base. Her other leg is raised behind her, creating a loose circular shape. She has two wings and they are outstretched, with long feathers and no detailing. She has no hair, no facial features except a nose, and is not wearing anything, but has no primary or secondary sex characteristics besides undetailed breasts.

The seventh sketch is standing on her her tiptoes, in profile. She balances the actual holder on the top of her head, roughly where her eyes would be. Her hair flows slightly out. She has wings that are pointing down, as though slumping. The wings are textured, while the rest of her is not. her hands are clasped in front of her at waist level. Hr dress is indicated to be about knee-length.

End ID]

#escape from furnace #eff this #silent night #can I tag this for Donovan or nah?#accessible fanart #Zee drawings #oh hey look my new art tag!

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 years ago

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The Prince and the Pauper

Warnings: noncon/dubcon elements (rough sex, public-ish, cuck-ish behaviour), some violence

This is dark!Thor and ft. Loki Reader and explicit. 18+ only.

Summary: During Loki’s stay in Asgard’s prison, he finds companionship in a fellow prisoner. Thor, still bitter about his betrayal and ever stoking their brotherly rivalry, takes unkindly to this unexpected friendship.

Note: Alrighty, so first off, mind the warnings! Secondly, this is rough, like really rough. I don’t know but when I write dark!Thor, he’s so mean. I can’t even explain it and I’m sorry to Loki. Omg but anyway, it takes place when Loki’s imprisoned at the beginning of Dark World and before all the mess with Dark Elves and fake stabbings. Also I didn’t wriite his cell as having a force field because I’m a dumb fuck. Thank you. But anyway, bon appetit.

Leave some feedback, like and reblog if you can <3

He woke you up early. Not on purpose, it was never on purpose, but he always had a way of disturbing you. Ever since his arrival; and before, in his own way. From a distance, though you’d never met. No citizen of Asgard could escape the golden rays of their royal family and you were of many who had been burned by them.

Six years. You could be thankful that the cell wasn’t entirely grim, the front wall a window, though it looked out on nothing more than stone. An artificial light above you, a hard bench as your bed, facilities in a small booth in the corner; the bare minimum of living. Not much different than before.

And you heard it again. The clicking, the metallic whir that had woken you and kept you thus. You sighed and banged your elbow against your shared wall. “Whatever it is you're playing with, stop! You’re going to drive me mad.”

“You’re awake?” He replied.

“Have been for a while now,” You snarled. “Thank you.”

Loki chuckled. You rolled your eyes and went back to braiding the laces of your boots. They were fraying and ready to break. You didn’t have much to keep yourself occupied; not like him apparently. Though he did offer you respite with his little word games now and then. More often, he irritated you.

“Ahem.” He cleared his throat and you heard a metallic object being set down.

“You’re down in these cells with me, we’re past the whole ‘your highness’ charade.” You grumbled. “Aren’t we?”

“I suppose, peasant,” He japed. You closed your eyes and huffed.

You heard a light tap on whatever metal he had been toying with before. “Please… Could you allow me a few moments without all the fidgeting?”

He laughed again but stopped. You heard his soft footsteps and saw his shadow as it was skewed by the glass before him. Side by side, it was all you ever saw of him. “How about a game, then?”

“I’m too tired for your riddles.”

“We’ll make it easy. How well do you know the city?”

“I know the south well.” You shrugged. “Haven’t really the coin to go beyond the Market Line.”

“Good enough,” He replied. “So this is how the game works. I shall start with a short explanation of a certain location. You can guess at what I have in mind or ask a question; yes or no only. Up to five and then you lose.”

“And if I lose?”

“You can sing me song.” You could hear his smirk.

“I’m tone deaf.”

“So I suspect it will be even more a loss for you.” He chimed.

“And if I win?” You asked.

“Well, as you can imagine, even with shackles, I have certain privileges,” He preened. “Perhaps a special dinner could be left in your cell? Do you like wine?”

“Common folk don’t drink wine and if they do, it isn’t very good.” You countered. “I’ll take the dinner.”

“Ale then, palace ale too. It might just keep you from waking at the smallest twitch.” He mused.

“Go on then,” You moved to lay down with your feet stretched towards the glass. The stone cool beneath you. “Let’s play your game.”

“There’s a tree outside with a broken branch and the door is painted. It has a round window on the upper floor and an alleyway on the east side.” He stated and you heard his fingertips tapping on the glass.

“That’s it?” You asked and he stayed silent. “Well, if I guess do I forfeit a question?”

“Yes. Five tries. Though if you ask a question, you can guess without detriment.”

“Is it a tavern?” You asked.

“No.” He said plainly.

“The Copper’s Book Shop.” You guessed.

“No.” He replied quickly.

“Is it a shop?” You ventured.

“That’s two, and yes.”

“Hmm,” You wiggled your foot as you thought. “Broken tree… wait.” You sat up. “Holleran’s.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Yes, that’s it.”

“That’s north of the Line,” You sniffed. “You broke your own rules.”

“It was never stated as a rule,” He said coyly. “And besides, you won. Fish or venison?”

“Fresh-baked bread and spiced chicken.” You answered with a smile. “Simple but better than the gruel they serve here.”

“Sounds oddly delectable,” You heard him sit as a chair scraped. “I’ll inform the gaoler when he next app--”

He went silent as he was interrupted by the sound of the gears just around the corner from his cell. The large door which sealed the prison informed you of all visitors and new arrivals. You pushed yourself to your feet and went to the window to peer down the hall.

Two guards in armor appeared and then another man; tall, blonde, broad. It wasn’t his first visit. You’d met him outside this place though you doubted he remembered you. You quickly retreated to your bench along the back wall. The metallic click started again.

“Brother,” Loki greeted staunchly and was echoed cheerfully by his brother. “What brings you here? Surely this place cannot be preferable to Asgard, even when it rains.”

“We are still family,” Thor insisted. “And mother does bid me to see to you as much as she does.”

“And what of Father?” Loki bristled. “Does he not bid you forget me?”

“I didn’t come to provoke you,” Thor insisted. There was a slight pause.

“What did you come for?” Loki intoned. “What are you looking at?”

“Hmm?” Thor grumbled. “Oh, nothing. I come to see if there is anything you desire.”

“A key?” Loki japed. “Beyond that, I want for nothing you can give me.”

“We did hunt a wild boar. If you would like a plate…” Thor offered.

“Chicken.” He interjected. “And fresh bread. For me and the cell to the left of me. I owe them.”

“Owe them?” Thor wondered and there was another lull. You kept your head down but sensed the shadow at the edge of your window. “For what, exactly?”

“A bet. Children’s games.” Loki brushed off. “Really, it is boring down here for all. We do while our time away in rather unspectacular ways.”

“Chicken and bread.” Thor repeated and his shadow disappeared beyond the wall. “Certainly. Anything else? More books?”

“My quill’s are dull,” Loki replied. “I need nibs. Parchment too. Perhaps a candle or two.”

“Mhmm,” Thor hummed in response. “Sure, I can do that. Why Loki, this prison is almost preferable to the palace.”

“Always seeing the golden shine, brother,” Loki mulled. “So shallow, so naive. If only father could see that, he would know who was better fit to the throne.”

“Ah, but his knowing cannot change who was born first.” Thor replied smugly.

“No, it cannot,” Loki agreed. “Are you done?”

“Are you?” Thor countered. Silence. The shadow again. “I’ll leave you to your… games, brother. Perhaps next time, we can play one.”

You listened to the departure of the older prince and his guards. The door closed and the gears ground loudly. Not a second after, a metallic shatter bounced against the wall. Then a chair toppled and Loki’s footsteps grew heavier as he paced his cell.

“It smells of the docks and there’s wines along the back wall,” You began. “The front step is crooked and there’s a line of bushes outside, just along the west.” Silence. “Five guesses.”

He sighed; long and loud. “Is it a merchant?” He asked.

⚡

It was a week before the prince received another visit. It was Thor again and like the last time, Loki was less than keen on his presence. You sat in your cell, on the hard bench, and dragged your nail along the mortar lazily. Their voices were easy enough to ignore; their arguments one and the same.

And then you sensed it. The movement behind you. You kept yourself distracted with the wall. Then the shadow came closer until it stood at the centre of the window. You found it hard not to peek over your shoulder but you focused on the bricks.

“I know you from somewhere.” Thor said.

“Do you?” You asked.

“I must. I’ve seen you before.” He insisted.

“That doesn’t mean you know me.” You replied without looking.

“Leave her alone,” Loki hissed.

“I am just talking with her, brother,” Thor said. “No harm in that. Besides, you aren’t her keeper, merely a fellow prisoner.”

“She doesn’t want to talk with you.” Loki sneered.

“My lady, what got you down here?” Thor turned back to you as he ignored his brother.

“I’m not a lady, for one thing,” You turned on the bench and looked at him. “I suppose it’s why I robbed that royal ship and unmoored it so that it was lost to the depths.”

“Oh, you were one of them,” He stepped closer to the glass. “That must be it.”

“And so the mystery is solved,” Loki growled. “Let her be. It’s grim enough down here without your interrogation.”

“Grim, indeed,” Thor remained at your cell. “Do you read? Draw? I could have you provided with some instruments to ease your tedium?”

“Me?” You scoffed. “No. Thank you. I have no want for your generosity.”

“Pity, more like,” Thor corrected. “But, as you will.”

He lingered a moment as you stared back at him. He grinned and turned away as his cloak swirled around him. He tapped on the glass of his brother’s cell as he passed. “Take care, brother.”

⚡

It was several days before anything further of note occurred. It was easy to track in a place like this. Something was stark in contrast to nothing. You walked the perimeter of the cell as you thought through Loki’s latest riddle. Every now and then, he’d offer a hint through it was more gloating than actual concern. You would say no and go back to your thoughts.

‘My beak is bent downward, I burrow below; I grub in the ground and go as he guides, My gray, old master, foe of the forest. Stoop-shouldered my warder walks at my back, Fares through the field, urges and drives me, Sows in my track as I sniff along. Fetched from the wood, cunningly fitted, Brought in a wagon, I have wondrous skill. As I go my way on one side is green; On the other side plain is my dark path. Set through my back hangs a cunning spike; Another fixed forward is fast to my head. What I tear with my teeth falls to one side, If he handles me right who is my ruler.’

You ran it over and over in your head. He was growing impatient, you could hear him tapping on his table. You bit your lip and stopped in place. You tried to concentrate.

“Um…” You mumbled. “A… A plow?”

“Pardon?” He said from the other side. The tapping stopped.

“A plow. It’s a plow isn’t it?”

“It is,” He confirmed. “Your turn?”

“Oh, let me think.”

“Did you not just think for a long time?” He taunted.

“Well, do you want a good one or is an imbalanced victory still victory for you?” You retorted.

“Go on. Think.” He said sharply.

You leaned against the wall but were quickly jolted by the gears turning. Loki’s shadow neared yours as they skewed over the stone floor outside the glass wall. A gaoler appeared alongside a man in plain clothing. He held a bundle in his hands that bore a golden seal. The guard followed closely as he passed the prince’s cell and stopped before yours. You eyed the hammer pressed into the wax seal attached to the thick cord around his armful.

“Back. Against the wall.” The guard held up his baton. “Now.”

You frowned and slowly back up until you were against the brick. The glass slowly slid up and the gaoler nodded to the messenger. He stepped forward and placed the bundle on your cell floor. You watched him in confusion. He retreated and the glass descended back into place.

“What is this?” You asked as the messenger turned to leave.

“From the prince,” He supplied and continued on. The guard followed without a word.

The door closed behind them as you listened. It was still for a minute and then you stepped forward.

“Well, what is it?” Loki asked.

“Don’t know.” You answered.

“So… aren’t you going to look?” He urged.

“From the prince? Surely you know.”

“Not this prince,” He scoffed. “Ah, my brother thinks he coy.”

“I don’t understand.” You kept far from the present.

“Do you think the guards live more exciting live than us? No, they gossip and they sell any sliver worthy of gold.” He laughed darkly. “He knows we are acquainted. That we speak. He takes our games as more than they are and he thinks to win. Again. My brother has ever wanted for all he saw others have.”

“Riddles? Children’s games?” You shook your head. “Besides, he said it himself; you’re not my keeper.”

“No, but by law, he is,” Loki sounded perturbed. “I suppose he seeks to remind you of that.”

“I don’t want his gifts.” You insisted.

“I don’t blame you. They never come free.” He replied.

You neared and stared down. An envelope poked out from the cord around the canvas wrapped lump. “There’s a letter.”

“Oh… what does it say?” He paused. “Can you--”

“I can read,” You assured him and took the envelope. You slipped the leaf from within and sighed. “‘My lady’, ha, he’s a charmer isn’t he?” You scoffed. “‘I did think upon what tedium should accompany such imprisonment. And to think that of your limited company, you should also suffer my own brother. So I have provided to you some things to ease your boredom. His royal highness, Prince Thor of Asgard.’”

You enunciated his title emphatically and tucked away the letter. You dropped it atop the bundle and turned away.

“So… what did he give you?” Loki asked again.

“I don’t care,” You sat on the bench and held your chin in your hands. “I’m not accepting it.”

“Oh?” He wondered.

“Well, knowing you, I suspect tricks might run in the family.” You said.

“Ah,” He added another syllable. “You might not be wrong.”

⚡

Two days later. The bundle stayed where it was, even as your meals were delivered. But your breakfast didn’t come that day. Not on time.

The door whirred to announce more than the guard. Two in golden armour and the usual in his silver mail. They walked behind the prince, Thor, who acknowledged his brother with only a smirk. You backed up against the wall of your cell and watched him approach.

There was a train of servants too; one with a tray, one with a stack of dishes and cutlery, another with an ewer, another with a table, and a third with a pair of chairs. The guard barked at you to stay and the glass slowly opened.

“Brother…” Loki’s voice was a low warning.

“Shortly, Loki, I do have other business to attend before I get to you.” Thor’s eyes didn’t leave you as the servants set up their wares in you cell. You frowned and crossed your arms. The glass remained open and the guards stood at either corner. “My lady.”

“I am a peasant.” You insisted. “And a criminal besides that.”

He sat as the tray was uncovered. “I thought you might be hungry.”

“The gruel is good enough.” You insisted.

“Sit.” He waved to the other chair. “Tell me you wouldn’t like something a little more solid?” He picked up a rasher and waved it in the air. “A little more flavourful?”

You glared at him. Even as a prisoner, you could not disobey the prince. You neared slowly and sat reluctantly but made no move to help yourself to the food. He didn’t seem to care as he loaded a plate for you. He placed it before you and sat back.

“You haven’t touched my gifts?” He asked.

“There is no reason for them.” You said evenly.

“Does there need to be?” He took a bite of bacon. “A kind gesture. Rare, but I wouldn’t think unwelcome for you.”

“Not much I welcome about this place.” You said.

“Well, aren’t you going to eat?” He asked. You raised your brows and slowly reached to your plate. “There are books. One to sketch in and some charcoal.” He nodded to the bundle still on your floor. “I can get you paints.”

“What am I ever going to sketch in this place? The wall?” You swallowed.

“Then you can read.” He offered.

“Too restless to read,” You said.

“Restless?” He repeated. “Yes, I can see how.”

You ate quietly as he rubbed his chin. He leaned back as he grabbed his cup and drank.

“So, what if I gave you something to do? You’d still be serving your sentence, of course, but you wouldn’t have to stay here.”

His eyes strayed to the wall against Loki’s cell. You blinked and wiped your hands with the napkin.

“You could be my chambermaid. My own recently went to work for my mother instead.” He grinned. “A couple hours a day away from here…”

“I don’t think I would be very adept at that role.” You said.

“I do. You seem a bright woman. Quick with your tongue and surely on your feet.” He mused. “Tell me you’d not rather remain here in these cells… with him?”

“My decision is hardly affected by your brother,” You assured him. “I haven’t any desire to serve you or your family. That is how I ended up here so it would be a disservice to myself and the common folk of this kingdom to bow to you now.”

His smirk fell. He took another bite of bacon and shoveled some hash into his mouth. He sighed. “I’ll let you think about it,” He uttered at last. “I really do think you should consider this more deeply.”

You nodded and looked away from him. Loki’s shadow stood in the corridor just beside your cell. He was listening. You pushed away the plate and stood. “You know, I’m not all that hungry after all.”

⚡

Thor left and Loki was silent. You heard him move now and then but he didn't speak. There was tension in the air but you couldn't tell if it was for you or his brother. You kept quiet.

When you laid down across the hard bench, he had yet to speak. He wasn't always talkative but your riddles, your games, had grown routine. You were restless and when you finally slept, you dreamt of the prince.

Not the one on the other side of the wall but the one which had come within. He stood outside your window and watched. That's all. Just watched. And smiled. That smile was terrifying.

You awoke with a start. A figure stood outside your wall but it was only the guard with your breakfast. The usual bowl of grey slop. He slid it through the small slot meant for the purpose and marched away. You took it and stirred it with a grimace.

"You should've accepted his offer." Loki intoned. "It might have saved you that vile fare."

"I'd rather this." You took a mouthful and choked it down.

"Why? It's horrid down here."

"Are you so eager to see me work for your family? Would it give you some peripheral sense of superiority?" You wondered.

"Not at all. I only know, it wasn't a careless offer." He said.

"Which means?"

"My brother is not used to being told no." He said. "He'll surely ask again."

"Why?"

"I've asked myself the same." His shadow loomed in the hallway. "Suppose it's as much about me as you. If not more so… He always has to have it all."

"So I should say yes and achieve what exactly?"

"Some luxury in such a dull life." He offered. "Or perhaps he would see that his little ploy is meaningless and he will leave you be."

"Meaningless?" You echoed. "Ah yes, because it wouldn't bother you at all, would it? I am still, after all, just a peasant."

"That is not what I said." He insisted.

"So… you would care?" You asked.

"I didn't say that either."

"Well, you wouldn't care about me but you would care that he would take away your toy."

"Toy… no, that's not--"

"Don't worry. I never thought any differently but the trade was even. I distracted you, you distracted me, and it was all a little more bearable." You shrugged and took another scoop of porridge. "I can't quite see you over there but let me tell you what I can guess at; you've got a nice bed, yes? A sofa even. A table. Some baubles and some real toys. A bookcase too and--"

"But I am still down here." He interrupted. "As you are."

"So you are but your privilege follows you," You held the brim of the bowl before your lips. "Doesn't it?"

⚡

The days grew longer. Quieter. Loki was less talkative than those first days in the prison. You waited for a riddle, for a game, but it never came. It didn't matter. You were there years before him and he'd no doubt be out before you. There was something about his demeanour which always suggested he saw it as little more than a brief sojourn in a life unspent.

And then he wasn't quiet. You heard a light thump against the glass of his cell. His shadow moved quickly across the floor and back to the corner nearest you. He said your name. You pushed yourself from the bench and neared him.

"He's… I can sense it." His voice was full of a concern you'd never heard from him. Much more than his usual apathy. "He is coming and he is up to no good."

"Who? Thor?" You scoffed. "When has he ever--"

"I'm serious." He hissed as the gears of the door began to tick outside your cells. "Appease him if you can but by gods, do not provoke him."

"What? You're--"

"I know him well despite our bad blood." He spoke hurriedly as the door opened slowly. "My brother can be cruel, not that any ever believed me."

"I…" You took a step back. His tone, his sudden change, it did not bode well. This wasn't a game. "Is he here for you?" You whispered as royal guards appeared at the end of the hall.

"No, I'm sure he is not." He uttered and whisked away as he raised his voice. "Brother, back so soon? I did hope to request some more books. I've exhausted my collection already and--"

Thor sneered and waved his brother off as he continued towards your cell. You backed up so fast you almost stumbled and pressed yourself to the wall. He stared at you, a tic in his jaw as he motioned for the glass to be lifted. As it did, your eyes rounded.

"I've been thinking on you," He stepped inside. "I have heard you like games." You watched him wordlessly as he reached into his tunic. "So, I thought we could play one."

"Don't," Loki warned from the other cell though you could not tell if he spoke to you or his brother.

"Chance." He revealed a half dozen golden dice. "Simple."

"Why are you doing this?" Loki called.

"Why, brother, I am merely seeking to entertain her," Thor neared you and loomed over you. "As you have. Hopefully more."

"She is a prisoner. An enemy of our family." Loki argued.

"And yet you collude with her as if she were a friend," Thor smirked and grabbed your arm. "Come, sit and we will go over the rules."

"I don't want to play," You tried to resist as he dragged you from the wall. "Please."

"You will play with a trickster but not me?" He turned you so sharply you were dizzy. "Though as you are a prisoner, I see not how your desires should matter. So sit." He shoved you so that you stumbled. "And let's have some fun."

He didn’t flinch and you lowered yourself to the floor to sit on your heels. He sat too and placed the dice between you. You looked to the guards as they watched silently from the hall. You turned back to him and frowned.

“Take one. Roll it and we’ll see who’s up first, eh.” He said.

“Thor--” Loki’s voice rose from the next cell.

“Go back to your books, brother,” Thor called back and kept his eyes on you. “Take one.”

You reached out cautiously as he scooped up a die in kind. He tossed his and you did the same, they bounced across the stone noisily. Loki’s long sigh filled the void. Your block showed six dots as the prince’s read five. He slapped the stone and pushed the pile of dice towards you.

“Your turn first,” He announced. “For each die you match, you get a point; if they should count in order, ten points, and if they all match, twenty. You get three rolls and you may recast whatever die you wish. Simple enough?”

“Simple.” You affirmed. You paused as you stared back at him. He merely smirked and waited.

“Oh,” He began as you gathered up the dice. “We forgot to set the prize.”

“Prize?” You cradled the dice in your hands.

“We’ll start small. You win, you get the meal of your choice. I win… you get the meal of my choice. With me.”

“And if I should forfeit here and now?” You asked.

“Too late for that,” He leaned back on his hands. “Roll.”

You inhaled and let the dice fall. They rolled and bumped on the stone and stilled at last. Three fours and a single two. You glanced up and swiped the two off the floor and tossed it again. A five. One more try. You had to keep from a grin as the four turned its face up at you. Thor chuckled.

��Twenty points.” He declared. “Though if it is a draw, we will restart.”

His large hand covered the dice as he picked them up and let them go. You listened to the golden cubes against the stone. Three ones, a six, and a two. He shook his head and scooped up the six and the two. He shook the die for a time in his hand before he let them go again. Another one and a five. He took the five and met your eye as he rolled his final turn. He looked down and you did too. A three.

“Damn,” He swore. “A winner, my lady.”

You nodded and looked past him. The guards stared at the ceiling or their feet, unbothered by this little show. Loki’s shadow lurked in the corner. Listening against the glass.

“Anything but gruel is fine by me,” You said as you made to stand.

“We are not done yet. Two more rounds.” He insisted. “This one, we will have a better prize, hmmm?”

You sat back on your heel and shrugged. You waited for him to continue.

“If you win, you may as of me anything; a book, a pen, a visitor of your choice, perhaps a new bed.” He looked over at the bench and cringed. “Though I might be swayed to provide that out of decency.”

“And if I requested peace? For you to leave me as I was?” You ventured. “What then?”

“If that is what you should ask of me, I will see you to your solitary,” He said sharply. “And peace you shall have.”

You winced at the edge in his voice. You rubbed your neck and shifted on your knees. “A chair…” You said softly. “A chair would appease me.”

“Very well.” He allowed. “And my prize; a single day.” You raised a brow, confused. “With you, my lady. Perhaps I might show you how Asgard has improved since your imprisonment. Perhaps… you might not begrudge me so vehemently then.”

“Perhaps.” You said. “So… do I roll first again?”

He nodded and waited. You took up the die. This time none of the blocks matched but you only need a three to give you straight. You took the six and tossed it. Easy. Ten points and likely a win unless he could draw or match every die. He didn’t. Four points for as many twos.

“You shall have your chair,” He swept up the dice. “And now our final round.”

“No…” Loki was so quiet you weren’t certain he had spoken but it made the hair on your neck stand.

“This should be interesting.” He offered you the dice and you reached to take them. His rough fingers brushed your palm as you did. “If you win, you’re free. I leave this door open and you walk out, absolved.”

You nearly dropped the dice as you blinked at him. “What?”

“Oh yes, a third win and you shall be rid of both of us.” He nodded to the wall. “A fine prize, indeed.”

“And if you win?” You asked quietly, almost breathless.

His lips curved beneath his golden beard and pushed his golden hair back with his hands. “Well, should I win, then my prize would be… You.”

You pushed yourself back from him. Startled. You stood, the dice still in your fist. You looked around frantically. Something was amiss. He was too certain. But there was no escape. You were trapped and you expected, this was no game of chance. Not truly.

“This game is over.” You held out your hand. “I don’t want your prizes. Keep them.”

“This game ends when I say,” He got up on his knees and walked toward you. He grabbed your wrist and pulled you back down. “So, sit.” He snarled. “And roll.”

His grip was enough to crush your bones and you fell back to your knees. He let go and you looked down at the blocks in your hand. You shook your head and closed your eyes. You curled your fingers around them slowly and sighed.

“Oh,” He added. “And this round will be one roll only.”

Your eyes snapped open and you swallowed. You felt brittle as your nerves threatened to shatter. You lowered your head and tossed the dice; resigned to their fate. Three threes, a six, and a five. You kept your eyes on the floor as he collected the blocks and shook them loudly in his hand.

You held your breath and he threw them to clatter on the floor. Three sixes and a four as the last rolled across the stone towards you. It still just beside your knee and you looked down in dread. Six dots; each etched into the gold and painted white. Your throat tightened and your shoulders slumped. Fuck.

“Thor!” Loki cried as he pounded on the glass. “Don’t! She didn’t--”

“Oh, I remember,” Thor boomed. “I remember her well. This little wench I found in the backstreets. Hands covered in gunpowder; soul coated in dirt. Oh, yes,” He shoved the dice out of the way as he leaned in and grabbed your chin. “I remember those words you painted on that ship; the coin you shared with your fellow rodents.”

You looked at him and gritted your teeth. His hand fell to your throat and he squeezed.

“Of course, you’d be partial to her, brother.” He stood and you were forced to your feet as he gripped you tightly. “She’s just like you, isn’t she?”

“Stop!” Loki hammered on the glass. “She has done nothing to you.”

“She stole from our family; from our kingdom.” Thor dragged you to the door. “And you sit down here and humour her. Do you truly think your little coup aligns you with this bitch? Brother, do not lower yourself so.”

You grabbed onto his arm as he choked you and kicked your feet against the stone as he nearly lifted you entirely.

“Open his door; restrain him.” Thor barked.

“What are you--” Loki cried out and you heard his body crumple to the floor.

The guards approached his cell as his door slid open. He grunted as he was seized and Thor drew you with him along the hall. The dark-haired prince was sat in a chair, hands cuffed behind his back as a metal collar was secured around his neck and attached to the restraints. The guard jabbed him again in the rib with his baton and Loki yelped and pulled against his bounds. Another chain, golden and glowing, secured him to the chair.

“She didn’t--” Loki hissed as the guard threatened another jolt. “Thor, please.”

“I remember what you said then, brother,” Thor pulled you into the cell. He turned you and shoved you across the room. You collided with the long table and several books toppled over its edge. “Hmm? You said they were filthy peasants; greedy and immoral. Entirely inhuman, eh?”

You tried to push yourself up but Thor was upon you in a moment. He grabbed the back of your neck and forced you to bend over the table. You turned your head beneath his weight and your cheek pressed to the smooth wood. Loki stared at you; as helpless as you were. Shocked, even. It was the first time he’d seen you; the first time you were more than a voice through the wall.

“And now… you’re one of them.” Thor brought his other hand up and ran it along your back as he pressed himself behind you. “You would betray our father, our family.” He snarled as he shoved your shirt up. “And you have not learned. You sit down here and act as you always have. As if it was all just a game.”

You squirmed and reached out as you tried to pulled yourself away from him. He reached to your head and pulled it back by your hair.

“Look at her. I can see the appeal but… Brother, you are still a prince.” He slammed your head back down and silver spots swam in your eyes. “Is this what you want? Hmm?”

His fingers pushed beneath the waist of your pants and he tugged until the button popped off. You clawed at his hand as he crushed your head to the wood. You kicked as he forced a leg between yours. He pulled your pants lower and you whimpered. Your eyes met Loki’s green ones. He wrestled with the cuffs and the guards stunned him again with the club.

You closed your eyes as he cried out. Your ass was bared and your pants gathered around your ankles. Thor wiggled against you so that you could feel his arousal. You grunted and tried to wriggle away. He chuckled and carefully unlaced his trousers, his rough fingers brushed against you.

“Don’t you close your eyes,” Thor growled and you opened yours as Loki’s widened in horror. “You are many things but you are no coward, brother.”

You felt a prod against your thigh. Your toes scuffed on the stone as Thor dragged his tip along your ass. You squeaked and squirmed helplessly. He guided himself lower as his hand trailed from your head to your hip. He pushed so that you were forced to arch your back.

He was at your entrance in a moment. You whined and he rubbed himself along your folds with a hum. You lifted your head and let it fall back to the table heavily. He pushed inside slowly and reached behind you to try to fend him off. He sank into you entirely as he caught your arms and twisted them up against your back.

You exclaimed and he held himself inside of you. Your walls ached as he rolled his hips. You hissed and tears pricked at your eyes. He pulled back only to slam into you again and you yiped. He did it again, again, again. Each cry only seemed to encourage him.

You clamped your lips shut. Your eyes blurred as the tears gathered and Loki’s jaw tensed as he watched. He sagged in his chair as his chest rose and fell. Your entire body jolted as Thor thrust into you and the table scraped on the stone floor. He released your arms and gripped your hips instead. He pulled you back into him as he fucked you without mercy.

You couldn’t help the pathetic mewls that rose from you. Your hips hit the wood each time he moved you and your head pounded terribly. Your walls felt as if they would tear as he plunged into you. His pelvis crashed against your ass over and over. You scratched at the wood of the table as you tried to gain any foothold.

He drew you to your feet. He hooked his arms through yours and rocked into you with loud moans, each one mirrored by your weak groans. He turned you to face Loki as he sped up. The sickly noises filled the cell as you hung your head. You couldn’t look at the other prince. You could barely keep from collapsing entirely.

Thor wrapped his arms around your middle and drew you against him. His hot breath crawled along your neck and his grunts rang in your ears. Your eyes rolled back as you panted, your body a puppet in his hands. He rutted into you until you could no longer withhold your sobs. Until your cheeks were wet with your surrender.

And he roared. You felt the sudden warmth within as he slowed. He shuddered as he pulled himself from you and his cum spilled down your thighs. He laughed and dropped you. Your legs wobbled as you tried to catch yourself. Your feet tangle in your pants and you fell to the stone in a heap. You bent your legs and tried to cover yourself as he tucked his cock away.

“Well, brother,” Thor said as he nudged you with his toe. “You always did enjoy my leftovers.”

“Why?” Loki croaked and you hid your face in shame.

“Because,” Thor stepped around you to lord over his brother. “You will never have what is mine. Not the throne, not my people. Nothing.”

Thor snickered and Loki snarled. The older prince turned and stepped over you. He strode to the door and stopped. The air was still; suffocating.

“Take the wench to my chambers,” Thor ordered his guards. “And you may untie my brother when he has calmed.”

#thor #loki #dark!thor #dark!loki #dark!thor x reader #thor x reader #dark thor x reader #loki x reader #sad loki #fic #mcu #marvel #one shot #dark!fic #dark fic

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carewyncromwell · 4 years ago

Photo

Is that a Cinderella AU part I see? Yes, yes, it is! And one hopefully not as dark and devoid of hope as the last part...

Charlie’s castle carpenter tunic is based on this design; Bill’s castle guard uniform, referenced in a previous part, is based on this real uniform from 16th century France, though with a Royaumanian-worthy blue/red color scheme. My headcanon is that Charlie (who’s described as stocky in the books) is 5′5″, only two inches taller than his “unofficial twin,” Carewyn, while Bill is a friggin’ giant the tallest of the Cursebreaking squad at 6′1″ (one inch taller than Ben Copper at full height and the same height as his actor, Domhnall Gleeson!). The entire Cromwell family is on the smaller side, with Charles as the tallest at 5′10″. Oh, and yes, the Cromwells are all a piece of work, but Charles is indisputably the worst apple in the bushel. 😒

Previous part is here -- whole tag is here -- Katriona “KC” Cassiopeia belongs to @kc-needs-coffee -- and I hope you enjoy!

x~x~x~x

Carewyn was discovered outside by her aunts Pearl and Claire and uncle Blaise and brought inside. When they interrogated her about why she had returned to the estate in the middle of the night, however, Carewyn was unable to answer them. She was unable to speak at all -- nor was she able to eat, drink, or sleep. Instead she simply settled down in a huddled ball on her old cot by the fireplace and stayed there, her arms around her knees and her eyes devoid of all light or awareness.

Whatever had happened, Charles seemed to have determined Carewyn would be of no use to him in the palace, the way she was -- and so, at dawn, he sent a messenger to the King and Queen, telling them that she’d taken ill and would have to remain at home in the interim.

Carewyn’s cousins at first took some vindictive pleasure out of bullying her, now that she was back under their roof. Arsen and Kain actually picked Carewyn up off the ground and pushed her around like some human-sized doll while Elmer sang a mean little song he’d written about her --

“Cindy-Cindy-Cinderwyn, the finest of her class --

The duchess of the dust and soot, her kingdom’s made of ash!

She went to court; oh, did they chortle, snicker, and guffaw --

So Cindy-Cindy-Cinderwyn ran home, crying, ‘Mama!’”

Before long, though, her lack of a reaction seemed to make it not so fun of a game. Within two days, Tristan, the youngest of Carewyn’s cousins, actually threw a tantrum because Carewyn completely ignored him splashing his paints all over her.

“What’s wrong with you!?” the boy screamed, beside himself. “Why won’t you get mad at me?! Why won’t you run away and cry?! Why are you so -- so -- WEIRD?!”

Blaise was most perturbed when his son actually burst full-on into tears. Clenching his jaw furiously, he brought an arm around Tristan and swept him back inside and away from the vacant-eyed Carewyn. Then he went straight to the dining hall to speak to Charles.

“Father, something must be done about Winnie,” he hissed. “This is not normal.”

Pearl leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing. “Her behavior is shameful. To think the Cromwell blood runs through the veins of that girl...”

“It’s pathetic, that’s what it is,” said Claire in sycophantic agreement.

“Winnie may be a pathetic thing, but she is our thing,” Blaise shot back fiercely, “and she’s practically dead as she is.”

He turned to Charles.

“We’ve already lost Lane and sent Jacob off,” he said in a quiet, cold voice. “Are we to simply let Winnie waste away?”

Charles had his hands folded in front of him on the table. At Blaise’s words, his own almond-shaped blue eyes -- identical to his children’s and nearly all of his grandchildren’s -- narrowed.

“I must admit, it is a shame that Carewyn has stopped being useful,” he said lowly. “Iris may still be a set of eyes for us inside the palace, but she’s hardly clever enough to do much of anything on her own that’s useful.”

Claire actually looked hurt. “Father...Iris just sent us a letter this morning. Was it not useful to you?”

Charles’s eyes were very cold upon his daughter. “Hardly. She spent a good chunk of it complaining that Carewyn did something to the Prince, before leaving the palace...clearly trying to make excuses for her own failure to hold Prince Henri’s attention.”

Claire’s eyes welled up with shame and she hung her head.

“It wouldn’t be the first time that Iris has blamed Winnie for stealing one of her suitors’ attention,” said Pearl seriously, “but we have yet to get any explanation about why she’s returned to us against your instructions. And Claire and I did hear a horse galloping away, that night. Could it have been Prince Henri?”

Blaise scoffed. “Doubtful. You think a Prince would ever favor a plain girl with no dowry or status?”

“You warned Winnie yourself that the Prince could want her as a conquest,” Pearl said darkly. “Heartbreak would more than explain her current state...”

The idea made Blaise flush with rage.

“Whoever rode that horse, it was not the Prince,” said Charles very smoothly. He rose to his feet, picking up his dragon-headed cane and strolling over to the window to look out. “From what my informants have told me...Prince Henri was at the Royaumanian army camp that entire night.”

His children all straightened up, taken aback.

“At the war front?” said Pearl, shocked.

“Yes,” said Charles. “It quite upset their Majesties. Even more so when he returned to the palace in the morning dressed like a commoner and declared to them and the entire royal court that he intended to open up peace talks with the soon-to-be King of Florence.”

“Soon-to-be King?” said Blaise, his eyes narrowing to slits. “Then the old one kicked the bucket?”

“Yes...and it turns out the replacement Crown Prince is something of a populist. From what I’ve heard, his very first decision as future monarch was to ask every Florentine nobleman to -- should they wish to remain at court -- donate a portion of their wealth to him, so that he could then use it to buy a feast and custom-tailored clothing for his soldiers.”

Charles was clearly offended by the idea. Blaise was too.

“Uppity brat,” he sneered. “I guess that’s what’s you get, when you choose a bastard peasant as your future king...”

Pearl, however, looked a bit more cynical. “Seems rather unwise, to antagonize those who come closest to you in status...”

“On the contrary,” said Charles. “It’s most shrewd. As Blaise said, the boy was the King’s illegitimate son. That would offend the standards of just about anyone of good breeding...thus it would be foolish to try to court them for approval. A rat can communicate best with other rats -- and sadly, a swarm of rats is just what you get, when they gather: a band of filthy, hungry, disgusting creatures who will eat away at what we hold dear.”

His blue eyes flashed.

“And now our Prince fancies becoming allies with such vermin.”

Claire looked uncertainly at Pearl and Blaise. Both of them looked perturbed.

“If the War ends, there’ll be less money in the future for us,” Blaise growled. “Our investments in armaments built this estate...”

“My investments, Blaise,” Charles said in a very cool voice. “Do not forget that even the ones done in your and my son-in-laws’ names were still orchestrated by me.”

He pushed his palm down into the top of his cane, his long fingers trailing over the metallic snout of the dragon-head handle.

“It’s far worse than that, however. The Royaumanian royal family’s financial troubles was what has lent me their ear from the beginning. Gave me access to their decision-making -- gave me some leverage in coaxing them to join our two families. Should the King and Queen become friends and allies with Florence’s new royal brat, they may get the idea to redistribute their courtiers’ wealth as he has, to alleviate the nation’s debts...meaning we not only won’t be bringing in as much money as before, but that we’ll also have to submit to parting with what we already have, just to indulge in petty charity.”

Charles’s eyes narrowed upon his reflection in the ice-trimmed window.

“Our family’s chance at ascending into royalty...at the absolute, irreversible power owed us...is slipping away.”

Claire got up and tried to comfort her father by taking hold of his shoulder. “But Father...surely there’s still some hope? If Iris -- ”

But Charles warded Claire off with the back of his hand, sweeping across the room.

“If your daughter thinks that a mere maidservant was able to captivate the Prince more than her, then perhaps it’s the maidservant who I should enlist in getting our family what we deserve.”

He shot a look over his shoulder at Pearl. “Fetch Carewyn and bring her to me.”

Pearl dragged Carewyn up to the dining hall by her arm. The ginger-haired Cromwell hadn’t changed clothes or washed since she’d returned home, so her face was covered in cinders and her forest green and white dress was still splashed with the paints Tristan had thrown on her.

At the start, Charles feigned concern, saying he hated seeing his granddaughter looking so ill and unhappy, but his words barely penetrated Carewyn’s mind. They were just more lies -- just like everything else out of his mouth. She should know...being a liar herself. So she didn’t say a word in response. She made no response at all. And soon enough, Charles did come around to what he really wanted.

“His Highness is set to make a fatal error...but you have his ear. We need you to return to your duties in the palace and ensure that he does not trust the Prince called Cosimo.”

Carewyn’s lightless, empty eyes ran over her grandfather’s face for a long moment...but she did not answer.

“This is a noble duty, child,” said Charles. Although he put on a smile, it did not touch his eyes. “This is your chance to protect both your family and your country. The Florentines have been our enemies since before your mother was born...and now they seek to feign honor long enough to lure our Prince into their jaws...”

He brought a hand down onto Carewyn’s shoulder.

“Jacob would be proud, knowing you were helping him in his fight against them.”

Carewyn stared at Charles. Her almond-shaped blue eyes were as dark and turbulent as two miniature hurricanes. And yet, she did not speak.

Charles tilted his head, raising his eyebrows and considering her expression with that cold, detached smile. “Come now, my dear...will you not speak to your grandfather? I do so hate to see you like this.”

Carewyn’s gaze drifted away as Charles’s eyes bore into her -- and yet the silence dragged on with neither breaking it.

Pearl, Claire, and Blaise, for their parts, were becoming all the more unsettled by Carewyn’s lack of a response. Blaise actually strode forward and shouted at her.

“You will speak when spoken to, you ungrateful little -- !”

He made as if to strike Carewyn, but Pearl grabbed his forearm and held it back, flashing him a warning look before turning her righteous anger onto Carewyn.

“Your grandfather requires your services, Winnie,” Pearl said very sharply. “Don’t you have something to say to him?”

Even with this, however, Carewyn didn’t say anything. Then, with as much energy and emotion as a ghost, she stepped back and out of Charles’s grip and turned to go.

Something flickered in Charles’s expression.

“I did not give you permission to leave,” he said very softly.

But Carewyn didn’t answer or turn around. Claire had to block the doorframe to keep her from leaving the room.

“Your grandfather said you’re not allowed to go,” Claire said, her voice trying to be sharp but instead sounding rather unsettled.

Carewyn stared at Claire with those hollow, empty eyes in silence as Charles approached her from behind.

“You will do your duty to this family, child,” he said. It was striking how much scarier his voice sounded, when it was quieter -- Charles Cromwell was the sort of man who didn’t need to shout in order to be intimidating. “After all...that is the pact we made when I took you and your brother in, is it not?”

He took hold of Carewyn’s shoulder, whispering in her ear.

“Do not forget that everything you have is because of my charity. I have no desire to punish you...but I shall withdraw my kindnesses, if I must.”

Carewyn was very still. Then she once again broke out of Charles’s grip and tried to move past Claire.

Before she could get far, however, Charles snatched her up by the hair. With a strangled cry of pain, Carewyn was thrown to the ground with astonishing force, Charles’s fist clenched fast around her hair.

“Your head is not the only thing in my hands, Carewyn,” he reminded her very coldly. “I hope you remember that.”

He wrenched her up onto her feet by her hair, and Carewyn had to clench her teeth to keep herself from crying out again.

“I have been very patient with your theatrics...but I grow weary of coddling you. Should I send some message to Jacob, so that you behave? Perhaps if your head is not one you will defend, perhaps his is...”

“Liar.”

The word escaped Carewyn’s mouth as a wispy, hollow rasp, and yet it was enough to make everyone in the room stiffen. Somewhere out in the hall, one might’ve caught a quickly stifled intake of breath.

Carewyn’s eyes, although so dark, seemed to have gained an odd gleam in the back of them, like flaming cinders in a dying fire, as she stared up at Charles.

“You’re a liar,” she said again, her broken voice as rough as sandpaper in her throat as it rose in volume. “I know your life isn’t bound to Jacob’s. Any spell you could’ve had cast on him would have broken at midnight, the very night you sent him away -- the very night you ripped him away from me and sent him off to War against his will!”

Her blue eyes flared with hatred.

“That’s why you’ve never once gotten word from him -- because there’s no word you could receive from him at all! Admit it!”

There was a horrible silence. Pearl, Blaise, and Claire all looked from Carewyn to Charles and back.

Charles bore down upon his granddaughter, his face as cold as some ivory mask with hard, diamond-like eyes.

“So that’s what this is about,” he said softly. “Assigning blame. Very well, Carewyn...let us discuss this. You came to me as a child, sobbing and distraught beyond words...begging me to save your brother’s life when he was already on death’s door. You had nothing to offer me at that time, nor did your brother -- and yet I, out of the goodness of my heart, agreed to take you in. All I asked was that you show proper gratitude...a term you accepted at the time, and yet now have seen fit to break.”

He yanked Carewyn up by her hair and threw her into the table with a WHAM. Carewyn cried out in pain, before crumpling to the floor in a heap.

“I spent a good deal of my own money and discarded my own honor to try to find someone to save your brother’s life, if only to bring the light back to your eyes. Jacob was brought back to health and you were reunited with him, just as you’d hoped. And yet now you seek to demonize my wish that you show gratitude? That I collect on the debt owed me?”

He brought the heel of his shoe down on Carewyn’s shoulder with force, slamming her face down against the floor.

“And worse,” he whispered, “you wish to demonize the fact that, all these years, I was too grief-stricken to tell you of your brother’s passing?”

Blaise, Claire, and Pearl all stiffened. Only Claire, however, looked shocked.

“Jacob is...dead?” she whispered shakily.

“I knew such a revelation would be crippling to a fragile, weak heart such as yours,” said Charles, his diamond-like eyes very hard upon the back of Carewyn’s head. “I knew that the knowledge that your brother died the morning after his departure, and that his body had to be burned with every other prisoner in those barracks instead of receiving a proper burial...would break your heart.”

Carewyn had started to shake. Her face had lost all of its color, and the flicker of rebellion she’d shown mere moments ago had gone out.

“You’ve never been a stupid girl, Carewyn. You really should have figured it out years ago...and yet, like a child who believes in Yuletide gift-givers, you latched onto your brother’s memory even when all logic said you shouldn’t. I’m certain everyone else in this family saw through my pretense -- knew that it was merely something to placate you, soothe your temperamental emotions. They always have made it difficult for you to see things clearly.”

Charles's eyes narrowed.

“You were the one who disregarded your duty to the man who put a roof over your head, clothed you and fed you. Perhaps the truth wouldn’t be so crippling if you had simply done as I wished...rather than chase after a ghost.”

Tears streamed down Carewyn’s face. Although her eyes were so hollow and she shook so badly, however, the grief inside of her was not just numbing. It had grown to such an extent that it for a moment made her lose her head completely. In a violent move, she wrenched herself off the ground with a mad scream and threw a fist right at Charles’s face. Unfortunately Carewyn had never been particularly strong -- and so Charles was able to seize her wrist, twisting it away from him and holding her back with little difficulty.

“Blaise,” said Charles icily. “Fetch the whip.”

Blaise looked stricken. “Father -- ”

“The child requires discipline,” he said without looking at his son. “I will not have her thinking that following her brother’s example is acceptable behavior.”

Blaise closed his eyes and bowed his head. Then, with a grim look on his face, he swept from the dining hall.

When he entered the hallway, he found all of Carewyn’s cousins (excluding Iris, who of course was still back at the palace) huddled up against the wall. They’d clearly been listening to every word...and for once, none of them looked the least bit amused. Their faces were all very pale.

Blaise considered them all for a moment in silence. Then he brought an arm around his son and led him away.

“Come, Tristan. You will return to your room and stay there until I come fetch you.”

Everyone at the Cromwell estate tried to block out the screams of pain that echoed out of the dining hall. After just under an hour, Charles finally stopped, whether out of physical tiredness or just having finally spent his temper, and bid Pearl and Claire to carry Carewyn up to the tower room at the back of the estate. Charles didn’t want her to leave that room again until she was prepared to behave appropriately.

Carewyn had expected Pearl and Claire to simply throw her on the floor and leave her there. Instead, however, Pearl sent Claire to go fetch some towels and cold water, and she hoisted Carewyn up onto the worn feather cot on the far end. Her aunts then removed her torn dress so that they could clean the open gashes Charles’s whip had delivered to her back.

As far back as Carewyn could remember, her aunts had never liked her. Her mother Lane had even told stories about her siblings and how Charles had pressured his children to compete against each other their whole lives. When Carewyn had moved in, Pearl had refused to look her in the face for over a month...and thanks to her daughters’ dislike for Carewyn, Claire had always treated her niece just as coldly. And yet, now...for some reason, they sat with her.

“...Why are you doing this?”

Carewyn couldn’t see either Pearl or Claire’s faces while she was lying on her stomach, but she heard the mattress give a light squeak, as if Claire had shifted slightly to look at Pearl.

“Don’t you think you’ve questioned your elders more than enough already?” said Pearl in a very hard voice.

She brought a cold cloth up to the largest gash on Carewyn’s shoulder, dabbing at it lightly.

“You may be a stupid, arrogant, pathetic girl, Winnie,” she said quietly, “...but I know the pain of losing one’s sibling.”

Carewyn felt some pity in her heart despite herself.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Pearl scoffed. “Thank me by doing as your grandfather says.”

Carewyn closed her eyes. Then she turned her head away from her aunts and didn’t reply.

Taking her silence as a refusal, Pearl withdrew quickly and hoisted herself up off the worn mattress.

“Come, Claire.”

Claire hesitantly inched herself up off the mattress too, fetching the bucket of water from the floor as she went. Carewyn could see her glance back at her, when she reached the doorframe.

“Your grandfather bid you stay in here until you behave,” said Claire, and her voice sounded almost reproachful. “Please don’t make him punish you further.”

But Carewyn did not make any move or sound. And so Claire closed the door behind her, and Pearl locked it with a loud CLACK behind them.

Once Pearl and Claire descended the stairs of the tower, however, they caught the sound of raised voices from outside the open manor door. One of the voices they recognized as Blaise’s -- the other, they couldn’t have known, belonged to Charlie Weasley.

When Carewyn’s friends learned that she would not be returning to the palace, they all reacted with concern. They knew how crippling the revelation of Jacob’s death had been, but the knowledge that she was back with her family, rather than at the palace where they could help her heal, well...that only made the whole affair worse. Clearly, as KC pointed out, the King and Queen probably wouldn’t have been that lenient toward a servant who was unable to work and had no reason to suspect anything malevolent in Charles wanting to “take care” of his granddaughter. After all, Andre himself had also presumed Carewyn was well-treated by her family, before he’d been forced to conclude otherwise.

“I’ll tell them the truth -- ” Andre had said forcefully, but Badeea only shook her head sadly.

“It won’t help, your Highness,” she murmured.

KC nodded grimly. “Carewyn is Lord Cromwell’s ward, Andre. Her only possible legal guardian and benefactor. That means she belongs to him, whether we like it or not. No matter how badly she’s treated, or what she’s told you about him, he’ll still have that power over her. And as long as he’s a Lord with more financial capitol than our entire family does combined...the King and Queen won’t want to discipline him.”

Bill and Charlie, however, just couldn’t accept this. So after their scheduled duties, they visited the Cromwell estate themselves, requesting to see Carewyn. When Blaise tried to turn them away, the exchange got more heated.

“I’ve already told you that Winnie will not see you,” Blaise said, his blue eyes flashing at the two brothers.

“We’d like to hear that from her, please,” said Bill, but his politeness had a noticeable edge to it.

“She is in no condition to entertain anyone, least of all a pair of peasant boys who presume to trespass on our land and make demands. Now get out.”

“We’re not leaving until we see Carey!” Charlie said fiercely.

“You will leave now, or I shall see to it that you are thrown out,” snarled Blaise.

“Go ahead and try it!” said Charlie, getting right up in the blond man’s face.

“What’s all this now?”

Charles Cromwell had emerged from the open door of the manor. Dashing out after him were Pearl and Claire.

Blaise’s eyes flared. “A couple of troublemakers who’ve come looking for Winnie. ‘Westley,’ they call themselves -- ”

“Weasley,” corrected Bill. His eyes were narrowed as he faced Charles. “Bill and Charlie Weasley. We worked in the palace with Carewyn -- we heard she was sick and came to see her.”

Charles glanced at Pearl and Claire out the side of his eye, before his eyes swiveled back over to the two Weasleys.

“...I’m afraid my dear Carewyn is resting upstairs.”

“May we see her, please?” Bill said. Once again, his words were polite, but his voice was very firm and pointed.

“No,” said Charles. “You may not.”

His eyes narrowed upon Bill’s freckled face. One could wonder what he saw in Bill that day -- whether it was the protective “big brother” affect that reminded him of his deceased grandson Jacob, the sincere devotion Bill felt for his granddaughter Carewyn, or simply the pure distrust and dislike toward him -- but whatever it was, it served to make the Lord’s face that bit more mask-like as he considered the ginger-haired castle guard.

“‘Bill Weasley,’ you said your name was? Well, Mr. Weasley...you can be rest assured that Carewyn is being quite well taken care of, here with her family, where she belongs.”

Charlie’s eyes flashed. “Somehow I doubt that.”

Charles raised his eyebrows very coolly.

“We know all about what you did to Carey, Cromwell,” said Charlie. “We know full well how you ‘take care’ of your family...unless you think Jacob would actually speak on your behalf, if he were still alive?”

Charles, amazingly, didn’t react at all to this, but it only served to make his mask-like face that much more unsettling.

“No one feels Jacob’s loss more than I. And I should thank you not to question that, boy.”

His eyes flickered from him to Bill.

“I don’t know what Carewyn has told you...but I’m afraid I must apologize for it, all the same. The child has always had a difficult relationship with the truth...she’s often spun tales to...try to make herself seem more appealing, to the people around her.”

“Takes a liar to know one, I guess,” spat Charlie.

Pearl’s eyes flared. “You have some nerve to speak to a nobleman thusly -- ”

“Pearl,” Charles soothed her, but his voice was hardly warm or comforting. Instead his eyes bore into Charlie with a darker glint. “You do yourself and your brother no favors in insulting me. I could have been kind and offered to send word, when Carewyn was well enough to see you...but I can see clearly that the both of you would be a toxic influence on my granddaughter, should I allow you to associate with her.”

“Toxic?” repeated Charlie, his voice rising. “You son of a -- !”

“Noble bloodline, unlike you,” Charles Cromwell said in a very low, foreboding voice. “One with enough money and influence to force you to comply with my wishes, if I must.”

Charlie wasn’t intimidated. “You do that, and we’ll tell the whole world about what you did. Reckon you won’t have quite so much respect from everyone, once they learn you used magic to trick Carey into staying under your thumb -- ”

“A dangerous accusation for anyone to make,” said Charles, his foreboding voice deepening further. “More still for a boy relying solely on the flawed testimony of a maidservant...and belonging to a family so impoverished by its size that they’d have no means to rebuild, in the event of some unforeseen tragedy...”

Charlie’s eyes widened dangerously. He looked like he wanted to punch Carewyn’s grandfather right in the face, but Bill took hold of his brother’s shoulders from behind, in a gesture that seemed to be both holding him back and expressing support.

Charles’s eyes -- the same color and shape as Carewyn’s, but infinitely crueler -- flashed up at Bill.

“I can tell that you -- like me -- are the sort of man who wishes to protect his family, Bill Weasley,” Charles said coldly. “If you wish to do so...then you will ensure that neither you nor your family comes near mine again. Do I make myself clear?”

Bill and Charles glared at each other for a very long moment, silently burning brown on icy, diamond-like blue.

“Crystal,” Bill murmured at last.

Charlie looked up at Bill, horrified. “Bill -- ”

“Come on, Charlie,” Bill cut him off quietly. “Let’s go.”

Bill steered Charlie away and off of the Cromwell estate. Once they’d cleared the gate, Charlie whirled on his brother.

“Bill, you can’t be okay with this! If old Lord Cromwell won’t let us see Carey, then something’s gotta be wrong! We can’t just -- ”

“I know,” said Bill.

Glancing over his shoulder, he walked with Charlie a few more feet to make sure they were out of earshot. Then he said quietly,

“Charlie...make up an excuse for the King and Queen about why their carriage is going to need more time to fix than you thought. We’re going to need it.”

#hphm #hogwarts mystery #cinderella au #orion amari #carewyn cromwell #bill weasley #charlie weasley #charles cromwell #blaise cromwell #pearl cromwell #claire cromwell #my art #my writing #...okay originally this was going to be two parts BUT #I figured you guys needed a bit more hope after how bad of a part the last one was #so I decided not to cut this in half #going back to work tomorrow~!!#so next part might take a little longer but I'll try to finish it soon #please keep liking/reblogging/commenting if you're enjoying! xoxo

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yugoloths · 4 years ago

Text

the dungeon crawl I was supposed to run tonight got delayed for another week so I'm dumping all my content here to cope

this is the first level of the abandoned mine the party will be exploring. detailed walkthrough under the cut

DRUMIAN SHALE

The main takeaway from this stage is the bandits the party is hoping to apprehend are not here… but something else is. By the end, they will have made it down to the flooded lower caverns where the cool shit is.

Area 1: Base Camp

The clearing outside the mine entrance is carpeted in yellow dust, a thin layer of which clings to every available surface. To the right of the entrance, on the east side of the clearing, stands a long-abandoned box sluice littered with old buckets and mining pans. On the opposite side of the clearing lie several ragged canvases half-buried in sand and a cluster of overturned mine carts in various states of disrepair. A set of narrow metal tracks, the same width as the mine carts, leads into what appears to be a natural cave mouth.

Closer inspection of the scene will reveal a dried-up streambed where water once poured into the sluice from above. The canvases on the western side of the clearing are crudely painted with an emblem shaped like a hand with a horizontally elongated plus sign in the center of the palm. They look to have been part of a collapsed tent, but it seems to have been abandoned for several weeks.

Area 2: Tunnel

A 10 foot wide tunnel stretches into darkness. 5 foot wide doorways are located on either side, each pair spaced 20 feet apart. The rail tracks continue along the floor in a straight line. The hall is dark and cramped, the ceiling is low, and the air smells musty.

PP >14 will notice they don’t see any signs of animal inhabitants.

Area 3: Dormitory A

This room contains twelve narrow beds with bare straw mattresses. A few have crumpled bedding, as if in use, but everything is covered in a fine layer of dust.

A DC 12 investigation check reveals a chest hidden under one of the beds. The chest is empty except for a dragonchess set and a few old stains.

A PC with proficiency in dragonchess (or who makes a DC 15 history check) will notice that the set is missing several pieces: three black warriors, a white mage, a white thief, and a white elemental.

Area 4: Old Office

This room appears to have been a record keeping office. A table stands in the center of the room, a desk in the corner, and bookshelves line the walls. A few chairs have been overturned, and papers are scattered across the desk. The same hand-and-plus-sign symbol from the tents has been carved into a corner of the table.

Any further investigation will reveal that the following books and papers are still in readable condition:

Old shipping manifests - Prices & shipments of rations, supplies, etc. If Varna or one of the PCs read this, they should be able to ascertain that the mine was just barely turning a profit at the time of its closure. They would also notice that they seemed to spend a lot of money bringing in barrels of fresh water.

Mine blueprints - Similar to Varna’s map. Shows the current level as well as two lower levels starting about 200 feet down. It appears miners used a lift at the northern end of the mine to navigate between levels. The lift was powered by a water wheel located in the far northeast chamber on the current level.

Geological survey - General measurements of soil composition and stability, rate of erosion, and location of ore veins. The writing style is extremely dry and technical, so PCs will need to either succeed on a DC 14 investigation or insight check or get Varna to read it in order to learn the following details:

-the water at the site was not drinkable, hence the need to import fresh water

-researchers had great difficulty measuring the water table; some days their instruments suggested it was very high, while other days they registered nothing at all

Varna will not notice this on her own, but a PC who lands a really fucking good investigation/insight check might be able to do a little off the cuff data analysis and notice that high water table measurements tended to occur in the mornings and evenings, while the low readings tended to occur in the afternoon or late at night. A character with extensive nautical knowledge and/or who lands a second really really good investigation/insight check might be able to make the low tide/high tide connection, but don’t force it.

Any investigation of the room reveals a heavy safe under the desk. It stands unlocked and empty, door ajar. Presumably this is where the deed to the mine was kept.

Area 5: Dormitory B

This room is nearly identical to Dormitory A, but several of the beds have been overturned and mattresses torn apart. The chest in this room has been dragged out from under the bed and opened with enough force to rip off one of the hinges. It is empty except for three silvers, four coppers, and an old sock.

A DC 10 investigation check reveals a set of two-toed footprints. With a good roll, or a separate investigation or survival check to learn more about the footprints, a PC could ascertain that the creature that made the footprints has a quadrupedal gait and seems to be some type of insect.

A DC 12 investigation check reveals a small amount of blood spatter on several of the beds.

A DC 14 investigation check reveals a strange object wedged under one of the beds. It is a flute-like woodwind instrument with an unfamiliar bulbous shape. Varna will be unable to identify what material it’s made out of, although she may note that it reminds her of shell or coral (though not from any creature she’s encountered.) Any PC who attempts to play the instrument will be able coax a few hollow, resonant notes out of it. The instrument is uncomfortable to play, as if it were not designed for their hands.

If a PC attempts to play the instrument, anyone with PP>10 hears an echoing melody coming from the end of the hall. Anyone with PP>15 can identify it emanating from below, in the mine shaft.

Area 6: Storeroom

This room contains old supplies. A heap of frayed old sacks that must have once contained grain are heaped in the northwest corner. The northeast corner is home to a pile of old crates that takes up most of the room. The south wall is lined with wooden barrels, all but a few of which have been split open and destroyed.

Closer inspection of the scene reveals that some of the crates have fallen over and/or split open to reveal general mining equipment - pickaxes, machine parts, railway slats, etc. The crates seem ancient and relatively untouched, while the destroyed barrels are more recent.

A DC 12 investigation check on the room in general will turn up 100 feet of hempen rope, three lanterns with 10 hours of fuel each, an entire crate of candles, and 100 pitons.

A DC 10 insight or investigation check on the barrels reveals that they likely held pickled vegetables and cured meats.

Area 7: Dormitory C

This room is nearly identical to Dormitory A. There are no signs of a struggle.

A DC 12 investigation check (or a decision to look under the beds) reveals yet another chest stashed under the bed. It contains two bottles of Keoghtom’s Cure-All, one of which is cracked and useless. The label purports the product “miraculously relieves sewer plague, sight rot, and tunnel stutters! Archmage Keoghtom’s patented blend of penetrating oils, restorative herbs, and secret enchantments reduces pain, enhances vigor, and restores the user to full health, all in a single application!” When applied, it restores 2d8+2 HP.

Area 8: Machine Room

This room is dominated by a water wheel about 10 feet in diameter, fixed along the north wall. A trough leads away from the water wheel to a large drain set into the floor by the southeast wall. A system of pulleys leads out of the room toward the mine shaft. The rail tracks fork just outside the doorway, with one fork leading into the room while the other continues straight. The wheel powered a lift that transported miners, slag, and equipment between levels, presumably fed by the same stream that fed the box sluice in area 1.

A DC 15 investigation check of the room (or a DC 10 investigation check on the drain specifically) reveals that the screws holding the drain cover down have been removed, and that the cover has been moved recently.

A DC 10 strength check (or whatever) allows them to move the drain cover, revealing an entrance to area 10.

Area 9: Mine Shaft

The mine shaft is a square, 10 foot by 10 foot pit that drops straight down into darkness. A rotting pulley system dangles from the stalactite-covered ceiling, but the rope has broken and the lift platform itself is nowhere to be seen. The walls of the pit are decorated with strange, insectile shapes that resemble no living creature. Go ahead and make a perception check.

The lower part of the shaft is filled with salt water. The water is too far down to be visible, but anything falling into the shaft will create an audible splash.

The mine shaft is inhabited by three darkmantles disguised as stalactites. As soon as someone pokes their head in, a darkmantle will drop down and try to engulf their face. The remaining darkmantles will use their Darkness Aura ability to create confusion before attacking. These darkmantles are unusual looking, with long cone-shaped shells covering their mantles, giving them the appearance of orthocerid cephalopods. If none of the PCs are dumb enough to stick their head into the shaft, Felix will be happy to oblige in order to get a closer look at the fossils.

About 50 feet down the shaft is a hidden entrance to area 10 containing two Chuul, the source of the mysterious flute echo from earlier (assuming one of the PCs tried to play the flute). Like the darkmantles, they are unusual, resembling anomalocarid arthropods. When the Chuul hear the PCs at the top of the mine shaft, they will attempt to ambush them through the drain in area 8. It takes the Chuul about one minute from when they detect the PCs to launch their ambush. If one of the Chuul is killed or seriously wounded, the other will attempt to flee to area 13 and escape into the tidepools.

A PC who makes a DC 12 perception check will note that the presence of stalactites is odd, as they have not seen any elsewhere in the mine.

If the players found the flute in area 5, a DC 15 perception or investigation check reveals that some of the fossils embedded in the wall look similar to the instrument.

Because the Chuul are so unusual looking, PCs must succeed on a DC 17 history or nature check in order to identify them as such.

With a DC 18 perception check, PCs can see the faint movement of the Chuul 50 feet down the shaft and hear scuttling noises, although they cannot make out what is causing them.

Area 10: Secret Tunnel

The drain leads to a rough tunnel, about 5 feet wide. It is not indicated on Varna’s map or the blueprints in area 4. The construction is noticeably different from the rest of the mine, more like an animal burrow, and the floor slopes downward. The air is strangely humid.

If the PCs managed to access area 10 before being ambushed by the Chuul, they will instead be attacked at the entrance to area 11 or 13, whichever is convenient. If they killed both Chuul, they will encounter no enemies in area 10. If one of the Chuul escaped, the PCs will hear a faint flute melody emanating from the tunnel leading to area 13 but will not be attacked.

A DC 10 investigation or perception check reveals more of the two-toed footprints found in area 5 - they should be able to figure out these belong to the Chuul.

Area 11: Brood Chamber

This roughly circular chamber contains a clutch of slimy, yellow-green eggs surrounded by human and animal bones. It is guarded by an older Chuul which is missing a claw, making it unable to multiattack. This will not deter it, however, from defending the clutch with its life. Because it is protecting its eggs, it will not pursue the party should they choose to flee.

Closer investigation reveals a single human skull amidst the bones. A DC 12 nature or survival check reveals the other bones belong to a horse, several donkeys, and two large dogs.

Area 12: Treasure Chamber

This chamber is similar to area 11, but instead of eggs it is piled high with objects the Chuul have collected from their victims and from the abandoned mine.

Any investigation will reveal the following items:

-A small pile of gold nuggets worth ~200 GP

-A steel mirror

-Robe of Useful Items (missing all of its patches)

-A viol with the initials “MQ” carved into the back of the head

-A breastplate that has been messily painted blood red, with a symbol on the front consisting of a black hand with a horizontally elongated plus sign on the palm (same as the one carved into the table in area 4)

-Two hard hats with hooded lanterns mounted on the front

-A swordbreaker (stats identical to a dagger, but if the wielder is hit by a sword attack they can make a DC 8+[attacker’s weapon attack modifier] dexterity check; on a success, they take no damage and the opponent has disadvantage on their attack roll next turn; on a critical success, they take no damage and break the opponent’s sword) with a crude hand-and-plus-sign symbol carved into the hilt

-An intricately carved sending stone that, when used, plays the following intercept message: “We’re sorry. You have reached a sending stone that has been destroyed, or is no longer in service. Please contact an operator.”

-Three silver rings (worth 15 gp each)

The deed to the mine is not present.

Area 13: Cenote Chamber

This natural cavern has a high, arched ceiling decorated with stalactites. The space is dominated by an immense monolith carved with the same pattern of wavy lines as Felix’s tablet. Covering the bottom third of the slab, a reeking carpet of matted vegetation extends to cover the entire floor. The wet stench of rotting plant matter and salt permeates the humid, clinging air.

The vegetation at the base of the slab is actually a shambling mound, which is hiding the entrance to the next layer of dungeon with its body. It is dormant, but as soon as someone steps on or touches it it will come awake and attack the PCs, revealing the cenote pit beneath it. However, music from the strange flute the party discovered earlier will render it dormant again. Upon being defeated, it falls into the cenote with a splash. As it falls it pulls away some of the vegetation covering the bottom of the slab, revealing the full design.

A DC 14 perception check before the shambling mound attacks reveals the muffled sound and faint movements of breathing. After it is defeated, it becomes apparent that the “breathing” noise was actually the sound of water rushing rhythmically from within the dark cenote.

Varna encourages the party to explore the cenote in hopes of locating the remaining bandits (or their remains) and recovering the deed to the mines. Felix, excited by the symbols on the monolith, insists on accompanying them. Varna will remain to establish a base camp; she has not survived 200 years as a geological surveyor by diving headfirst into mysterious pits.

#d&d #level design #worldbuilding #homebrew #my art #my writing

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jeremystrele · 3 years ago

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A Designer’s 1970s Bells Beach Dream Home!

Homes

by Lucy Feagins, Editor

Artwork in the background is ‘Checked Square’ by Jacob Leary. ‘Tufty-Too’ modular sofa from B&B Italia, designed in 2011 by Patrizia Urquiola. 1970s Italian chrome and glass coffee table. 1957 Saarinen ‘Tulip’ side table. Rug from RC&D. Vintage Italian chair in Mongolian wool dyed blue. Recycled French oak coffee table designed and build by Leo. Alfredo Barbini Murano Italian art glass dish. ‘Vesuvius’ lava glaze bowl by Jonhathan Adler. Hand-woven cotton light pendant from Paris au mois d’aout. Photo – Nikole Ramsay for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

The lush entry foyer. ‘Planula’ dining chairs by Giovanni Carini, 1970. Photo – Nikole Ramsay for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Interior designer Léo Terrando; and model, actor and a producer Jessica Watts. Photo – Nikole Ramsay for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Artwork in the background is ‘Checked Square’ by Jacob Leary. ·’Tufty-Too’ modular sofa from B&B Italia, designed in 2011 by Patrizia Urquiola. 1970s Italian chrome and glass coffee table. 1957 Saarinen ‘Tulip’ side table. Rug from RC&D. Vintage Italian chair in Mongolian wool dyed blue. Recycled French oak coffee table designed and build by Leo. Alfredo Barbini Murano Italian art glass dish. ‘Vesuvius’ lava glaze bowl by Jonhathan Adler. Hand-woven cotton light pendant from Paris au mois d’aout. Photo – Nikole Ramsay for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Artwork is ‘Act 1 Scene 2’ by Deidre Bruhn. 1959 Verner Panton wire cone chair. Mimi Kelly untitled print. Green Gaudi chairs by Vico Magistretti for Artemide, 1970s. ‘Four’ dining table Desk from Kartell designed by Feruccio Laviani. Photo – Nikole Ramsay for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

1970s Cristalart mirrored console table. Charles and Ray Eames executive table for Hermann Miller with Arabescatto marble top. Limited edition 1974 ‘Monk’ chairs by Afra and Tobia Scarpa for Molteni. 1962 ‘Arco’ floor lamp by Achille and Pier Giacomo Castiglioni for Flos. Zac Koukoravas artwork. Photo – Nikole Ramsay for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Dulux ‘Milton Moon‘ paint. Charles and Ray Eames executive table for Hermann Miller with Arabescatto marble top. Limited edition 1974 ‘Monk’ chairs by Afra and Tobia Scarpa for Molteni. 1962 ‘Arco’ floor lamp by Achille and Pier Giacomo Castiglioni for Flos. Photo – Nikole Ramsay for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Volkswagen Kombi 1977. Framed photograph Leo took inside the escalator of the Centre George Pompidou in Paris beside his surfboards. Photo – Nikole Ramsay for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Kartell ‘Ghost stools. Mayday lamps by Kanstantin Grcic for Flos. Dulux Klute, Dulux Luck and Dulux Vivid White paints. Photo – Nikole Ramsay for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Danish high sideboard. 1970s Italian table lamp. Photo – Nikole Ramsay for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Early 1900s church pew·. Moroccan rug. ‘TOIO’ floor lamp designed in 1962 by Achille & Pier Giacomo Castiglioni for Flos. Photo – Nikole Ramsay for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Mid-century Australian credenza that Leo found at the tip. Ceramic from west Germany. Laurana Rame D’arte Italian copper enamel bowl 1960. Mid-century modern Italian ‘Selenova’ table lamp in murano glass. Collection of 1960s clear glass Czech vases. Photo – Nikole Ramsay for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Java Couple sculptures. 1950s French mirror. Jielde Floor Lamp Loft D 1240 from Flos. Photo – Nikole Ramsay for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Rug from RC&D. Red lacquered metal frame ‘Vanessa’ bed designed by Tobia Scarpa for Cassina. Chrome and glass Italian coffee table. ‘Brumbury’ table lamp by Luigi Massoni for Guzzini. Original ‘Mushroom’ armchair by Pierre Paulin for Artifort. Artwork ‘Difficult Pleasure’ by Brett Ferry. Cedar cladding on walls. Photo – Nikole Ramsay for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Photo – Nikole Ramsay for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Jess with the couple’s dog, Button. Photo – Nikole Ramsay for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Jess, Léo and Button! Photo – Nikole Ramsay for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

The awe-inspiring view out to Bells Beach. Photo – Nikole Ramsay for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

It really feels like we are living in the middle of the forest,’ says Léo. Photo – Nikole Ramsay for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Interior designer Léo Terrando purchased this incredible Bells Beach house (on Victoria’s Surf Coast) 10 years ago, which he shares with partner Jessica Watts.

Believed to have been designed by acclaimed architect Kevin Borland in 1975, the house is characterised by vaulted timber ceilings that bring warmth and a distinctly eclectic character to its otherwise beachy feel.

‘The structural timber is entirely exposed and it follows the origami shape of the house, which means that the lighting – either natural or artificial – creates so many different contrasts and shadows,’ Léo says.

Léo was taken with the property’s unique design, as well as its awe-inspiring location set back from famous Bells Beach. ‘I love the fact that the house is away from everything,’ he says. ‘Being able to see the ocean from the house as well as hearing all the birds living in the area is truly magical.’

Not interested in stripping the home of its original character, Léo has undertaken only modest renovations over the past decade. ‘Internally I removed some walls in the upstairs bedroom and got rid of the carpet,’ he says.’

Other updates have been cosmetic only, such as updating the lighting fixtures throughout the home. ‘The lighting is so important for me, I have brought in so many different styles and types of lights, lamps, shades, from all different designers and eras,’ Léo says.

The home has also been painted inside and out, in colours including Dulux Milton Moon (in the living and dining room) with Dulux Klute, Dulux Luck and Dulux Vivid White in the kitchen and skirtings throughout.

The house has been a challenge to furnish due to its many windows – over 50 in total! To overcome this, and to balance out the extensive timber panelling, Léo has styled the space with an eclectic mix of free-standing furniture, and large indoor plants. Most of the furniture and accessories are 1960s and ‘70s Italian pieces, and alongside these are personal items that show off the couple’s personality, such as surfboards and bold, abstract artwork.

Overall this home feels effortlessly cool, relaxed and unpretentious – just like its Bells Beach location. Léo says, ‘Waking up to kangaroos, wallabies, wombats, and echidnas… It really feels like we are living in the middle of the forest.’ Living the dream!

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sunlitangles · 4 years ago

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Prose and Cons

I had the pleasure of also writing a fic for the @grishaversebigbang! Please go check out the other wonderful fics written by my fellow Etherealki. 💙

Thank you to my Corporalki @jdobrski and my sensitivity readers @niecity, @nekonamicosplay, and @wybiegowritey

And my talented Materialki (please check their pieces out and show them some love):

@ninaaswaffles x

@artzy-lia-art x

@dingy-doodles x

@protec-kuwei-yul-bo x

Summary: When his father kicks him out of America in disgrace, Wylan leaves for London looking for opportunity. He loves telling stories and sharing knowledge, so when the publishing company Crows Publishing accepts his application as a writer, he is overjoyed. There’s only one problem- Wylan can’t physically write. The solution to this stumbles into his life as Jesper Fahey, the anonymous author of popular war-time novels and coworker. They quickly enter a co-writer relationship, but maybe Wylan wants it to be more. The pair starts to get closer, but it isn’t long before Wylan gets caught up in the secret goings of the Crows Publishing company.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26316439/chapters/64080943

Keep reading after the cut for chapter one!

“Mister Van Eck, I simply must inform you that you are not qualified for this job,” said the man. Wylan sighed and glared at the stout man sitting before him. “Mr. Rollins, I really need this job. I don’t have anywhere to go, and I-” Wylan started but was quickly cut off. “Van Eck, I couldn’t give a damn. Now, please see yourself out of my office,” Mr. Rollins said, spit flying out of his mouth. He didn’t give Wylan another look, proceeding to make a ‘shooing’ gesture and turned back to his records. Wylan grimaced and wiped his face with his sleeve.

Wylan stood, smoothing out the wrinkles in his tweed blazer. He grabbed the strap of his leather bag as Mr. Rollins lit a cigar. The beady gaze of the older man followed Wylan out of the office, and as Wylan stepped outside into the cool autumn breeze, the noisy bustle of London streets overwhelmed him. Wylan resisted the urge to plug his ears, which were not accustomed to the din. The countryside was never this loud. He missed the scent of the rolling fields, the clean autumn breezes, and the subtle hints of life on the farms nearby. He sighed disdainfully and stepped into the chaotic streets of London.

The intricately built buildings arched high above Wylan, seemingly watching his every move. What am I supposed to do now? His bag thumped against his side as he strolled the uneven cobblestone, dodging other pedestrians in long coats and large skirts. He was alone in this damn city with no steady source of income. If only my dad could see me now, Wylan thought, a frown tugging the corners of his mouth. He walked down Fleet Street, a sour expression stuck on his pale face. He strolled past the brightly lit shops of 36th street, the warm smells of the bakery wafting towards him. He stopped in front of the shop, observing the buttery pastries and golden rolls in the shop window. The soft light emanating from the bakery illuminated workers bustling around inside, putting more dough in the oven and piping thick jam on top of fluffy cakes. His mouth watered at the sight of flakey scones and he longed to taste at least one warm confectionery but tore himself away from the shop, turning back to the crowded streets. He certainly didn’t have the money for those types of luxuries yet.

He continued down the street, avoiding the large skirt of a beautiful fair-skinned brunette who strutted as if she owned the town. Her red dress flaunted her generous, soft body. She was fairly plump, and Wylan could tell her corset was laced far larger than customary. He stared as she bounced down the street, entering the bakery with a wide grin on her face. The other patrons stared after her, their expressions a mix of disgust and confusion. Wylan grinned to himself.

Loose pebbles skittered down the path as Wylan continued to make his way down to the run-down hotel that he called home for the time being. He’d managed to make enough money doing odd jobs between university classes to keep himself out of the streets, but if Wylan didn’t find steady work soon, he’d surely be down on his luck. He hurried down the cobblestone streets until he reached the hotel. The front needed a new paint job and windows were in a serious need of cleaning, but the rooms were in good enough condition. He stepped inside the lobby, which was empty save for a Suli family who waited on the moth-eaten couch and a tall, well-dressed man speaking quietly with the concierge. Trudging up the stairs, Wylan searched for his room number, turning right and then forward. He slid his key into the lock, taking off his jacket as he stepped into his hotel room.

He examined his belongings, anxiously making sure nothing was missing. Earlier in the week, he had experienced a run-in with a maid who had taken a liking to rifle through his belongings, looking through his music notebooks and pockets for spare change. He sighed in relief as he realized none of his belongings were swiped. Wylan could hear horses trotting along the street below him, barkers shouting at passerby and the mumble of conversations over watered-down tea and lumpy rice pudding. He still couldn’t believe he was in London. It felt a lot bigger, even though it was barely big enough to fit a fraction of America. He sat down at the tiny desk in the corner of the room, lit by the setting sun. Sunlight streamed through the dusty window, illuminating his fiery copper-red hair. Setting his head in his hands, he rubbed his temples, willing the stress of the day to disappear.

He had no idea how he was going to sustain himself for much longer. The funds that his dad had sent him off with were running low, and it would only be a few more weeks until he would be kicked to the streets with only the clothes off his back and a university scholarship, forced to feed himself and fend off the rats and pests that lurked in the dark alleys. According to his calculations, he would be able to afford his room for three weeks if he cut back on his food budget and skipped meals. He groaned as he pushed himself out of the creaky wood chair, the moth-eaten upholstered cushion leaving dust on his nice black pants. Brushing himself off, he collected his school work from his leather bag. Thick leather-bound books and spare pieces of paper stared up at mockingly, the neat font gleaming under the setting sun. Rubbing his eyes, Wylan attempted to make out the words written on the crisp pieces of parchment but gave up after a few tedious moments.

Mind still preoccupied, Wylan grabbed his flute. The cool metal was familiar to his smooth hands, the brass instantly calming his nerves. Grabbing a few sets of sheet music that he had already memorized, he brought his flute to his mouth and began to play.

As the stars twinkled in the midnight blue sky outside his window, Wylan fought to ignore the rumble of his stomach. He had played for hours, taking breaks to try to read the work he was assigned but he quickly gave up; the frustration consumed him as simple words mocked him. He craved a flakey pastry from the bakery he’d passed earlier, but the almost non-existent weight of the money in his pocket reminded him that indulging in such luxuries would not suit him well. He fiddled with the cuff of his shirt, wondering if he could afford to buy potatoes at the grocer. Deciding to go food shopping tomorrow, Wylan got himself ready for bed, humming under his breath as the crows chirped in the distance.

*** The streets of London were never quiet at night, Wylan had soon realized after his first night at the hotel. The drunken steps of men stumbling out of bars and their loud, slurred voices filled the streets night after night near the gambling halls and pubs while the sound of horses trotting through the cobblestone alleys mixed with quiet sighs of private theatricals. Tonight, Wylan caught wind of a few conversations, most of them noisy neighbors complaining about the prices of tea and whatever was in the paper that morning. Curling up on the window sill, he felt the cool London air blow into his room.

“Brekker said he would be here by now,” mumbled a gruff voice. The voice was coming from a stocky man, leaning against a building with a few companions by his side. The man to his right drawled in a kaelish accent, “Damn that kid. I can’t stand him.” “Did you hear what happened to Thomas today?” a blond man asked, rolling his neck. Fiddling with the pistols at his hips, a Zemini man replied, “Did Brekker con him?” The blond man nodded and replied, “Got ‘em good, too. I heard he got all of Thomas’ inheritance. Didn’t even see it coming.” The group of men continued to converse, loudly complaining about “Brekker”.

Wylan tuned out the rest of the conversation, opting to watch the early morning carriages drive across the roads. He watched rats scour the streets below, rotten apple cores littering the darkest corners of the alleyway. A young couple took a stroll along the other side of the street, speaking to each other in earnest. Wylan wondered what that was like. To have someone to tell everything to. Try as he might, Wylan’s father never could seem to get Wylan interested in the town girls. He just didn’t fancy any old girl, right? That had to have been the explanation for his blunt taste in women. They were just so peculiar. He often felt as if he never really liked any of them.

“Damn Brekker, can’t seem to keep his nose outta people’s business,” complained the man with the kaelish accent, snapping Wylan out of his daydreaming, “Do you reckon The Dregs will write something about Thomas?” Wylan knew that The Dregs was a popular newspaper in London, published by Crows Publishing. The Zemini man snorted and replied, “It’s a newspaper and publishing company.” “So? They can’t possibly know everything.” “You would be surprised, and I don’t read their shit. You’re the one reading penny bloods from Crows Publishing.”

Wylan knew about the penny bloods that were taking the country up by a storm. His neighbors often gossiped about them with their friends and family, and his classmates read them at school. They formed clubs where they would read them aloud and catch up on the latest episode. Wylan joined a few of those clubs, enjoying the way the writing sounded and taking note of the masterful ways they were written. The most popular penny bloods were written by a man named Kit Young starring a plot of war- novels and by the sounds of it, they were almost the most popular penny bloods in London, second only to a series of detective penny bloods published by the Dime Lions publishing company. Wylan heard that they told tales of crime and detection in America, but he didn’t find the descriptions as intriguing as the bloods written by Kit Young. Wylan participated in one of the clubs for Mr. Young’s stories and he latched on to every one of his words, but he had to stop going to the clubs as he needed to find work more than participate in leisure. He laughed bitterly as he thought about the war bloods and continued to ponder the on-goings of Crows Publishing.

Wylan had dared to hope that he could potentially be hired at the publishing company. He imagined conversing with his coworkers, and hopefully friends, about the latest stories and articles looking to be published. He imagined laughter spilling out of him and his coworkers and them sharing a mutual love for stories, him hopefully writing successful penny bloods that took the country by a storm. He wondered what he would do if he met Kit Young, and how he would praise the man for writing the stories that kept almost all of London intrigued. He let his imagination roam free until the sun rose over the gray city.

***

Though he was drowsy from his lack of sleep, Wylan tried to pay attention to the lesson his English professor was droning on about. He had yet to read the book assigned and he tried to understand what Professor Williams was saying about the metaphors in the book, but the encounter he witnessed from last night had been playing on repeat. The name “Crows Publishing” stuck out to him and kept nagging in the back of his mind. Wylan got chills down his spine each time he thought about how “Brekker” worked the gang and how disturbingly good he was at getting what he wanted. Doodling on the piece of paper in front of him, Wylan continued to ponder the mystery of Crows Publishing. Professor Williams announced that he would be calling on students, effectively breaking Wylan out of his stupor. Wylan silently prayed that he wouldn’t be called on as his professor scanned the room for participants. Though of course, Professor Williams decided it would be the perfect time to call on him.

Locking eyes with Wylan, his professor said, “Mr. Van Eck, what did you think about the relationship between Victor and his monster?” Wylan gulped nervously, the room feeling awfully hot and stuffy. “I found their relationship, uh, quite intriguing.” Professor Williams raised his eyebrow in expectation, “Anything else, Mr. Van Eck?” “Uh, I thought that Victor treated the monster unfairly and that maybe the author was commenting on the times,” Wylan said, balling his hands into fists. He thanked the lord that Mary Shelley’s work was popular enough for him to have known the plot. His breathing began to get shallow, and he focused on simply breathing in and out to avoid getting too worked up.

Professor Williams sighed, nodded, and called on another student. Wylan felt the eyes of his classmates burning holes into the back of his head. Wylan shifted uncomfortably, digging his fingernails into his sweaty palms. He focused intently on the paper in front of him, fighting the blush creeping up his neck and heating his ears. He silently wished for the floor to open up and devour him; anything would be better than sitting here embarrassed.

As the class ended and students were packing up their belongings, Wylan felt a firm hand on his shoulder, keeping him from exiting the classroom. “Van Eck. Hold on,” said Professor Williams. A few moments after all the students had sifted through the door, he leaned against his oak desk, crossing his ankles and watching Wylan intently. Wylan gulped and settled his hands on the strap of his leather bag. “You wanted to see me, Professor?” Wylan said, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice. “In fact, yes, Mr. Van Eck. Your performance in my class has been… less than satisfactory. I am quite aware of your, ahem,” Professor Williams cleared his throat, “difficulties with reading and writing, and I would like to help you.” Wylan looked towards the ground, “I’m sorry, Professor.” “I have a tutor willing to help you. I hope you accept this offer, as I truly think it would help you.” Wylan nodded, “I accept. Thanks.” Professor Williams smiled slightly. “Let me know when you’re available and I will let your tutor know. Don’t worry about the finances, I have it handled.” Wylan walked out the classroom, cheeks hot. His professor was paying for his tutoring sessions, and Wylan couldn’t help feeling useless. He wanted to think that the tutor could help him, but he was too overwhelmed by the fact that another human being had to know about his inability to read and write. Wylan silently decided to somehow find a way to pay his professor back; his search for a job becoming his top priority.

***

Professor Williams had found Wylan a tutor, all right. He was a 19-year-old boy with hints of patchy peach fuzz along his upper lip. His blonde hair was gelled back and he wrote a purple bowtie, rather than the standard university’s blue. Wylan sat down at the library table his tutor, Joost, had found. Joost pulled out an intimidating stack of books and Wylan eyed the stack nervously. “I think we should start with the book Professor Williams assigned to us. Do you have a copy?” Joost asked with a pretentious air in his voice. Wylan smiled, narrowing his eyes. He already disliked Joost.

“I do. It’s required, you know,” he said, the fake smile slathered on his face. If his jab affected Joost in any way, he didn’t show it. Joost eyed Wylan up and down, waiting for him to pull out his book. Wylan gritted his teeth and grabbed it out of his bag. Joost smiled and opened his heavily- dog eared copy. “Let’s start with chapter one. Do you know what happens?” Wylan bit his tongue to stop himself from lashing out at the blonde boy. “I don’t remember.” Joost cleared his throat arrogantly. “Then open your book to chapter one.” Wylan groaned internally as he began his slow descent into hell. He tried to read the words printed on the smooth sheets of paper, attempting to keep up with Joost’s monotone droning. After ‘reading’ the first chapter, Joost looked at Wylan expectantly. “Now, can you finally tell me what happens in this chapter?” Joost looked at Wylan intently, and Wylan dropped his head into his hands, pulling on the strands of his hair. This was clearly not going to work.

*** No matter how well-intending Joost was, he was not the tutor for Wylan. Wylan endured two grueling weeks of his pretentious personality and he couldn’t stand how Joost treated him like the scum under his shoe. Wylan sagged in his seat, pretending to read Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein as Professor Williams directed them to a certain part of the book. He glanced at the pages, scanning the words printed on the cream pages. As the rest of the class went on, Wylan avoided eye-contact with Professor Williams and Joost. He couldn’t stand the way Joost kept glancing at him. Wylan silently hoped that the class would be dismissed quickly.

Professor Williams held Wylan back at the end of class, grabbing his shoulder as he tried walking out of the door. “I take that tutoring with Mr. Van Poel didn’t go well,” his professor said after the students cleared out of the room. Wylan internally rolled his eyes, heat crawling up the back of his neck, “Joost was… fine.” Professor Williams pursed his lips. “I’ll find you another tutor, Wylan.” Wylan nodded, embarrassed of his additional request, and quickly thanked him and sprinted out of the room. As he rushed down the hallway, he felt his spirits deflate. Wylan couldn’t believe he’d already needed a new tutor. He already felt bad enough that his professor was paying for it, and now he’d complained about his old one? In times like these, he thought that maybe it was a good thing he could no longer disgrace the family name.

***

The library he’d agreed to meet up at was on campus, and it stretched a sizable distance. It had a big, arching front doorway and, once inside, beautiful oak shelves lining up the tall ceilings all the way to the back. Wylan held down a shaky breath thinking about the words lining those pages, words that he couldn’t read. It was almost suffocating. There were about fifteen people spread around the library’s common area, including a plump, whiskery little man sitting at the front desk. Wylan shuffled his way over. “Hi, sorry, I’m looking for a- um,” he glanced at the slip with the address and his tutor’s name, a name that he already memorized but he looked at the slip nonetheless, “Jesper Fahey?” “Always great to meet a fan,” called a rich, deep voice behind Wylan. He spun on his heel, coming face to face with a tall man with a rich-umber complexion. The confident expression on his handsome face made Wylan’s heartbeat quicken. “Hi, I’m uh- Wylan Eck Van. Uh- sorry, Wylan Van Eck. I’m assuming you’re Jesper Fahey?” Wylan said, stumbling over his words. “That’s my name,” the stranger said, raising his eyebrows in amusement, “And nice to meet you, Wylan.” Wylan reached his hand out for a handshake, but Jesper started down the hallway, looking for a table to sit at. The whiskery man stared at Jesper and went back to reading, smoking his cigarette when Wylan turned back to him. “Uh- wait up!” Wylan called, dashing to catch up with Jesper. Finding an unoccupied desk in the middle of the library, Jesper sat down, pulling out various books from his worn messenger bag. Wylan sat down, mimicking Jesper’s actions. “So…” Wylan started, glancing around the musty library, “What subject should we start with today?” Jesper looked up from his bag, pulling a textbook out. “I was thinking we could do English. Professor Williams told me you were struggling with the reading assignment?” Jesper confirmed, and Wylan glanced down at his hands, heat flushing his cheeks. Clearing his throat, Wylan replied, “Yeah. Something like that.” Jesper gave him a wide smile and said, “It’s fine, Mr. Van Eck. So, how far are you into the book?” “I haven’t- um, I haven’t started it,” Wylan clenched his fists tight, “I can’t read… it. I can’t read.” Jesper’s playful smile dropped just enough for Wylan to feel embarrassment flood over him. “Oh,” Jesper simply said, scrunching his eyebrows, “Well, we can either read it together or I could give you a brief summary. Williams said that we should be at chapter four by now so I highly recommend the summary.” Jesper winked. Wylan took a deep breath and felt the tension leave his body. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

#gvbbcreation20 #gvbb2020 #gvbbfic20 #gvbb #grishaverse big bang #wesper #Jesper Fahey #Wylan Van Eck #six of crows #the grishaverse #the grisha trilogy #the crows #Kaz Brekker #inej ghafa #ninej #nina zenik #kuwei yul bo #matthias helvar

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