#and all the constables BOWING

[ha-bloody-ha]

Can we talk about this?

[ladylaviniya]

Wails of Wedded Bliss

Chapter 6 || Masterlist || Chapter 8

Chapter Summary: Upon meeting the Baroness you are enamoured by her devotion.

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, (No Smut), typical historical misogyny and sexism, mentions and discussion on miscarriages. Implied domestic abuse and infidelity.

Word Count: 9k

Author Notes: This is an important but rather sad chapter. I beseech you all to read the warnings. The details of this chapter are important to the plot of the missing Baron Thaddeus Pennicott.

Inspiring Song: "Flightless Bird American Mouth" by Vitamin String Quartet

8:30am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England. 

Sherlock tucked your arm into his side as you three entered the Groveland house foyer. The floor was made of fine marble tile and with ever step a light echo raced down the halls.

The inspector called upon a nearby dusting maid to fetch the head of the house. Who returned was a thin and tall man in a butler’s uniform with a sliver pocket watch hanging from his chest. His hair was the colour of autumn leaves and his face littered in freckles.

He bowed, “I am mister Edward Redmayne, head butler of the Groveland estate, how may I assist you?”

The inspector shook his hand and stated quickly, “We spoke on the telephone yesterday? A telegraph was sent.”

The butler smiled with a relieving gasp, “Detective Holmes?”

Lestrade sheepishly looked over his shoulder to you and your husband. He nodded. His expression wore a emotion of embarrassment mixed with annoyance. Perhaps he was jealous of your husband’s successful published case stories. You wished you could have told the constable not to fret as Sherlock was nothing short of a arrogant mule...yet again- the mark on his face...he probably already knew that.

8:42am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England. 

Upon meeting the lady of the house, you stood frigid by your husband. You felt somewhat self conscious by her grey eyes that lingered over your dress. Perhaps you should’ve worn your Sunday best before meeting a woman of such a high status.

The baroness was unmistakably pregnant. Her belly was bold and rounded beneath her maternity gown. She had been sitting calmly on a resting chaise, knitting a small bonnet for her future child. Her hands were covered in fine burgundy velvet gloves to match her modest dress.

Her face was framed by a light brown curls, that appeared almost white in some places, twisted into a bum at the base of her neck. Her pale face was blotchy with pink flecks and slight acne.

“Lady Pennicott, I am Inspector Braydon Lestrade of Scotland Yard,” the British officer proclaimed as he bowed dramatically forward. You withheld a girlish giggle by how low the man had bent his head and presented himself foolishly, and from the corner of your eye you manage to catch the whisp of Sherlock’s smirk.

The inspector waved his arm behind him and moved aside, “-and with me is Detective Sherlock Holmes and his wife, Mrs Holmes.”

You produced the baroness a respectable curtsy, your eyes glued down to the beautifully patterned carpet. You wondered how the servants could keep it so clean and freshly unstained by dirty guests. It must have been new.

The baroness shuffled her knitting needles and ball of woollen yarn into a Whicker basket and disposed of it beside her.

A slow stretching smile graced her thin lips as she spoke to you, “Oh, are you the little dear who solved that factory match girl incident?”

You weren’t sure how to answer her question. You weren’t entirely sure what the baroness was referencing until Sherlock stepped closer with your arm still cradled in his.

“No dear Baroness,” Sherlock pat your hand gently, “That would have been my sister Enola Holmes, she has her own detective office at present moment. My wife is here on my invitation. I wished to gift her a sight of the grand park and estate while I was here upon duty.”

The Baroness cocked her head, from her ears hung pearls that swung and hung like rain drops.

“Come forth dear,” she lifted her hand and beckoned you, “I would like to have better view of you.”

You wondered if she could smell the sweat beginning to drop down the back of your neck. You bit your tongue and tried to refrain from trembling. You were nervous. Her eyes were cold but her smile warm, two conflating details that you couldn’t understand. The last thing you needed now on top of a terrible start to your marriage was to be scrutinized by a haughty pregnant baroness.

She flickered your fingers for you to bend down to her. As you leant down, you swore you could smell copper, a metalic scent. A vein on your scalp pulsed. She scanned your face of its details. You dared to wonder what she was searching for. And then it clicked...the smell...

‘Dear god, you prayed, please don’t let her smell my blood, please let this not be my blood...’

You should have sprits on some perfume before leaving baker street.

She glanced behind you and questioned angelically, “How does it feel having such a clever husband?”

Your lips opened and closed. You resembled a fish. You were stumped to answer quickly.

‘Miserable, infuriating, torturous, pleasurable mixed with a cup of agony...’

She lifted her brows until you hurriedly blurted, “He is...formidable and righteous...” you stood up tall and took a step back, adding with a monetarism of truth, “I am very lucky to have become his bride.”

‘Lucky, while incredibly resentful.’

You reached back, Sherlock adopted your arm back into his hold once more.

Lady Pennicott rubbed her belly, her eyes started to twinkle, “And soon you will have a plethora of children that will look like him I gather.”

Your eyes fluttered. Sherlock’s hand tightened around your glove and his throat bobbed. You felt hot in the face.

Yes that’s right, that’s what normal husband and wife did isn’t it? They have children. That was your role, to be the mother of Sherlock’s offspring...

You couldn’t answer.

And there. That dear girl is when you questioned for the first time. ‘Is this what I want?’ and ‘Do I want Sherlock’s children.’ Because having a knowing of his barbarism conflated a fear in your belly...would Sherlock hurt his own children if he could easily hurt you, his wife?

When you hesitated for too long to answer her again, Sherlock said with a strained tone that was masked in a hopeful joy, “One may only hope, Baroness.”

“Lady Pennicott,” Graydon interrupted, “We have come to ask you on the whereabouts of Lord Pennicott and the evening he was last sighted.”

Her eyes narrowed at the inspector and with an annoyed twinge she muttered and wiped her hands on a nearby blanket, “I already informed the police of what I was informed of by our butler Edward.”

She glanced up next her right. Mister Redmayne observed her, looking down. The pair smiled to each other. She reached out to him. She grabbed his hand and they squeezed.

The inspector laughed nervously, “Indeed but Detective Sherlock Holmes was not presently involved in the case until yesterday.”

Her eyes flickered quickly to your husband and her face flared with confusion quickly to be matched with a impressed smile, “Of course, please sit all of you as I am near a indisposition with my child,” she gestured to the mirroring chaise and a chair beside the fireplace, “Edward, please tell Martha to bring tea and biscuits for our kind service men and Mrs Holmes.”

The butler bowed to you all and left the sitting room.

Lestrade took his place on the lone chair while Sherlock sat you beside him on the chaise. You took your time to lower yourself. Sitting on your bruises was uncomfortable while another cramp hit you. Your fingers dug into his palm.

From Lestrades breast pocket he pulled out a notebook and small pencil.

“Lady Pennicott,” Sherlock softly hummed, “Please, could you tell me what your husband is like as a person?”

The woman who you believed was in her late thirties smiled and stated softly, “My Thaddeus is a noble man, good taste in wine and very devoted to his work. He likes to go hunting and we share a passion for gardening,” she glanced up at the ceiling and paused, “He prefers to plant vegetables to donate to the church and orphans, whereas I have always loved to grow my flowers.”

The way she described him, her devotion was deep and honourable. She touched her round belly.

Sherlock looked over to the fire place behind the baroness. On the mantle was a magnificent portrait twice your height, painted on the canvas was who you recognised as Lord and Lady Pennicott. He was sitting up straight on a fine red cushioned chair with his dirty blonde hair and softened mutton chops while she stood at his right and her ringed hand on his shoulder. The similarities were there but Lady Pennicotts hair had lightened in reality perhaps from all the years that separated her likeness and her reality.

“I was informed Lord Pennicott is a father of five?” Sherlock asked.

The Baroness smiled proudly and pat her tummy softly, “Six soon.”

You couldn’t help notice something was missing from the painting, Sherlock also had a similar thought.

Where were the children in the portrait? Where was a family portrait in the house?

“Forgive me,” a breath of air escaped from him, “are the children away at school?”

“Oh,” her uncanny smile remained while her brows angled down, her throat tightened as she spoke, “I fear they are in the loving embrace of angels now. All of them were taken from us by God,” her eyes glanced to you, “They came out sleeping.”

Your heart sunk to the pit of your belly with sorrow and pity.

Five babies lost, five babies gone…five pregnancies… four and a half years of pregnancy and for what? Five angels.

A woman had one holy role in life, to bare her husband children, and when a woman was defective or produced a sickly child, it was a symbol of failure in society. But you never saw it that way...you imagined it must’ve been agony to lose so many babies. One or two was a common occurrence but five? Five was a curse to experience and relive over and over.

“Well,” you interrupted Sherlock rudely, cutting him off from his next abrasive question by squeezing his hand a little too hard.

You could see the mourning in the baroness’ face. You saw the classic look of all women made uncomfortable by something a man has said. What the hell would the detective know about a woman’s emotions after how coldly he has treated all women and yourself.

You shuffled on the opposite chaise and smile softly, “I will pray this one will come swiftly and feel the warmth of their mother.”

The baroness’ face lifted and warmed. She smiled happily and nodded, “Thankyou, oh I’m just so excited! This one really is a big one, I can feel it. I hope it’s a boy.”

Sherlock was staring at you intensely as the maid Martha finally delivered a pot of tea and poured the steaming liquid. His brows were knitted and his eyes held suspicion as he kept you in his sight. You politely nodded your head once at him before reaching for a hot cup and lifting it to your lips.

Sherlock sighed and turned back to his questioning, “You would say you liked your marriage?”

The baroness appeared offended by your husband as her face wrinkled and a sneer spread her thin lips, “Of course, any woman who doesn’t like her marriage should not be married in the first place. She is a burden to her husband if she cannot perform her duties as a wife.”

Lady Pennicott leant forward and collected her own cup of tea, she delicately pinched a biscuit and dunked it into the contents.

…you felt Sherlock drag his thumb across your fingers. You felt chilly, could he read your thoughts? Did he know truly how much you already hated him and his ideas of intimacy in your marriage? He clear his throat when both your glancing eyes caught each other.

“Can you tell me what happened,” Sherlock pressed, “The night of your husbands disappearance?”

“Well...after dinner,” the baroness sighed in thought and nibbled on her moist biscuit, “Thaddeus wanted to speak with me in his office about a spending I had made a week ago. You see, I had bought a cradle for the nursery. The one we had originally was broken and beyond repair, we disposed of it a month prior. Thaddeus was not pleased with the price and claimed it was an unnecessary purchase,” she paused and set her cup aside before she touched her belly again; rubbing in soft slow circles, she began to blushed, “He was sorely hurt by my choice. He then became very cross with me and left his office in a huff.”

She looked to the yarn, to the tea pot and then finally to the painting on the mantle, “I deemed that he would find forgiveness in his heart by the morning and brush it off. I returned back to the nursery to tidy up before I went to my rooms and went to bed to sleep in my quarters of the east wing. Thaddeus keeps himself to the west wing most nights.”

The detective nodded, “What time do you believe it was when you went to your bed, Baroness?”

She hummed softly while pursuing her lips, “A quarter to nine in the evening.”

“And how did you realise your husband was missing?” Sherlock stole a scone off the tea tray and lifted it to his lips. He paused amidst chewing it slowly.

The noble woman sighed and recollected, pragmatically, “In the morning Mr Redmayne informed me on how Thaddeus took off into the night astride Arion, our prize stallion Clydesdale. Thaddeus had not returned by the next morning and that is when concern drew near. I sent members of my staff to the factories to investigate his whereabouts and none had come upon him. I knew something had to be wrong so I alerted the authorities by the second morning.”

Your husband took a deep breath and discarded the half bitten scone, he wiped his hand unceremoniously on his jacket and throatily asked, “Do you recall if Lord Pennicott has any potential persons he might be deemed as an enemy towards?”

“Only his company competitors, Detective,” She said saccharinely with her smile, “He was a very loveable man.”

“Do you have a list of the names of staff who were working that evening here in Groveland House?”

The butler stepped forward and cleared his throat, “That would be in Lord Pennicotts office,” he pulled out a pair of keys, “I can you show you gentlemen in and where he keeps his accounts and other paraphernalia to his business if you’d like?”

Both Sherlock and Lestrade smiled and stood up.

“Baroness,” Sherlock gently requested, “Would it be overly bothersome if my beloved wife remained and kept you company while the inspector and I look in your husband’s office.”

Your heart jumped to your throat. What was Sherlock doing leaving you behind with the Baroness by yourself!?....what if you spoke out of turn or said something too presumptuous for your status!?...

“Most certainly not,” she beamed “I will gladly accept such delightful company,” She held out a hand, palm down to her right. The butler speedily stepped to her side and leant her his hand. She winced as she scooted forward on the cushioned lounge before struggling to rise to her feet.

Sherlock leant down and kissed the back of your wrist again, so scantily in front of the baroness. You tried tor refrain from loudly gasped and bringing anymore dangerous attention to yourself. Your husband left your side and followed the butler with Lestrade out of the sitting room.

So the party turned to two married women. The baroness was pleased.

She stepped closer to you and reached for your arm. You were surprised by her familiarity but you would not deny the assistance of a woman so desperately swollen and ready to birth any day.

“My dear, would you care to have a stroll with me in my garden?” She smirked and jerked her chin, “Knowing how dear Thaddie kept his space organised I suspect the gentlemen might be a while.”

You nodded and quickly made the warning assurance, “Are you in a condition to move great feets Lady Pennicott?”

“Fret not,” She giggled girlishly and waved her hand casually, “The physician told me fresh air is delightful for the health of the babe,” she tapped the top of her belly, “I have a month or so before they come.”

Your eyes widened, she looked huge enough to give birth now, surely she wasn’t a month away!! Maybe she was going to be blessed with a pair of twins. You had such a limited knowledge of pregnancy in women. Your grandmother hadn’t given birthed a child in the last forty years before your birth!!!

She pointed the way out of the main mansion to enter the garden paths. The sun was perfect today amongst the clouds. It was neither cold nor hot nor humid and dank...it was pleasant and you could smell the fresh nature of bushels and flowers.

“How long have you been known as, The Mrs Holmes?” She inquired cheerfully with her shining silver eyes.

“...Not very long,” you replied warmly before risking a white lie, “We recently finished our honeymoon.”

She grinned and waddled passed a wooden bench, she took a quick stop to rest and pat the seat for you to join her instead of standing dumbly.

“Shall I share some words of advise?,” She hummed, “From a woman that has been married for twelve years?”

“I would be ever so grateful,” you said rushed and desperate. You wouldve listened to anything she had to say. A woman of her standing must’ve held adequate wisdom.

She warmly cupped both your hands and squeezed them. And yet there was an ice creepy into her gaze. She appeared to dissociate, her voice losing its youthful lilt. Her lip wobbled slightly.

“Men are visual creatures. While you are so young and beautiful, you must become pregnant as soon as possible,” Lady Pennicott ran her palm across your waist, her eyes like razors cut across the yard to a bush of red rose buds, “It is inevitable that our husbands will stray their gazes to other women, it is in their nature,” those grey stones in her face rolled back and weighed you down, “as I said- visual creatures. The sooner you make a babe, the easier his devotion comes,” A joyous grin returned to her thin lips, she playfully tapped the tip of your nose and stated, “Trust me upon this.”

You clenched your hand behind you and strained a smile, “I thankyou for such wise words Baroness. I will endeavour to do what I must to conceive.”

At this moment in time Sherlock had proved himself a monstrous villain. Would it be possible for you to fall pregnant?

You looked out at the divine lush greenery and exhaled softly.

“Do you garden Mrs Holmes?” the baroness queried.

You chuckled softly and removed your gloves, you flashed her a sight of your palm, “I am afraid my hands have never been introduced. My grandmother preferred I focus on mastering piano and embroidery.”

The grey orbs fluttered back at you with a surprised him, “Embroidery is a lovely skill,” she pat your hand and pointed across the field, “Please help me up Mrs Holmes, let us take a look at my lilacs.”

You stood straight up and leant out your arm, she was surprisingly light for a woman her size. She leant against you and took small timid steps to her flower patches.

She stood and admired the flower patches, pointing to different types and explaining the breeds of flowers she hoped to grow in the future.

You finally bent over enough and cupped the petals of purple to hold up to your nose and took in a wiff “They smell lovely,” from the corner of your eye was a line of crimson, “I see your roses will soon be in bloom.”

She pinched a bud that was peaking to bloom soon.

“Oh yes, the soil is rich and healthy,” she giggled, “I can’t wait for Thaddeus to return, he liked the roses. He would stand here for a while and think. I know he will love the red colour. It is his favourite shade you see...” She sighed dreamily with her eyes scanning the bushes of scarlet rose buds, “I miss him terribly. I hope he’s alright. I want him to come home soon before the baby arrives.”

A fly smacked into your eye and you sputtered, battering it away. When you gracelessly composed yourself, you stood back up to your feet beside the Lady of Groveland.

You could see how her eyes puddles with droplets of mournful tears. You felt bad for any woman that did not know where her husband was. Especially if there was a rumour about him fleeing the marriage and abandoning her in her serious pregnant condition.

Taking the chance, you boldly took both your hands into yours and now squeezed them. Another buzzing from a fly sat on your shoulder.

The day was growing warmer and a bead of sweat rolled down your neck. The fly tickled your neck and suckled along your salted skin.

You tried your best to ignore the annoying creature.

“I am sure he will Lady Pennicott,” you soothed with a soft welcoming grin, “And he will be most happy when he returns.”

She sighed solemnly and glanced back at the rose bushes. You felt obligated for her happiness in that moment. Glancing back to the house you felt a opportunity come to you.

“May I visit your nursery Lady Pennicott, so I may have references for my own in the future?”

Her eyes flickered up, her face shine bright and her hand tightened over your wrists excitedly as though she was still as youthful as a school girl.

“Why of course Mrs Holmes,” she spun on her heel and wobbled a slight, she lifted her hand and called to the maid Martha still packing the china set inside, “Please inform the detective that I am taking his wife up to the nursery.”

“Yes Baroness,” she said with a humble curtsey and scurried off while Lady Pennicott took you totally inside the house and up a grand stair case from the foyer.

9:03am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England. 

Up, up, up you both climbed the stairs. You noticed how the stairs didn’t bother her ladyship once, she was fit and stridden widely whereas you were breathing a little hard by the top step.

She pulled you down a hallway to a white painted door.

She excitedly opened the door wide and practically skipped inside to show you around her future child’s room.

The walls were covered in light blue and yellow paint. There were small peonies covering the trim of the room. There was no carpet but who needed one when you had a newborn.

“Welcome to the resting nest of my baby,” Lady Pennicott proudly exclaimed, spreading her arms out at the room around you.

There was a tall shelf filled with stuffed animals and teddy bears. There was a rocking horse, a doll house, spinning tops, tin cars and rubber balls all waiting, collecting dust, awaiting the arrival of a playmate. There was a permabulator by the window sill. There was a rocking chair in one corner and against the wall closest to the door- you smiled and swaggered over curiously, “Is this the cradle you bought?”

It was made of fine cream painted wood. You chewed your bottom lip in the thought. It was a lovely crib, why was Lord Pennicott so upset by such a delightful purchase? He didn’t have money issues. You put it down as that you didn’t understand the way men thought and men will never know what women think.

“Yes,” Lady Pennicott chirped, “it is from William Whitely department store in Baywater next to the Howard & Co dress department.”

The Baroness sat down into her rocking chair and slowly moved it back and forth, watching you admire the nursery she spent hours and years consistently curating.

You clenched the edge and looked over the railing down at the empty bedding. There was a teddy lamb in the corner, you pinched it’s fluffy white tail and sighed. For a brief moment you let your eyes close and your imagination wander far.

One day you’d have this...with Sherlock. An empty cradle to be filled. You caught the vision of a tiny hand squeeze around your finger and the sound of soft gurgles with the warm pressure of a hand on your waist...was that Sherlock’s hand? Was that your child?

One day you’d have a baby to care for, to provide these things that meant love...yet, was any child of Sherlock’s capable of love? He certainly wasn’t as far as you were concerned.

You bit down a shudder and opened your eyes, feeling hot tears glide down a cheek. You pushed back and sighed, “I am most confident on one thing Lady Pennicott.”

“And what is that Mrs Holmes?” she said softly, she could see the unspoken pain in your face. You swallowed hard and your face fell into a smile, you flashed her a wink.

You laughed softly, “Your child will be spoilt rotten by the love you give.”

She chuckled with you and nodded.

“Have you thought of a name?” you inquired, waltzing over to the chested drawers of baby knick knacks on display.

“Thaddeus Colin if it’s a boy,” she hummed, “or Theresa Grace if it is a girl.”

“Theresa?”

She giggled gently, “That is my name dear.”

Mrs Theresa Pennicott. It suited her. Her old soul eyes reflected her devout name.

A shine of glass pierced a ray of sun into your eyes, you pinched the glass object carefully. You touched a long black tube pulling out of it. You couldnt understand it’s purpose, your eyes narrowed at the rubber end that was shaped like a thumb or a cows udder. There was a second tube attached to the first with a rubber squeeze ball at the end.

“What is this?” you humoured.

“Oh that? It’s a fantastic invention,” The baroness said, “It’s a pump for breast milk with a tube that syphons the milk into this baby feeding bottle. When babies start to teeth they can scar your breasts. This is an effective and modern method I look forward to trying.”

Your eyes widened, scarring!? Babies teeth could scar a breast!?

You placed the bottle bump back and helped Lady Pennicott when she beckoned to stand back up from the rocking chair.

“Have you ever felt the sensations?” She suddenly, “In which they kick within?”

Your face must’ve looked idiotic as you asked plainly, “Kick?”

She giggled and nodded, “Give me your hand, perhaps you may feel them moving.”

She plucked your palm and pulled your glove off your fingers. She pressed your entire hand intimately to her belly. You felt a sense of taboo shame, she was making you touch such a beloved spot.

“Do you feel it?” she then asked.

Felt what? Confusion flooded your mind. Your hand moved around her belly slowly.

“I am afraid I don’t know what I’m meant to be feeling?”

She moved your hand and again you felt absolutely nothing.

“They are very brutal on my body,” Lady Pennicott sarcastically assured, “trust me there is a kick.”

She made a point to push your hand harder, but all you felt was the hard material of her corsetry beneath her main dressing materials.

“Baby’s kick you inside?” you marvelled with stunned horror. This was the first time you’d ever heard of such a notion of a baby beating it’s mother inside.

“Not out of malicious intent Mrs Holmes,” she reassured, “mostly it is the baby using its limbs to move their cramped bodies inside or excitement at the sound of voices, I truly believe they can hear us while still inside. Fear not, to you it will feel like a faint touch like this-”

Lady Pennicott softly tapped your wrist, “Like that.”

And there again was new knowledge you heard from a woman on matters of pregnancy. You moved your fingers around, seeking the supposed feeling of a kick...

Still nothing. You frowned, was there something wrong with you that the baby was choosing not to reveal itself.

“How interesting...”

A soft knock on wood alerted you both to glance at the door.

“Mrs Holmes,” the butler from earlier politely spoke, “the detective is requesting your return, I believe he intends to depart.”

Your face fell. You couldn’t believe it but you’d found this experience immensely enjoyable. You had surprisingly made a friend of the Baroness.

The fair lady hugged your side and sweetly exhaled, “Then I shall escort you back to your husband, Eddie fetch me my cheque book.”

He nodded and walked ahead of you both. You solemnly shut the nursery door, trying to remember every precious detail as possible. It was a innocent place to escape from the crude world.

You returned to the bottom of the foyer and smiled at your husband that stood by Lestrade at the front doors.

By the bottom step you faced the noble woman and curtsied.

“Thankyou Lady Pennicott for your kind hospitality and agreeable cooperation to the case,” you heard Sherlock’s voice float over your shoulder.

“Of course detective, please,” the Butler returned with her cheque book, “find my beloved Thaddeus.”

She scribbled speedily with a modernised ink pen, a sharp tear of paper flashed to his direction, “Here. Thirty pounds. I am sure you are busy with other clients considering your reputation, but I beseech you to seek out my husband quickly.”

Sherlock bowed his head as he deposited the cheque into his pocket, “We shall try our hardest. Good afternoon Lady Pennicott.”

Your mouth might’ve collected flies. Thirty pounds. THIRTY pounds. That was a hefty wage for a year to many men.

Sherlock was granted his coat and walking cane along with Lestrade.

He opened the front door and left slowly, glancing over your shoulder back at the heavily pregnant Baroness.

9:21am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England. 

Sherlock and you walked up the gravel path in silence for sometime. You weren’t in much of a mood to speak to him despite well knowing conversation would need to spark eventually.

The three of you slowed down beside the inspectors horse cart.

Thankfully it was Sherlock who destroyed the silence with a stretched sigh. Lestrade grimly smiled at that sigh and rocked on his heels.

“Lestrade, show a useful skill,” Sherlock slapped a coin purse into his chest, “Find my wife and I a decent ride homeward. You still need to return back to the office and finish writing those reports on the Spring heeled Jack sightings....” he snickered.

The mutton chop male grumbled and left you pair alone to walk down the path into the main parklands to hail a cabriolet or another hackney carriage.

Sherlock pulled out his pipe and lit it quickly, he inhaled fast and asked curiously, “Did you learn anything else from our suspect?”

You squinted and felt a gasp pop from your lips, your hand snapped out and dug your nails into his arm with a scolding hiss, “Suspect? Look at the state she is in Sherlock. She clearly loves her husband. How could such a indisposed woman do anything to her husband?”

He smirked, “Perhaps a jealous one?”

Your brows pulled together. Jealousy wasn’t something you would’ve describe Lady Pennicott as especially with such a privileged life. Such an emotion wouldve been beneath her...but.. ‘It is inevitable that our husbands will stray their gazes to other women, it is in their nature.’

Sherlock pinched out a piece of card from his pocket, a business calling card, he flashed it through his fingers and let you carefully pluck it from his hand.

“it is no wonder Thaddeus Pennicotts name was so familiar,” Sherlocks huffed a puff of air, “He visits a like minded establishment.”

On the front of the card was a single image, a dove holding a olive leaf, and when you turned the card around there was a woman modelled in immodest clothing with text and an address in perfect hand writing.

“The Mayfair Row Dove club.”

You almost dropped the card in the mud at your feet.

He tucked the card back into his breast pocket and hooked his arm around yours, walking you closer to Lestrade waving his hands back at you both.

“I’m curious who his go to bird is there,” He chuckled.

You shook your head and scoffed in disbelief, “but she’s pregnant.”

“Men have needs,” Sherlock sighed, “I thought you’d have learnt that from last evening?”

Your nails dug harder into his arm and grit your teeth. Not everyone was as depraved as Sherlock, surely not. You couldn’t imagine Mycroft or your grandfather practicing such atrocities on women, especially women that weren’t their wives.

You noted snootily, “She said her husband liked to stand out by the roses to think. Perhaps he regretted his choice.”

Sherlock laughed cruelly and hard enough to almost drop his pipe from his lips. He plucked it out of his mouth and kissed you hard and squarely in front of Lestrade and any passing people that shook their heads in disgust at such public affection.

The taste of his tobacco filled your cheeks and floated down your throat into your chest. You could feel how his breath became your breath. Your head grew dizzy from it. His release left you trembling and collapsing against him briefly. His arm grabbed around your waist and held you totally against his chest.

“You see too much good in the worst people,” he whispered wetly into your ear.

“Not true,” you panted, you blinked your eyes hard and tried speaking again. You weakly pushed away from him back onto your own two feet. From the corner of your eyes you could see the inspector standing beside another hackney carriage.

“Not true,” you repeated and swallowed hard, “...I don’t see any good in you Sherlock.”

He grinned devilishly and walked you both to the carriage, He ignored Lestrade entirely except for retrieving his own purse.

“None at all?” Sherlock asked as he helped you step up inside of the carriage. It jostled as he plotted himself next to you instead of opposite.

You thought hard on his question for a time. You shouldn’t have ever been as petty as him. So you kept your silence before you could decide on a eloquent response. You did try to find the good in him. The trouble was you barely knew Sherlock and the side that you’d encounter was nothing short of a blagged, insufferable man that happened to be very experienced in the arts of the bedroom. So you tried to think about qualities you hadn’t seen in him but had at least heard of him.

“You help solve cases and even sometimes restitution, these deeds could be counted as decent and beneficial...perhaps good...”

He smirked until you finished hastily, “However your mistreatment and lustful addiction is nothing short of that than a person that suffers in his sin.”

A long annoyed sigh drew from his lips, however the corners jerked up.

He tug out his pipe and tapped it’s contents out the moving window, “Might I ask Mrs Holmes...” he inquired as he tucked in his pipe, and wiped his lips thoughtfully, “Do you think yourself better than me?”

The silence shared between the horses trotting along the cobblestones allowed you a chance to glare long and hard at Sherlock.

It was a jab, a jibe, a joke, a trick, a trap...

He wanted you to say yes... You could see it in his eyes the way they flicked to your lips and almost drooled with anticipation. He wanted to start a fight.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking at you, you turned your head away and scoffed, “You may have quick wit and a expansive knowledge Sherlock, but I at least carry myself with the fairest morals.”

And that? The reply was granted a omen of Sherlock’s sickly chuckles and his heavy warm hand to sit over your thigh, running his them over the fabric of your skirts.

“We will see how fair a baker street whore morals really are when we arrive home then shall we?”

You leant against the wall of the carriage and chose to ignore him. You closed your eyes and held Sherlock’s hand to prevent it wandering anywhere else. His thumb rubbed along the back of your gloves hands.

You couldn’t understand Sherlock. And feared you never would.

HELPLINES:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.

[grimesgirll]

rick has to be the most possessive man you know.

you love him, but you also love daryl.

so that complicates things. it confuses you even more the number of times both of the men managed to have you bent over between them. being as jealous as rick is, it’s hard to believe that he could even think to share you. daryl’s his brother however, and you’re an individual, you can make your own decisions, rick guesses.

he can’t fault you for your obsession with his best friend. daryl’s a moral man, a provider, good looking enough that you can’t help but run your hands through his hair every chance you get. sometimes it takes rick some deep breaths and a moment of grounding to contain his jealousy. he loves you too much to not see red every time you’re swooning for someone who isn’t him. he even loves daryl but he can’t help it, not when it’s you.

so rick will never stand between you and daryl, not when you show no signs of ever dropping your infatuation with either man, especially not the sheriff. everyday when he comes home and plops down on the sofa after a day of his enduring constable’s duties, you’re on top of him in his lap. you don’t even have to be horny to make yourself at home with your head against his chest.

adoring his deep blue eyes, you straddle him every opportunity you get for the time to lock eyes, hands on his shoulders and his on your hips as you talk about your days. after a long day out in the community, it doesn’t take long for rick’s dick to tent in his jeans and you to feel a pressure against your clothed slit.

it isn’t uncommon for daryl or rick to come home and find you curled up with the other on the sofa. so rick has to endure the empathy exercise that is not dragging you from the sofa, tossing you over his shoulder and retiring to the bedroom for the night.

plush lips parted with only your breath coming through, you just melt into them whenever you have the opportunity. one look and you’re a puddle.

how can he not be jealous when you’re this fucking sweet?

he tries to extend daryl the same courtesy of enjoying you without the drama but rick is still getting used to the dynamic - more than the group is at this point.

the three of you were an unusual case but the group had gotten used to it after long enough. it only took a few weeks for them not to take a second glance at rick’s hands on your waist or how daryl’s crossbow could almost always be found somewhere around your sleeping situation.

that’s why it’s not awkward when carl knocks on the door in the mornings to hand judith off to his father and you and daryl are snoozing away in the background. you do your best to keep the pda to a minimum but the neighborhood doesn’t mind, so rick often doesn’t.

you think back to gabriel's church in georgia; you'd been hiding with the members of your group that had stayed while the others went out to do in the cannibals once and for all. your plan had went off without a hitch but that didn't mean that the event hadn't shaken you to the core.

one of the savages whose name you couldn't be bothered to remember had graphically described how specifically delicious your parts would be.

rick slashed his throat.

the entire series of events had rick on edge but even after the bloodbath, rick couldn’t stand to have you out of his sight.

“what’re you doin’ all the way over here?”

you tensed up.

“rick, i-,”

“why the fuck were you wandering off?”

you paused, recognizing the ire in rick’s voice when you hear it. you almost wanted to say nothing to avoid what you know will be a fight regardless but you know you’ll be accused of not speaking up.

“i didn’t mean to. i was stretching my legs. i’ll stay closer.”

“yeah, you will.”

the group’s known about how rick feels for you for a while.

it’s why you’re wrapped up in rick’s arms while you watch your newly assimilated group and the alexandrians trying their hands at the compound bows hanging around the makeshift archery range.

daryl’s leaving everyone in the dust of course.

“show off,” you whisper to rick who snickers in agreement.

this is nice; quaint and tranquil, just like the suburbs out to be. you never imagined ending up essentially married with two husbands and two children, shacked up in a gated community in a nearly million dollar house with the dead being a greater issue than a mortgage or getting the kids into college but you’re content with it.

you’d rather watch as daryl does trick shots - going as far to pull out the old splitting the arrow in half trick, which you almost whistle at. are they going to put an apple on the windmill next? you chuckle at the thought.

“when are you going up?” maggie calling your name snaps you out of your musings about daryl.

you scoff at her playfully. “you know i’m a bad shot, maggie.”

the redhead shrugs. “don’t think you’re as bad as you say you are. c’mon, even the kids are trying it.”

she’s not wrong - even sam is picking up a bow and giving it a try with some encouraging from ron.

“sure,” accepting the challenge, you untwist yourself from rick; not before indulging in one last full lipped kiss, a “good luck” on rick’s lips as you head to the picnic table to gear up.

you select a familiar looking compound bow and join daryl at the shooting line. he frowns when he catches sight of your arm.

“wait, baby, you’re not even wearin’ your armband right.”

you shrug. “it’s been a while.”

he’s in you; fixing the nearly sideways arm shield. muttering about you never taking safety too seriously. you’d beg to differ but you’re too bewitched by his striking blue eyes up close. the man slides the band in place before dropping his hand back to your rear, letting a hand fall down your cargos as he gently shoves you towards the cylinder full of arrows at the spray painted shooting line.

the delight is all over your face when you knock your arrow with no notes from the bowman observing your practice.

archery isn’t your strong suit but you’d come into contact with it at summer camps in your youth and in gym class. your form is fantastic - or at least it always starts that way. the arrow that flies flies flawlessly and suddenly you’re beaming at the cheers once you notice your arrow a mere inch from where a bullseye should be.

maggie’s awestruck face and rick’s grin are enough for you to start knocking another arrow, sending daryl a cocky look.

the problems start when you reload and tilt your bow upright. you’re drawing your arrow back like your boyfriend showed you all of those times before, but something makes the auburn haired man stop and correct your form, saying, “here,” softly and moving your left arm long.

he steadies a hand on your hip as he helps to steady your aim. despite being momentarily tucked in daryl’s steel embrace, you feel eyes boring into it.

rick is striding over, not caring about glenn approaching the other end of the shooting line to give it a go or even your almost perfect bullseye.

“i think you would’ve gotten that one is daryl would’ve given you some space.”

an eye roll is sneaking out of daryl and rick still has his arms crossed. you shake your head to signify that it’s all a misunderstanding. “rick, i’m shit at archery because i’m shit at archery - not because daryl has his hands on me.”

rick grunts. “that’s not what i saw.”

you smile sweetly at the constable. “he’s just helping me learn to shoot, babe.”

“yeah, let her learn. might come a day when we’re out of bullets,” daryl backs you up, citing an obvious concern now that scavenging was growing riskier and riskier.

“might come a day when you stop drooling over every touch.” rick jabs.

an eyebrow shoots up. “you don’t seem to have a problem with me drooling over you.” you counter. “just wait until later. you’ll be changing your tune about all of this,” you gesture to daryl.

rick’s eyes are alight with something stronger than irritation, more personal than just being annoyed. he looks like he almost wants to bend you over his lap and you’re sure he’s about to say something just as embarrassing until a voice interrupts his thought before it comes out.

you and daryl seize your getaway when rick is summoned up onto deanna’s porch to try some of her famous peanut butter buckeyes. “proudly from ohio,” she’d proclaimed of the recipe.

midwestern sweets are the perfect cover for you and your archer to stowaway in the barn, somewhere it would take rick a long time to look. daryl has you next to him on a hay bale in an empty horse stall before you can even count how many horses are actually around. not that it matters with the stall dividers giving you more than enough cover.

the finger screwing you open has you screaming your face with pleasure. this is what you’d been wanting rick to do at the archery range. you would’ve done whatever he said for him to whisk you away and take care of that specific need right there and then.

“real quick? just to hold you over until later?” he’s massaging your worked up insides like he’s aware of every tension that’s been brewing in you all day long.

“dare’,” your ability to keep it together is slipping.

“you want me to fill you up with a finger now, baby?” daryl toys, middle finger joining his pointer in your pulsing cunt.

you say everything but no when daryl embarks between your thighs.

deanna’s buckeyes were delicious.

not as great as his mom’s peach cobbler but enough of a sign that this place is where the group should lay down there roots. where you three should put down your roots.

rick doesn’t want to be the overbearing boyfriend, not when you and daryl are on the other end of it. the idea of sharing you is still just so foreign. in bed, it mostly goes off without a hitch but during the daytime is another story.

jealousy manifests in all kinds of inappropriate ways - like spoiling your moment with daryl after you shot so well, rusty as you were not having picked up a bow in god knows how long. rick wants to apologize. the thought’s on his mind but the way his body moves, searching for you and his friend, he’s more of a predator than a man. moved almost as if by the primal need to be close to you. to know where you are.

so when he finally finds and daryl in the stable, he thinks his head might explode.

“the fuck are you two doin’ in this stall?”

your climax is put on pause as daryl freezes his tongue over your clit. despite your frivolous wrenching of his auburn waves, your efforts to at least enjoy a release before rick starts on his lecture prove to be futile. daryl’s not just abandoning ship but pulling up your underwear.

“and the fuck are you whimperin’ about?”

you stop; a deer in the headlights. “what?” you mumble through swollen lips.

“move the fuck over, daryl,” before you know it, rick is doing the unexpected and taking your lover’s spot sucking your clit.

rick doesn’t give you anytime at all to mentally or physically adjust to him just jumping in and slurping you up.

the lack of warning has you coming on his tongue and daryl’s eyes widening. none of you can be surprised by the fact that rick isn’t stopping. you’re fine with that; you can’t face his “i told you so” looks right now anyways.

rick rarely gets to eat you out as often as he wants to. usually it’s daryl torturing your sensitive cunt without abandon. the scene before you: rick, with a tongue treating you like the last popsicle in the hell, tongue fucking you even as you grip as his hair.

“rick,” you say starry eyed.

“he’s busy, baby,” daryl explains and settles into the spot next to you against the hay bale.

“rick, rick!” you’re stirring up straw around you as rick adds a finger to his artful invasion of your pussy. the tongue isn’t enough, no, he needs to penetrate you with a finger as well. it doesn’t matter that his nose is shiny with your slick or that you’re begging for a break. you’re gonna overload all over his face like the good little slut he knows you are for him.

at least that’s what he tells you after he holds you down and tag teams you with daryl to incur a whirlwind of pleasure from your sensitive pebbled flesh to your slippery entrance. your kicking legs don’t phase him, much less than tsunami of pleasure that washes over you and coats his mouth.

the intense breakdown from inside your core has your mind completely wiped. you’re so fucked out, you’re begging for rick to do the dirtiest things to you on this hay strewn floor.

“you need me to smack your pussy baby?”

“yes, rick!”

the light sting that flushes your cunt has you gasping into daryl’s mouth when he leans over to lock puffy lips with you. another swat or two is more than enough to have you even wetter than you were when rick interrupted you and daryl. the stretch you’re expecting comes more as a squelch for the first few inches.

rick has gotten used to you over time but as daryl props you up on his lap, you grit your teeth. the older man is hitting that marianna trench deep angle with his horsecock fitting for the stable that’s on the verge of battering your cervix.

kudos to daryl, you think. how supportive of your fucking antics. you know why that is.

daryl will let rick go as far as he does because he knows it’ll end up with the three of you right here. right on top of each other, gliding into position wordlessly. the tent in his pants has been freed and by the way he’s palming himself, you can tell he’s not saving that thing for your mouth.

the massive cock splitting you up and imprinting some kind of shape, begins to pulse. you’re ready to come all over him when you feel an intrusion at your sopping hole.

“what the-,”

“relax, it’s a finger.”

“you’re cutting in here already?”

daryl raises an eyebrow at his brother. “you’re tellin’ me that you don’t wanna double stuff her?”

you clench around rick at the younger man’s words.

rick laughs, wrapping his arms around you before starting to roll over, “well, when you put it that way.”

and he sends his tongue down your throat as soon as the second dexterous finger struggles inside of you. the pressure ebbs and flows from pain to pleasure. regardless, the pain is dull enough that the hold rick’s maintaining on your sides is enough to distract you.

you’re draped on top of rick, snug against him but he still starts to run his cocky mouth.

“i thought the bigger dude’s supposed to be on top. isn’t that what that magazine you guys found said?”

daryl raises a tawny eyebrow, not bothering to slow the pace of his fingers. “you’re really gonna brag about your dick right now?”

rick pistons his hips upwards, squeezing a cry out of you and proving his point.

“you’re an asshole,” you’re muttering as you endure another pointed thrust.

rick gets his recompense when daryl finally feeds his own impressive cock, centimeter by centimeter at first - eyeballing it and checking in on you and rick as you both start to squirm.

daryl’s struggling to not give it one heroic thrust and dive balls deep but he knows that would probably tear you in two. theres no way you can handle anything other than slow right now. rick is the same with a matching flustered expression. he accepts your hand when you grasp his much larger palm in yours.

the once cocky constable is now absolutely being shut up by your all encompassing, air tight walls and daryl’s cock edging you two as he edges further inside of you.

daryl’s fingers were pipe cleaners in comparison to his meaty cock cramming into you as if you weren’t meant for only one. it doesn’t matter though. no one would hear you complaining. this isn’t the first one they’ve stretched you on both of their cocks and it won’t be the last - not if you have anything to do with it.

once the man above you is a bit more firmly entrapped in your tight warmth, you start to move your hips back. rick is smirking beneath you when daryl warns you with a spank not to squirm too much - not if you want both of them to come in you. the conditions have you settling your hips and clinging onto rick, stilling with the close contact as daryl sandwiches you into him.

rick has no reason to complain, not with the sunlight coming through just the right panes of the barn’s skylights and painting your face and your hair a delicious shade of golden hour. daryl’s disposition is made only more chiseled and picturesque with the waning daylight.

neither of them are lasting long with the way the day’s gone.

you don’t make it a piece of cake holding on regardless. wound up since rick first pulled you into his arms back at the range, you have no patience for the men overfilling your walls. your hips can’t wait to thrash and jerk just like daryl’s. the archer is rasping in your ear to calm down but with the blush bringing, brain fogging pressure that two cocks in your entrance brings, you barely listen.

your constable comes first of course. he’s the one that sets off the real showstopper of a release that wrings a cry so loud out of you that one of the horses sighs in the background.

the warmth of his come fills you from his position buried deep in your pussy. it’s slipping out of you with each erratic propel of daryl into you, fucking the two of you straight through your orgasms.

come floods from your womb and out of your entrance, spilling down your thighs once daryl finally pulls out. he whistles and gestures for rick to check it out but the man is too worn out to look between your sticky thighs. instead, you’re flush against his chest and he’s calling daryl down with the two of you.

tangled together in the hay, you can’t think of a better way to spend this idyllic day.

[felassan]

According to SteamDB, this video was recently added to DA:TV's Steam page. [source: DA:TV on Steam] It shows the Deluxe Edition bonus items. Previously we had only seen some of these, but this one includes all of Rook's weapon cosmetics and all of the companion weapon cosmetics. (I only remember seeing 2 of each of those before)

(guessing, left to right, top to bottom): Warrior's sword and shield (Sword of the Fallen Kingdom and Aegis of the Fallen Kingdom), rogue's bow (Bow of the Fallen Kingdom), mage's dagger from orb and dagger style (Spellblade of the Fallen Kingdom), warrior's twohanded weapon (Maul of the Fallen Kingdom), rogue's sword (Blades of the Fallen Kingdom), mage's staff (Stave of the Fallen Kingdom)

(guessing, left to right, top to bottom): Davrin (Plate of the High Constable and Beacon Edge), Neve (Cat's Eye), Taash (Grief), Lucanis (Heartpiercer), ?, Emmrich (Staff of Incessant Gaze), ?. Not sure which bow is Harding's and which is Bellara's - maybe bow 1 is Bellara's as the curving looks like halla horns? in any event, Harding's bow is called Sunderbow and I think Bellara's is Ringlet of Sorrow.

(Rook armor names, companion armor names and thoughts on these items can be found [here].)

[jrow]

May Prompts (27)

Day 26 here. Start at the beginning here. Day 28 here.

Jealous

He isn’t jealous.

If anything, he feels pity for Sherlock.

Unlike his brother—who was pre-occupied by getting home and ensuring John rest—he would rather get on with work. Not be distracted by sentiment.

Unlike his brother—who sat flush against John, practically snuggling, in the back seat of the town car—he prefers having the full passenger seat to himself. There’s more room when you’re alone.

Unlike his brother—who is now at home, probably suffering through tea and biscuits with the Watsons, Mrs. Hudson and Dr. Hooper—he is preparing to interrogate the man responsible for the chaos of the last week. Being productive.

He isn’t jealous.

He could easily hand off the interrogation of the constable, now identified as a Rhys Wright, to any of his agents. Hell, even the imbeciles at Scotland Yard could handle the blubbering mess. But, he promised Sherlock.

To most, it may appear as if his brother has learned to let go of his anger in situations like these. But, Sherlock has simply grown more strategic in channelling his anger and ceding control. And today, Sherlock is trusting him to ensure Mr. Wright is far from comfortable.

So, they made a deal. He will be locked in a room with Wright for the rest of the day. Then, he will ensure the man stays under the jurisdiction of MI5, with their … ahem … rough interrogation and incarceration techniques, for a bit longer. Only then will Wright be handed over to the Metropolitan Police, case wrapped up like a bow. Conviction guaranteed.

In return, Rosie and co. will join him for brunch and a trip on the Eye tomorrow.

He isn’t jealous.

And tomorrow night, he will arrange for movers. Because, unlike his brother, it appears that John is finally planning on actually saying something. The rest is inevitable. Maybe it always was.

He’s happy for his brother. Truly.

Anthea is being ridiculous. He isn’t jealous at all.

@keirgreeneyes @raina-at @totallysilvergirl @meetinginsamarra @jolieblack @phoenix27884 @friday411 @calaisreno @lisbeth-kk @safedistancefrombeingsmart @momma2boys @helloliriels @dapetty @quimerasyutopias

[felicitywilds]

The Magiciatron

A couple of posts came across my dash recently in quick succession about Crowley and Aziraphale’s costuming, and boy howdy did they get me Thinking™. The details of those posts are not super relevant, but they did inspire this one and were quite insightful, so I’d recommend giving them a read anyway, as well as the several other posts I have linked throughout where ideas were taken. Please do give those a read/reblog as well!

And then take a look at this post I saw:

“You’re not trying to trick me, are you?”

Now kindly consider the fact that Crowley is beside Muriel’s left shoulder (like an angel) and the Metatron is on Aziraphale’s right (like a demon). And notice, like I did, that the lapels on his coat are some of the lowest we’ve seen. Which, for an angel-who-isn’t-Aziraphale, and you know, the literal fucking voice of God, is pretty fucking weird. But I digress.

Because what’s important here is that you’re reminded, like I was, how weird it is that the Metatron is wearing so much black.

Surely the most important angel we’ve ever met-- who up to this point, has only ever been depicted as a brilliantly glowing white head, and is (stage blocking-wise, literally) above inhabiting the typical corporations that other angels have, even while in heaven-- surely he would be sporting the cleanest, purest, whitest clothes imaginable, right?

But... he isn’t. He’s not wearing grey or beige like any of the other angels, or even white like Muriel’s constable uniform, he’s wearing black. That’s weird! Angels don’t wear black! Oh... well except when they’re magicians, of course:

(X, X)

But even in his magician costumes, Aziraphale retains many elements of his angelic nature: the upward-pointed lapels; the white cuffs poking out of his sleeves; the floppy bow ties; the single-button or open jacket revealing the soft gold and velvet vests. This is merely a flashy costume! Don’t worry folks, he’s still the same, good old angel underneath!

The Metatron, on the other hand, does not have any of these angelic indicators. Underneath his magician’s coat-- which is big and loose, falls closed in front of him in a way that obscures his suit, and has extremely downward-pointing lapels-- he wears a dark tie, and a very normal-looking, white, pinstripe shirt. No angelic tartan to be seen, either. It’s a very understated, business-minded look compared to Aziraphale’s flashy stage getups. Also worth noting imo is that in many scenes, the Metatron has his hands in his pockets, which obscures his form even more.

Now this might be indicative of something more, some larger scheme we haven’t deduced yet, but by itself it’s a brilliant move by the costuming department, adding yet another perfectly conniving layer to the Metatron’s manipulations:

Dress him in the magician’s coat and send him on stage, where his tricks are hidden in plain sight...

Engage the audience to participate in a dramatic reveal...

Reassure his volunteer that his props are completely normal by offering them up for inspection...

Have the assistant do all the flashy presentation for him...

So that while the audience is distracted, they fail to notice...

... that a swap has been made...

And then the curtain falls. Show over. Audience fooled. Job well done.

The End.

[harlotofupdog]

The Serpent and Thistle: Chapter 7

Terribly late pub jizz but yay.

Summary: Aziraphale is a Met officer who transfers to a small village police station. Crowley is the local publican. They don't see eye to eye.

There is also a plot (seriously, I promise)

Rating: E (for erm surely something will happen soon)

CW/TW: This is one of the aforementioned chapters where we have mention of death of an unnamed character. It is in flashback form, and there are very few details, nothing graphic, but it is (at least for me) a bit sad. I've put a quick summary in end notes on AO3 for anyone who is unsure.

All the everlasting and eternal gratitude to @paperclipninja for brilliant beta-ing and being the most wonderful sun-ox always. And all the love n snax to @goodomensafterdark community for your silly wonderful smuttiness.

Excerpt:

A council estate on Brixton Road. It is a welfare check, called in anonymously. Aziraphale knocks on the door once, twice, and a third time. In turn, they call ‘Police!’ but there is no answer.

“I’ll get the dosher,” says the other officer. Aziraphale holds up a hand— wait —and goes to the row of potted plants that line a section of the harsh concrete balustrade. He picks up each pot in turn until he finds the key, and marvels at the trust the resident has placed in their neighbours. They hammer at the door again, and call out twice more, before Aziraphale inserts the key in the lock. It clicks neatly into place.

As soon as the door swings open, they know what they will find. Aziraphale puts in the call himself, repeating memorised acronyms with a harsh brevity that makes him wince. He sends the constable outside, but warns him to stay close to the door, and then he surveys the scene. It isn’t a nice one, of course, but it is not a bad one either. The flat is tidy and well-kept. It speaks of a resident who tended flowers and crocheted little coats for a copper kettle. If he doesn't look too closely, she looks to be asleep in her bed. There are a few pictures on the walls here and there–a seascape, a faded family photo from decades earlier, a cheap print of a puppy with a bow around its neck. No signs of anything suspicious. Just a quiet, neat, lonely life that has come to its end. But as he wanders through the flat, past the closed door of the bathroom, he hears something. A whimper.

[black-cat-showdown]

Welcome to the Black Cat Showdown!!

There's so many famous black cats out there, fictional or real. But Wich one is the ultimate kitty cat? Lets find out!!

FAQ <- If you have any questions ask them on that post! Propaganda is also allowed and encouraged!!

Link to full tournament brackets here!!

(full list of participants names under the cut!!)

The tournament will start on Saturday April 1st!!

Link to FAQ <- seriously read it before sending questions lmao

Here are all 108 participants!!

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[stesierra]

Since I'm trying to share something every day to motivate myself to write again, here's the first chapter of one of my adult fantasy books. At one point I loved it but I had a critique partner read the whole thing and now it embarrasses me. So this is probably terrible but give it a chance maybe? Trigger warning: magical seizures.

Please tell me if you want to be removed from the taglist. Or added, I guess.

Stitches and Memories

(WHY DID I PICK SUCH A TERRIBLE TITLE?)

Chapter One

The 4th Day of Spring, 502 King's Rule

Antea didn't spend her thirtieth birthday celebrating with the few people who called her acquaintance. She spent it dying. Again.

A normal woman wouldn't be on the floor of her bathroom, occasionally spasming hard enough to slam her head into the wooden tub. All she was doing was reliving her first kiss at age seventeen. It was just a memory. It was just a memory, brain, get it together.

But her brain did not get it together. It flooded her with memories of the boy's pink lips -- too wet and too large -- at the same time as it slammed a pickax through her eyes over and over again. She'd blacked out too much to see the room around her, but she felt it when her legs spiked straight and slammed her into the wall. She came away with splinters in her arm and cheek.

"Shut up over there!" her neighbor bellowed from the next apartment over. "Keep pounding on the walls and I'll report this to the constables!"

He probably would, too, the bastard.

In her mind, the boy drew back and beamed at her. The memory ended there, but the pickax didn't stop for another twenty minutes.

When the agony died down, she dragged herself over to the chamber pot and threw up.

When she finally eased her eyes open, a partly digested pasty stared up at her. The pounding on her door registered then. Thump. Thump. Thump. The sound raised dread in her heart. Only one type of person knocked like that in Drazen. With that terrible implacability.

When she wrenched the door open, hinges squealing, a broad man in green stared down at her over his posh black mustache. Some seamstress had embroidered his doublet with the king's symbol, a golden lion biting its tail. The gold thread was real, which meant she'd gotten an up-city constable somehow, which was deeply unfair since she lived in the slums.

He frowned at her. She could guess what he was seeing: a barefoot, brown-skinned woman who had just grown out of being pretty, wearing a dress that had been mended too many times. Her golden hair was mashed in a nest on one side of her head. She smelled of a few days of sweat and dirt.

Her black hair had turned metallic gold when she was eighteen. No, she didn't know why. There was a lot about being eighteen that she didn't know.

She bowed deeply. "May I help you, sir?"

He said, "I've had a noise complaint here. Pounding on the walls. Disrupting the peace."

"I had a fit of convulsions in my bathroom."

He frowned at her, his whole face drooping. "We have had a lot of complaints about these convulsions."

Antea resisted the urge to wrap her hands around his fat neck. "Yes. That's because it's a medical condition." And it was true, even if they weren't the normal sort of fits, not normal at all. As far as she understood it, normal people with convulsions thrashed around less and passed out and sometimes forgot the whole thing. She wasn't normal. She was awake through the fire in her head and every twitch and spasm, and she remembered everything.

The constable leaned in close. "Have you been praying for healing?"

"Yes."

"If I go and check your records, will I find you tithing regularly to at least one of the gods?"

"Yes," she lied.

"Because if I check and you haven't, then you aren't really trying to be healed, and you will be held wholly responsible for remaining ill."

"Which entails?"

He sniffed. "After all this commotion, I would think eviction, at least."

Her rentals always ended in eviction, but she had hoped this one would last out the year. "Sir, the Stag God teaches mercy to the infirm and poor. Seeing as I'm both, I would be most grateful for your understanding."

"There are many such deserving citizens in Drazen. But with your extensive record--"

"Of what? Running into walls in the night? That's not even a crime."

The man straightened to his full height, towering over her like the Eagle God over his foes. "If a constable of the law says you have committed a crime, then you have. Gather your things if you have any. I will speak with your landlord, and it will go poorly for you if you are still here tonight."

Antea sagged against the doorframe. "Yes, sir."

He smiled at her, wide and smug. "Oh, and remember the curfew."

It took all her willpower not to punch him. She turned sharply instead and shut the door in his face.

She didn't have much to gather. Her ragged haversack weighed nothing when she slung it over her shoulder. Her leather shoes were hiding under the bed. Even though the seams on the sides were giving way, they covered her toes at least. One change of clothes and a wool blanket lay on the mattress. The blanket served as a blanket, but her extra dress was her only pillow. She wrapped one inside the other and tied them to the bottom of her haversack.

One last thing remained. A letter. When she'd moved in, she had shoved it under the mattress where she wouldn't have to look at it. She pulled it out now and thought about throwing it on the fire. It would burst into flames, burning fast and hot, the dry paper shrinking into black curls before they crumbled away into white ash. If she burnt the letter, she would never have to read those words again. The pain in her head might always be with her, but that pain she could leave behind.

She read the letter. It said:

"My beloved daughter, I write this for my own sake, for you will never read it. Forgive me. What I tore from your mind was necessary, but with that wound, I know that I have killed you. May the gods have mercy on my soul."

She ran her fingertips over his signature. Then she put the letter in her bag and walked out of the tenement never to return.

--

It was two hours before the doleful tones of the curfew bell would ring across the city, two hours for Antea to find shelter for the night. She didn't have the coin for an inn. She had just paid the damn landlord the next month's rent money, not that he would ever consider a refund. If she asked he would laugh in her face, and the law would be on his side, too, like it always was.

With no other option, she headed for the nice part of the city. Not the nicest because that was up near the royal castle and the queen's spire, and people like her weren't allowed there. No, she went to the parts frequented by merchants and the new rich, where no one would care that she was there.

In the dimming light, the nice quarter was all faded stone edges and empty streets. Even the rich had to follow curfew. But even in the twilight, the library stood out as the biggest building in the district. Pilgrims that followed the Crow God visited from all over Ritalia. Its marble facade was hidden under red leather prayer offerings. When it rained the entire building stank like a wet dog.

She slipped between the leaving patrons and headed for the front desk. Zoren, the head librarian, raised his eyebrows at her. He was a pleasantly overweight man in a long black robe, with large spectacles sitting on top of his bulbous nose. The blue mage light beside him shone off his bald head. "Antea? This is quite the departure from the norm. What's going on, then?"

She flushed and hiked her haversack higher on her shoulder. "I got evicted. I was wondering--

"If you can sleep in one of the back rooms tonight?"

She nodded.

The librarian's voice was gentle but unyielding. "If we were caught housing people in a building not zoned for it, we could get into a great deal of trouble with the constables."

"That's a no?"

"I'm sorry, Antea. Good luck finding shelter tonight."

She bowed to him and slumped out of the library. But she stopped on the front steps and straightened up. She wasn't giving up that easily. The constable who had evicted her thought he'd catch her for breaking curfew, and that he'd see her locked up and the key thrown away. But Antea had planned for this, even if she had hoped the day would never come.

All her worldly possessions on her shoulder, she walked half a mile to the Shrine of the Gods.

The Shrine of the Gods was not one shrine but many, all marked by white marble columns that thrust up from the city streets. At its base, each pillar bore the painted statue of one of the gods. When you approached a statue, you were isolated from the others by head-high circular walls around each column. They carved out a little bubble of space so that it was just you and whatever god you had chosen, and anyone else who wanted to pray had to wait in line. Those lines sometimes stretched out for miles, but at this time of night, every statue she passed was alone.

An overnight vigil was the one thing the constables couldn't complain about. She wouldn't get any sleep that night, but she wouldn't end up in jail.

Antea paced around, refreshing her memory about which god's statue stood where. There were thirty-two gods to choose from. Some of them were so minor no one worshipped them, but the Shrine represented all gods. Leaving one out just because they were as popular as moldy cheese was unthinkable.

Antea picked the Dog Goddess because she'd always been fond of bitches, and who didn't need a little guidance in their lives? She sat cross-legged on the braided wool mat spread out before the goddess's marble toes. The Dog Goddess stood in two forms next to herself. One was a rearing limer with floppy ears, painted black and brown, the other a small-breasted naked woman, painted with dark skin and white hair. The woman's hand was outstretched in benediction. It shone white at the tips, the details of her fingers worn smooth from the touch of too many worshipers.

Antea leaned close and said, "Hi."

The goddess did not reply.

"It's been a while since I talked to one of you gods. I'm not very pious, I know."

The dog statue of the goddess had its head tilted as if Antea had done something peculiar.

Antea drew her knees up to her chest. "It's funny, you know. I used to be very pious. Ready to do anything any god asked of me. Thirteen years ago." Thirteen years ago, she'd been a lot of things.

In the twilight, the goddess's expression looked sympathetic, but Antea had had twelve years to learn how little the gods cared.

She said, "I think I'm supposed to ask you for a gift. It's traditional, or something."

Someone passed by outside, and Antea forced herself to stay relaxed. Go away. She was communing with her god, like a good little citizen. Go away.

She stayed silent until the footsteps had faded. Then she said, "So, demanding things. I can't think of what I want. I mean, I want to be healed. But you've all said no to that." Thousands upon thousands of prayers, all unanswered. She'd even tried the gods no one prayed to anymore. And nothing.

Beyond the shelter of the shrine walls, the constables were ringing curfew. They'd start searching the streets soon, looking for beggars and troublemakers and other unwanteds. People like her who hadn't been smart enough to hide out at the Shrine. She needed to look prayerful, but it was early enough spring that the nights were still cold. Surely it couldn't hurt to pull out her blanket and cover her lap. The devout didn't have to freeze, did they?

"I'll ask for food and a place to sleep. That's nice and humble, right?" She undid the ties at the bottom of her haversack and yanked her blanket loose. When her spare dress clung to it, she stuffed it in the bag. And the letter fell out and fluttered to the stones.

Antea froze. She stared down at where it lay, heavy with its words. When she sat back down, blanket hugged against her chest, her movement bumped the letter a few inches away, but it didn't disappear.

She buried her face in wool and said, "You can't be serious. That's not a reasonable suggestion."

It wasn't, but the Dog Goddess wasn't suggesting anything. Antea was just talking to herself again. If the goddess had actually been present, the statue would have lit up with bright light, perfectly white the way mage lights never managed. Antea had seen the gods answer petitioners before. She used to watch her father-- Never mind. Forget it.

But she didn't forget it in time. Stabbing pains made her squeeze her eyes shut.

Someone cleared his throat behind her. She spun around, and the headache and the motion nearly made her vomit.

A Shrine worker stood there in his modest tunic and apron, both glowing white. He bowed his curly head and said, "You're here very late, daughter."

Antea kept her head high and clasped her hands together on her lap. "I'm keeping a vigil."

"I thought that perhaps that was the case. We do permit vigils, despite the curfew, but I must ask what you pray for tonight. The constabulary has us keep records, you see."

Of course they did. And if she didn't tell him something worthy of a goddess's guidance, he would call the constables. And she couldn't say she was asking for healing because the Dog Goddess wasn't a healer.

The letter lay innocently on the stone beside her. She picked it up and held it in her hand. Words flowed from her lips as if someone else was doing the talking. "My father hurt me and left me for dead, twelve years ago. I don't know what happened to him after that. He never came back to the city."

The worker's brows lifted, and his lips pursed as he took a step towards her. "That is... troubling. What guidance do you hope the Dog Goddess will grant you?"

Antea slumped, letting the letter trail against the ground. "I just... I need to know why. Why he did it. But he's the only one who knows, and there's no way I could afford a passport to even leave the city, much less to go to all the places he might be. That's why I've never found him."

The Shrine worker nodded. "That is a difficult problem, and one I fear I cannot help you with. But keep your vigil, daughter, and perhaps the goddess will grant you her wisdom." He swept his hands in a sign of blessing, and he walked on.

Antea let her breath out in a rush. She shoved the letter back in her haversack with shaky hands and wrapped herself up in the blanket.

"Close one, huh?" she said to the goddess's statue. "Maybe give me some guidance if you feel like it. Because I would like to know what he ruined my life for."

The goddess's statues stayed dark. If the goddess intended to guide her, it wouldn't be directly.

She sighed and rocked back and forth. "I know I'm very stupid. What am I hoping for? To remember? Trying to remember makes it worse." Even remembering something near to that day threatened to tear her mind apart.

The cloudy heavens overhead split and spilled out a thousand stars, winking and sparkling like candlelight seen from far away. Her brain throbbing with its usual rhythm, Antea sank down in her blanket, shut her mouth, and closed her eyes.

@anonymousfoz

@moremysteriesthantragedies

@elizababie

@sm-writes-chaos

@bellascarousel

@palebdot

@Hyba

[2apples-tall]

a short blurb about what Muriel did and discovered being left on their own

The first thing Muriel did, finding out they would be staying on Earth, was throw out that Inspector Constable costume.

Maggie and Nina had both provided a list of shops, mostly thrift or antique places, for Muriel to look for clothes that fit them and wouldn’t get weird looks walking down the street. Muriel went to each shop on the list in the order they had been written down and loved each shop.

Muriel discovered many loves the first few weeks on Earth, they loved the smell of old books and dust and loved the smell of things called cinnamon and cloves that Aziraphale had left in the kitchen. They loved thick wool socks and warm sweaters. And Muriel really really loved any small cute thing they could get their hands on. Small trinkets had become Muriel’s forbidden fruit.

Muriel, in choosing their own clothes, had stuck to mostly light colors but branched out to darker browns and very occasionally pale yellow. They had taken to wearing a small watch on their wrist, which had taken a while to get working and then used to reading. But it helped immensely in tracking the obscure opening and closing times listed on the shop’s door.

Muriel found lots and lots of baking supplies in the kitchen and found quite a few books about baking in the shop, so they found out they loved to bake. Muriel was still hesitant about eating their baked goods so they carefully wrapped any bread, cookies, brownies, or cakes they had made and delivered them to Nina, Maggie, Mrs. Sandwich, and any customers that wandered into the shop.

Muriel found flowers growing outside in small boxes and small fluffy creatures floating around them that they later looked up and found to be bumblebees. Muriel really loved the bumblebees, they were adorable as they floated around and bumped lazily into flowers. Muriel and done a bit of reading about flowers and found out all they needed to live (and they were alive!) was water and sunlight, so they picked some carefully and put them in a mug in the window in hopes to invite some of the bees inside. They never came and the flowers died by the end of the week, but always the optimist, Muriel replaced the flowers ever week and discovered they quite liked the routine of it.

The best thing Muriel has found was an old dusty violin, tucked back in the corner of their favorite antique shop. Muriel asked the shop owner what it was and it was fairly cheep so they bought it. Muriel read about violins and stringed instruments and orchestras, learning as much as possible about the instrument before trying to play it. Aziraphale had some sheet music in folders on a shelf towards the back of the shop and Maggie had given them some newer music as well. Muriel was hesitant the first try, it was very different from a harp, but took to playing fantastically and would play for days at a time completely forgetting to open the shop. They loved this small instrument and the beautiful sound they were able to make. The smooth wood and firm bow felt wonderful in their hands as they played their way through all of the sheet music they had collected.

Muriel loved being on Earth and it wasn’t hard at all for them to understand why Aziraphale and Crowley had risked existence to stop armageddon years ago. Muriel wondered if they would ever understand why they risked existence for each other, but hoped that was something that came with time and they were plenty happy to enjoy baking and playing their violin for now.

[nolsaesthetic]

Hi all! I've been kind of obsessed with Good Omens lately and decided to maybe write a fic about my favorite angel and demon (we all know who I'm talking about)

Since the second I watched the show, I always thought they would make wonderful parents. So here's an excerpt based on that concept!

Crowley burst through the bookshop doors. He was extremely reluctant to come back, especially given the last time he was there. 

They have replayed the scene a million times in their head. Everything she couldve done better, different things she shouldve said, the  anger, hurt, and disappointment that she had felt... 

The demon forced all those emotions down as he frantically looked around the shop. Having kept in contact with Muriel for emergencies only, Crowley panicked the second he had heard he needed to immediately return to the shop. She'd feared the worst, but, as she searched for the danger, she soon came to the realization that nothing perilous was occurring. There was no fire, no damage to the books, the shop looked exactly the way they had left it. 

Taking a moment, Crowley took a breath. Almost instinctively, they reached up to take their glasses off before stoping themselves. Sighing, he let the doors swing shut behind him as he entered in search of Muriel. Just because the danger wasnt as immediate as she had thought, doesn't mean it wasnt there. 

Muriel was soon found in the backroom of the shop. They had long switched their completely white constable outfit for a tan pleated colored skirt, button up, and jacket. 

Although all seemed well according to Muriels usual body language, they seemed to be watching something. 

Following the gaze, Crowley's eyes landed on the floor, or rather, the person sitting on the floor. 

There sat a child. Looking no older than nine, she was coloring what seemed to be stars on a sketchbook. Having noticed Crowley coming in, the girl stood up and dusted herself off.  

She wore a black dress along with a pair of tights and dress shoes. Her outfit was accented with gold, a ribbon tied around her waist and a bow that held back her long blonde hair from getting into her face. But what was the most striking about her was her blue snake eyes and the pair of wings that sprouted from her back.  The feathers were unlike anything Crowley had seen before, being mostly white they faded into black towards the ends. 

Softly, the girl smiled at Crowley, revealing a pair of fangs that looked like a snakes.

"Hello, my name is Eden! What's yours!?"

As she waited from a response, Eden observed Crowley. Suddenly deciding she liked him, she hastily picked up her drawing and showed it to them.

"Look! I drew the stars! Ive never seen them myself.. but I saw them in pictures! Do you like it!?" 

Crowley was still standing in shock. He had never seen any creature like Eden before, he wasnt really quite sure what she was in the first place. 

"Yes.. well um- very nice." They complimented the drawing before turning their attention to Muriel, who was now staring back at them. 

"Could I have a word with you? In the other room." She quickly asked the angel standing across from her. 

"Alright then!" Muriel cheerfully replied before  walking out into the main space with Crowley. Eden watched them go before sitting back down and returning to her drawings.

Once they were a good distance away from the backroom, and Crowley was sure the child wouldnt hear them, they started to question Muriel.

"Who was that?" He whisper shouted, extending an arm in the direction they'd just come from. 

"That's Eden!" Muriel happily replied.

"Ya, I gathered that! But why is she here, is that the emergency I was called to handle?" 

"I'm under strict orders from the Supreme Archangel.." Crowley glanced away when they mentioned Aziraphale, glad that the sunglasses meant Muriel couldnt see it "..to ask you to watch over her!" 

"...what?" 

Suddenly, the two were aware that Eden had wandered into the room. Having heard the last part of the conversation, she stared up at Crowley. 

"Are you Mr.Crowley?" She questioned, her eyes very obviously filled to the brim with joy.

In resonse, Crowley just noddded.

Somehow more excited now, Eden procurred a letter and held it up to the demon.

"I was told to give this to you!" 

Cautiously, Crowley took the letter out of her small hands. On the envelope it displayed the writing 'for Crowley' is a fancy, almost cursive handwriting. They immediately recognized it as Aziraphale's.  Hastily opening it, Crowley began to read.

She hoped it would reveal some answers she desperately wanted. Who exactly was this child? What was this child? Why was he expected to watch after her? Why this so soon after their fight? 

But above all they hoped it mentioned something about them. Does Aziraphale hate her now that she refused to go to heaven? Are they even friends anymore? Why did he leave me..

‐------------------

Dear Crowley,

           I know you probably don't wish to hear from me at the moment, but this is important.  I have reason to believe that the child, Eden, may be important to us in some way. I had found her in a remote corner of heaven where only the archangels and metatron have access to. The poor thing was in a cage. After looking through her file, it seems to me that the miracle we split to disguise Gabriel may have had more effects than we thought...

I couldn't stand to see a child like that, so I've cleaned her up and sent her your way. I know you have it in you to care for her. Somewhere deep down, you are truly good. I'm afraid I won't be much help as I'm preoccupied, though I will keep my eye out for any clues.

Her file informed me that she is half angel, half demon, and can be harmed with both holy water and hellfire, so please do be careful. Through my questioning, it seems she is unaware of much in the world. That's all I know for now.

                                               *Yours*, Aziraphale

-------------

It took Crowley a minute after he was done reading to tear his eyes away from the paper. It left them with more questions than answers. She wanted to frown, smile, yell, but instead she just tucked the piece if paper back into the envelope and shoved it in their jacket. 

Looking back up at Muriel and Eden, he saw Muriel just happily staring at him, waiting for him to say something. Eden was doing the exact same, almost mimicking Muriel.

They sighed and stated down at the child, putting a smirk on their face, Crowley reached down and ruffled Eden's hair. 

"Guess I'm stuck with ya, kid" 

-------------

I hope that wasn't too atrocious, I didn't do much editing. If you're curious, I was using she/they/he pronouns interchangeably for Crowley, they/them for Muriel, he/him for Aziraphale, and she/her for Eden, if that was a bit confusing, let me know! I know none of them really have gender and Crowley and Aziraphale often switch how they present, I chose to switch Crowley's up more, though, because we see them present differently more often in the show. Any feedback is helpful! ♡

[kiastirling-fanfic]

Tranquil Week Day 5: Fearless

Warden-Constable Boranehn holds no fear.

Read it on Ao3 Here or find the full text below the cut

Rating: G Wordcount: 387 CW: none in particular?

@tranquilweek

They said he fought like a golem. Not tireless, he was a man of flesh and blood, but fearless. He did not quail before a hurlock, nor he did not panic when they were ambushed by shrieks. When confronted by an ogre, he gave his commands with a calmness that bolstered his fellow wardens and he peppered his foes with arrows at a measured pace, always striking with the greatest efficacy.

Boranehn was the perfect Grey Warden on all accounts, enough so that it sent waves and rumors through the ranks.

How was a Tranquil mage so highly skilled in the art of war?

Was it truly only his status as Tranquil that made him so unshakable when facing down the darkspawn?

Who had recruited a Tranquil in the first place?

They were answers Bora would dispense easily if any dared ask them.

He was skilled because he was trained. All Dalish children started learning a weapon to prepare them to hunt or protect the clan as they grew older, and that training was expanded upon after he escaped the Circle and was taken in by the Wardens.

It was true that being a Tranquil made him incapable of feeling fear, but it did not rob him of the will to survive. His first encounters with darkspawn were very different affairs; it was experience that made him a force to be reckoned with.

It was Warden Blackwall who found him wandering, who stuck a bow in his hand to ward off Templars who sought to reclaim their lost Tranquil, and who sent him to the Warden outpost in Jader. And it was those Wardens who saw a wiry young elf with a sunburst brand on his forehead and honed him.

But no one would ask Bora. The Warden-Constable lacked the warmth those who retained a connection to the Fade needed in the unsettled ranks, and even the dwarves who lacked such connection looked on his blank face and turned away.

It was fine. He did not need for his men to like him. He needed them to obey when he gave orders on the field, and they did. All else would be handled by those suited to the task as he was to his; to be their beacon and their guide, to anchor their fears and lead.

[pratchettquotes]

Holiday Theme: Happy Hogswatch

"This is disgusting, this whole business," said Constable Visit. "It's the worship of idols--"

"It's a genuine Burleigh and Stronginthearm double-action triple-cantilever crossbow with a polished stock and engraved silver facings!"

"--a crass commercialization of a date which is purely of astronomical significance," said Visit, who seldom paid attention when he was in mid-denounce. "If it is to be celebrated at all, then--"

"I saw this in Bows and Ammo! It got Editor's Choice in the 'What to Buy When Rich Uncle Sidney Dies' category! They had to break both the reviewer's arms to get him to let go of it!"

"--ought to be commemorated in a small service of--"

"It must cost more'n a year's salary! They only make 'em to order! You have to wait ages!"

"--religious significance." It dawned on Constable Visit that something behind him was amiss.

"Aren't we going to arrest this imposter, corporal?" he said.

Corporal Nobbs looked blearily at him through the mists of possessive pride.

"You're foreign, Washpot," he said. "I can't expect you to know the real meaning of Hogswatch."

Terry Pratchett, Hogfather

[felassan]

On this Gamestop listing for an Xbox copy of the game, the text contains some more information on the Deluxe edition etc items.

this post became really long so I put it under a cut. :)

Text reads:

"Dragon Age: The Veilguard Rook's Coffer Edition - Xbox Series X Unite the Veilguard and defy the gods in Dragon Age™: The Veilguard, an immersive single player RPG where you become the leader others believe in. Pre-order* to receive the Blood Dragon armor cosmetic for all three classes: Warrior, Mage, and Rogue. A throwback to previous Dragon Age games, the crimson stains on this armor will never fade Obtain a variety of weapons and armor, including curiosities from a forgotten era with the Deluxe Edition. You’ll receive cosmetic weapon and armor sets for the Warrior, Mage, and Rogue classes as well as cosmetic armor sets and weapons for each of your 7 companions. That’s 3 armor sets for Rook, 6 weapons for Rook, 7 companion armor sets, and 7 companion weapons – saving Thedas never looked so good. 6 Weapon Appearances For Rook. Cosmetic Only. - Stave of the Fallen Kingdom - Bow of the Fallen Kingdom - Spellblade of the Fallen Kingdom - Blades of the Fallen Kingdom - Aegis of the Fallen Kingdom & Sword of the Fallen Kingdom - Maul of the Fallen Kingdom 1 Warrior Armor Set Appearance For Rook. Cosmetic Only. - Armor of Bellanaris - Ghellara Helm 1 Mage Armor Set Appearance For Rook. Cosmetic Only. - Revas Robes - Circlet of Awe 1 Rogue Armor Set Appearance For Rook. Cosmetic Only. - Harellan's Bolts - Katriel's False Face 7 Weapon & 7 Armor Set Appearances For Companions. Cosmetic Only. - Bellara's Nerve - Ringlet of Sorrow - Davrin's Resolve - Plate of the High Constable & Beacon Edge - Emmrich's Mystique - Staff of Incessant Gaze - Harding's Focus - Sunderbow - Lucanis's Gall - Heartpiercer - Neve's Fervor - Cat's Eye - Taash's Might - Grief Features Rooks Edition Includes: Light-Up Lyrium Dagger, Rook's Card Deck, Enchanted Die, Glass Potion Flask, Cloth Map and Quiver, Dragon Age™: The Veilguard Companion Litho Print, Thank-You Letter Unite a Battered World - Thedas is home to storied factions like the heroic Grey Wardens and Tevinter's rebellious Shadow Dragons. Rally the Veilguard - Unite a team of seven companions each with rich lives, deep backstories, and their own expertise and unique abilities. Become the Leader Others Believe in - Select from different races and combat classes, customize your appearance, and choose your character's backstory"

[source]

first, I like the Fade pun in "the crimson stains will never fade" hh. :>

second, we talked [here] about how the deluxe armors look ancient elfy, and the description here calls them "curiosities from a forgotten era". the weapons blurb tells us that the weapons are "of the Fallen Kingdom" - given the appearance of the items, presumably this Kingdom and the era is Elvhenan, before it fell. this is confirmed in the names of the armors for Rook - Bellanaris, Revas and Harellan are of course elven words.

from this info, we can see that the bottom right weapon is a staff. the top left is a shield (here's another shield from DA:I with "Aegis" in the name for reference. the word means protection or backing, and also a shield or breastplate type thing associated with mythological features like Athena), and in sword-and-board style it comes with a sword. we know that each of the 3 classes in the game will have "two distinct weapon types". it seems like the names of these 6 weapons might note what these are: [dual] blades and bow for rogue, sword&shield and 2-handed (e.g. a maul) for warrior, and staff and "spellblade" for mages. the latter is 👁️ for me as I've been wondering what the second weapon for mages is for ages now. it was like "wands? floating spellbooks like some mage NPC enemies in DA:I?" but maybe it's these "spellblades"? ^^ which is also the name of one of the 3 mage specs. :D

Bellanaris: 'eternity' (see: Var Bellanaris in DA:I, the elven burial site. Keeper Gisharel: "Var Bellanaris. "Our Eternity."")

Revas: 'freedom' (one place it crops up is the secret greeting to enter Fen'Harel's sanctuary in Trespasser. Ar-melana dirthaveren. Revas vir-anaris.)

Harellan: in Dalish use, 'traitor to one's kin' (see: Codex Entry: The Rebel God). its root-word is related to harillen, 'opposition', and hellathen, 'noble struggle', so the ancient elven use of this word is maybe more along the lines of rebellion than deception.

Armor of Bellanaris and Ghellara Helm? Harellan's Bolts and Katriel's False Face? Revas Robes? for the Circlet of Awe, maybe on qunari Rooks it shows as vitaar as here, or it doesn't show due to their horns.

I wonder if more specific than ancient elven, these 3 bonus armors are related to Fen'Harel and his followers specifically. The Rebel God codex is about Solas ('harel). a heroic rebel against tyranny and slavery is someone associated with freedom. Fen'Harel's friend Mythal in the form of Flemeth is is Asha'bellanar, the woman of many years, and -anaris crops up in his secret greeting. if you wanted to, you can read into the three armor names a Fen'Harel connection. I could see a scenario where you might like, find these armors in the Lighthouse or something. maybe a codex or item description which associates them with followers of Fen'Harel or Mythal. (here I am just speculating for fun ^^)

Ghellara is a new name or word. it could be elven, as we have "Gh" in e.g. "Ghilan'nain" and "ara" as a sound crops up in the language a lot.

Katriel (🥺...) was an Orlesian elven bard and lover of King Maric, from The Stolen Throne. she hid her true identity from him, like a "False Face". her name and lore has cropped up in other item names before, like Katriel's Grasp. ahh, this is making me so excited to find and read all the other item names and descriptions in the game :D these flavor texts are fun and often super interesting 👁️

the 7 weapon and armors for the companions also have interesting names. they have 1 bonus weapon and 1 bonus armor each, and I wonder if the names of these items were chosen as they relate to their personalities, storyarcs, backstories, abilities etc. ((I'm overanalyzing and reading waaay too much into the names of these items just for fun, don't take this post too seriously, wild speculating is just fun to do. ^^))

Davrin: Grey Wardens need to have resolve to do what they do, and for a warrior 'resolve' has tanky connotations. we know Davrin is bold, and you get the impression that Davrin stands firmly and determined from lines such as "Nobody dies on my watch! For the Wardens!". As for High Constable - this is the rank of the Grey Warden who is second-in-command to the First Warden. historically during the time of the griffons, they were also the order's aerial commander. in recent times, they have also become the public face of the Order, acting as the ambassador to the High King and leading local recruitment. Maybe this is Davrin's specific Warden rank? if so, this is our highest-ranking Grey Warden companion yet, and I'm sooo curious to see the relationship and interactions between him and the First Warden. Davrin is also described as charming - perfect to be a public face and ambassador right? :D I also wonder if the historical role of aerial commander for that rank is part of why Davrin is the guardian of Assan. (also, there are some neat thoughts on the design of Davrin’s 'defaut' armor here. that post talks about the in-world griffon rider and irl aerial elements of his outfit design. :>) Or maybe he isn't yet, but can become this rank during the game? as for beacon, it has the connotations of light, hope, and towers and high places. when all seems lost during a Blight, the Grey Wardens come and save Thedas. I guess Beacon Edge is a sword. ^^

Emmrich: we have seen Emmrich holding a staff which does have an incessant gaze. a skull cannot close its eyes, and will 'look' for eternity. Mystique suits a gentleman necromancer who is a member of a mysterious order.

Neve: fervor is intense and passionate feeling, almost like zeal. Jessica alluded to this part of Neve's character during the Companion Q&A panel at SDCC. she described Neve's loyalty, dedication and great love for Docktown and its people. Neve is "really really fighting for those people", and Jessica loves how she has "that kind of a passion" and how she has "dedicated her life" to that and the other vision for Tevinter that she really sees. John mentioned that Neve is pushing back and fighting back against the Tevinter mageocracy and slavery. I guess fervor refers to these traits and beliefs of Neve's. Cat's Eye reminds me of horn-rimmed glasses (tell me that wouldn't be Neve's style in a modern AU hh?) and the imagery of a cat on the streets of Minrathous, ever-watchful from the shadows. it suits a detective from a big city with a dark underbelly. ^^ Feline senses are strong and sensitive - an investigator would never miss a clue at a crime scene or be caught unawares, yknow?

Harding: a Scout needs to be focused so that they do not miss anything when scouting. there is the imagery of a scout focusing on their surrounds, or looking at a far-off horizon. a marksman needs focus for their arrows to hit their targets. Harding has been focused on chasing down Solas for many years at this point in the timeline. focus is also a game mechanic in DA:I. we accumulate focus by killing enemies and when the bar is fully charged, the Inquisitor can use their Focus ability. maybe this refers to Harding's new magical powers? maybe mechanically in gameplay she can use them kind of like how focus in DA:I? as for Sunderbow, of course Harding is an archer. Sundermount is a mountain, and you can talk about "sundering armor". but what "sunder" really makes me think of is 1). the Altar of Sundering that was found in the Deep Roads in Ortan Thaig. it summons a Fade creature and is a source of magical power. why did the dwarves, who don't use magic, of that place have such an altar? 2). Sundering, the sacred mace wielded by Luthias Dwarfson, a famous Ash Warrior.

Legend says the mace was not crafted by hand, but instead hatched from an egg high in the mountains and then carried by birds to Luthias as a wedding gift from the Lady of the Skies. When Luthias dies, dwarves arrived to carry him to Orzammar to be buried as one of their own with the Stone. Sundering was to lie at his side, but the mace could not be found. Stories say the birds reclaimed it and will deliver it to another hero in time.

3.) various dialogue Solas has with Varric in DA:I.

"Dwarves are the severed arm of a once mighty hero, lying in a pool of blood. Undirected. Whatever skill of arms it had, gone forever. Although it might twitch to give the appearance of life, it will never dream." / "You truly are content to sit in the sun, never wondering what you could've been, never fighting back."

Solas: "Do you ever miss life beneath the earth? The call of the Stone?" Varric: "Nah. Whatever the Stone - capital S - is, it was gone by the time my parents had me." Solas: "But... do you miss it?" Varric: "How could I miss what I never had?"

Dwarves as they are in modern Thedas are a sundered arm, unconnected. They are apart from themselves, and from their parents, the Titans. their connection to the Titans broke when the Titans fell; without the Titans, they can't be "taller". if Harding's new magical powers has something to do with the Titans (see: Valta), I wonder if the "sunder" in "Sunderbow" refers to this.

Taash: there isn't much to go on here, but "might" makes sense for a mighty dragon-hunter, and a dual-wielding warrior has more damage-dealing warrior connotations (raw strength) than a more tanky-type, shield-bearing one. "Grief" makes me so worried 🥺 is Taash okay? what is she sad about? is there a bereavement in her backstory? who or what did she lose? what is Taash grieving? please, my heart hurts.

Bellara: you have to have nerve to be a Veil Jumper, a group that only accepts those brave enough to face the dangers in Arlathan Forest including its reality-warping magic. she's brave, optimistic, energetic, an adventurer; daring in her knowledge-seeking quest and desire to find out what's true and what isn't. she just sees a problem and wants to solve it. :) Sorrow.. we already know that Bellara has seen a lot of tragedy in her backstory, and that her optimistic outlook is sometimes a mask to hide the fact that she's hurting and in pain. like with Taash my heart hurts and I wonder what happened in her past 🥺

Lucanis: "heartpiercer" is a great name for the knives of an assassin that always find their mark and kill them. he always gets the contract done, and strikes fatally and with precision. he also pierced all our hearts 💘💘 (heartbreaker.. 🥺?) "Gall" is really interesting.. it has multiple different meanings and connotations. brazenness, temerity, bold behavior, audacity (I'd guess these are the meaning here). bile. great misery, suffering and bitterness. an open wound. to harass or harry.

[sixthweyoun]

[Semi-plotted?? starter for @constable]

"Please, Founder, allow me to— this is known to happen from time to time, field training is never an easy period for anyone. I will tend to him, as his instructor, and he will be fit for service in no time at all."

With a respectful and contrite bow, as if to say I am so sorry for this, please don't let this affect your view of either of us, Weyoun turned away from the elder Changeling to whom his student had been attending and led Rivan to a secluded alcove close to the security office.

Far from his usual gregarious, lively self, the young Vorta seemed to have all but completely retreated inward. That wasn't good. He thought of calling Ezri, but she was far from competent in dealing with Vorta in a clinical capacity, even with how long he'd been seeing her. And Odo... Did he really want to burden Odo with this?

(On some level, he knew that Odo wanted to be burdened. But he couldn't bring himself to do it.)

As he attempted to comfort Rivan, his instincts battled with the knowledge that he was way out of his depth. Aspirancy left scars on every Vorta. It was part of the point. He had no idea how to comfort Rivan if he himself was still wounded.

He'd have to bring Odo into this, wouldn't he.

"Weyoun to Odo? We have a... a situation. Can you— can you please come help?"

[ask-de-writer]

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THE FISHERMAN'S LEG (Part 4 of 20)

A sequel to Dee 1/2 Demon

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

6373 words (work in progress)

© 2023 by Glen Ten-Eyck

All rights reserved. This document may not be copied or distributed on or to any medium or placed in any mass storage system except by the express written consent of the author.

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Fan art, stories, music, cosplay and other fan activity is actively encouraged.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

New to the story? Read from the beginning HERE.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

When their turn was called, Miko arose from her place at Magistrate Lim's left, where she, as his scribe, had been writing the official copies of the Tribunal's work.

Bowing deeply to the Magistrate she stated, “Magistrate Lim san, I cannot properly record this case. I am one of those bearing this complaint against fisherman Minami san.”

Taking up paper and a writing brush he returned her bow with the words, “Please, Miko san, take your proper place, so that we may begin.”

Turning to constable Canra he asked politely, “Why have you brought Minami san here?”

“Good Magistrate Lim san, I am charging him with crimes that I directly observed and heard.

“First: Criminal vandalism of the fence about the Chiasu Estate property, which is administered by Dee san. He used a large fish gutting knife from his Fish Market to make a big hole in the woven bamboo slats of the fence.

“Second: Criminal trespass of the Chiasu Estate property with intent to commit theft or other mischief. Having cut the hole in the fence, he skulked in, trying to stay out of the sight of the young ladies from the Shop of Repairs, who are rebuilding the old Chiasu floating dock.

“Third: Attempted theft of both a striking hammer and a board from the woodpile set aside for the rebuilding of the floating dock. Having taken the items in hand, he fled for his hole in the fence.

“He was stopped by Satsuna san who thrust a bamboo pole between his legs and tripped him.

“Fourth: Another count of slander against the young women of the Shop of Repairs. He stated in my hearing and presence that they were bunglers who had no need of fine boards or good tools.

“According to the records which I consulted before bringing him before you, this is his one hundred and seventy third slander against them that has come to this Tribunal. Further, it is the thirty fifth case of assault or vandalism against them or their properties by him that has been brought before you.”

Bowing to constable Canra, Magistrate Lim, said, “Thank you, good constable. That was most clear and concise.”

Turning now to Fisherman Minami he bowed politely and requested, “Please, Minami san, explain yourself.”

Fisherman Minami hunched in on himself and glowered. “I began by cutting a small hole to see what those bu. . .” he caught himself, “those worthless orphans were up to, attaching useless floating bundles of bamboo to the old Chiasu Estate pilings. I noticed that there was a pile of good boards and some tools laying carelessly about, completely unused. I cut the hole bigger so that I could take what they clearly had no need of.”

Magistrate Lim turned to Miko and asked, “Good Miko san, what have you to say of this?”

Miko looked down at her knees where she knelt and shook her head sadly. “Good Magistrate Lim san, I have conferred with my fellow owners of the Shop of Repairs. As Dee san is one of us, and she administers the Chiasu Estate, we are all in agreement.

“Minami san has this time finally gone too far. His lack of respect for the reputations, goods and property of others and, worse, his lack of respect for the rulings and orders of this Tribunal to mind his own business and leave us and our business alone have left us with no realistic choices.

“We are now and in the future making our charges against him to be criminal ones. He clearly understands what theft is when it happens to him. Not a minnow can be taken from the Fish Market whether he is there or not there to tend to his own shop but he will call it stealing.

“Yet if we have neatly piled boards and tools laid out on our property for future work, suddenly he can take those because HE thinks that we have no need of them.”

Patsu raised a finger and bowed to the Magistrate. “He knew he was stealing. He made a considerable effort to be un noticed on his entry and when he had the board and my hammer, he was running to escape out the hole he made in our fence. Not the way of an innocent man.”

Minami hotly demanded of the girls, “Why are you bothering with all of this foolish rebuilding? You have no boat to use that dock or boat house.”

Patsu snorted in amusement. “Funny that. I had thought that you could work out the next few characters of that statement. Apparently the word YET is not one that you can figure out.”

“You have no need of a boat! You can buy your seafood from my Fish Market!”

Miko glanced over to Magistrate Lim who nodded slightly. She interposed, “We can not do that. You have formally blacklisted us and our mothers from your market. That is why we have men setting up the walls and roof for our fish market.”

Sourly he growled, “I will cancel the blacklist and resume my exclusive sales agreement.”

Magistrate Lim's voice chilled him like a bucket of ice water. “While you can cancel the blacklist, you cannot resume your exclusive sales agreement. It requires a person of good character who has no criminal record. For the last two years you have been systematically destroying your reputation and you now have criminal convictions as well.”

To be Continued

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