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circussbeetle · 26 days ago

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Hotchreid Snippet

I figure since this fic is taking so much longer than i thought it would i may as well post a snippet (that happens to be my favorite scene so far)

Summary: a drunken conversation in a shared cab after a long night

Words: 1.5k

Spencer spots a cab approaching them towards the end of the block, waving his arm until the driver pulls to a stop in front of them. Hotch opens the door for him, always a gentleman, and Spencer slips into the cab as he gives the directions to the driver.

It's only after he’s finished giving his address that he realizes Hotch is still hovering by the open door, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other.

“Are you coming?” Spencer asks with a furrowed brow. Hotch scratches at the back of his neck, lingering.

“I could always catch another one…” he trails off uncertainly, and it clicks for Spencer right then that he never answered Hotch’s earlier question.

He’s still waiting for permission.

“Hotch, it's cold and it’s raining and I can hear my duvet crying for me. Get in the cab.”

Hotch doesn’t try to argue with the finality in Spencer’s demand, climbing in next to him and closing the door with a heavy thunk.

The ride is quiet at first. Spencer leans his head back against the seat and closes his eyes, listening to the sounds of the raindrops hitting the roof, the wheels hissing as they pass through water pooled on the street below, the wind whipping around the car. It’s peaceful, just enough noise to not be overwhelming but to fill the silence as Spencer adjusts to being away from the overly loud music in the bar.

His limbs feel heavy, his bone marrow interlaced with lead and steel and his legs anchored to the floor like he couldn’t move them if he tried. He can feel the exhaustion of the last case creeping up on him, slowly enveloping him and draining him of his last vestiges of energy.

To avoid falling asleep in the car he opens his eyes and rolls his head to the side, taking in Hotch’s stiff form.

He’s been a little strange all night, rapidly oscillating between relaxed and anxious. He goes from cracking jokes in that dry humor of his- almost flirtatious at times, but Spencer doesn’t allow himself to entertain the thought- to sitting pin straight like he’s got a titanium rod in his spine for seemingly no reason at all.

Spencer thinks that maybe this is just what alcohol does to him; he doesn’t know if he’s ever seen Hotch drink quite as much as he had tonight, at least not since he and Haley were together and she’d come along with them on their nights out.

And it’s not like he’s belligerent by any stretch of imagination- he handles his liquor leagues better than Spencer himself- but Spencer’s rarely even seen him tipsy, let alone genuinely drunk. Then again, it’s nigh impossible to resist the all powerful Penelope Garcia when she really sets her mind to something.

Maybe it throws him off kilter, makes him nervous to have less command over his words and his movements. It would certainly make sense. Hotch’s entire life requires him to be alert at all times, always one step ahead, always the leader, always in control. It follows that having that stripped from him, even of his own will, would make him a little jittery.

Spencer can relate, in a way. But he’s always found a little more peace in letting go, smothering his ever racing thoughts til they disappear completely, allowing his overstuffed skull to empty for once.

That yearning for tranquility is why he has to be so careful with his intake, why it's so rare that he affords himself the refuge. That sort of numbing could lead down a dark, winding path faster than he could even realize he’s lost.

A part of him that he doesn't want to acknowledge wonders if Hotch feels that same solicitous temptation, if that’s what’s fueling his unease.

Whatever it is, Spencer doesn’t like seeing him like this. The tension lining his shoulders, the way he’s clenching his jaw as he looks straight forward at the partition, his hands tightly folded in his lap and his brow low, severe. Like a cadet standing at attention.

The passing streetlamps cast animated highlights across his face like a movie projector, the yellow lamplight that kisses his profile cutting the cool blue dark of the cab. Soft against the harsh angles of his features, his furrowed brow, his pursed lips. Illuminating his eyes for just a second, just long enough to catch the worried glint hidden by those thick eyelashes. A portrait against the scene of raindrops hitting the window beside him.

In a spur of confidence more fueled by liquor than logic Spencer reaches out to the other side of the backseat, his movements slow and intentional like he’s walking up on an injured stray. He lays his hand gently over Hotch’s, holding steady when he flinches under the touch.

Spencer can feel Hotch’s eyes on him now but he doesn’t look up from his task, slowly wiggling his fingers between Hotch’s joined hands until the older man catches on and reluctantly releases his hold.

Spencer takes Hotch’s hand in his own and brings it across the space between them to rest over his knees, cradled in both of his hands like something precious. Because the touch, the silent buzz in the air between them, the manufactured intimacy of their own little world behind the partition is precious to Spencer, and right now he wants Hotch to feel that, even if he knows it’s probably a bad idea.

Hotch doesn’t object, silently watching Spencer’s movements with a wary tilt of his head.

“You have an accent,” Spencer murmurs as he stretches Hotch’s fingers out one by one, rubbing his thumbs up each digit methodically with a consistent pressure.

Hotch’s hands are big and wide, long thick fingers and hair tracing down the backs of them. His fingers aren’t much longer than Spencer’s but they make his hands look petite in comparison, his cold, thin and boney where Hotch’s are warm and strong.

“So do you,” Hotch’s voice comes out so soft it’s almost inaudible over the mechanics of the car.

Spencer smiles softly at the deflection, Hotch’s natural instinct to turn the attention away from himself at all times, uncomfortable with the scrutiny, the idea of being known.

“You have a southern accent,” Spencer specifies, because for once he wants to dig deeper, to push Hotch out of his comfort zone, his safety bubble of isolation.

He massages Hotch’s hand now, firmly pressing his thumbs deep into the meat of his palm. Hotch twitches and his hand tenses for just a moment, and Spencer tenderly brushes his thumb across the expanse of Hotch’s palm as an apology before he continues working at the knots under the surface.

“Virginia born and raised,” Hotch offers an attempt at lighthearted banter but it falls flat, his low baritone laced with apprehension, strained.

“Grow out of it?” Spencer prods, turning Hotch’s hand in his lap to trace over his knuckles, the outline of intricate veins beneath thin skin, the bones below them.

He can see Hotch shake his head out of the corner of his eye, can hear the fabric of his shirt and jacket rustling at the movement, but he doesn’t respond right away.

“No, I uhm…” he clears his throat, shifting in his seat uncomfortably, “I had it trained out of me, in law school. Learned pretty quickly that no one takes a prosecutor with a southern twang seriously.”

Spencer nods as he explores the planes of Hotch’s hand, thinking about a twenty something Hotch doing his best to fit in, to prove himself. Thinking about Hotch now, almost thirty years later, carrying those lessons with him.

“Do you always change parts of yourself to manage other’s perceptions?” The question trips past his lips before he can think better of it.

Hotch tenses, his hand clenching and unclenching in Spencer’s hold like he wants to pull away from the conversation, from Spencer.

His hand stays in place.

“Doesn’t everyone?” He asks quietly, and something about his tone makes Spencer look up for the first time since he started this bizarre interrogation.

Hotch is looking at him like he truly wants an answer, like he wants reassurance that he’s not the only one with something to hide, an audience to perform for. Like he’s pleading to know if he’s the only one putting on a show.

Spencer almost doesn’t want to break it to him.

“No,” he says, looking back to the hand in his lap and lacing their fingers together for a selfish moment, a breath, “not everyone.”

A rigid silence follows, charged with something combative, a bristling sort of energy that Spencer can feel jolting between their joined hands, static shocks biting his fingertips like little strikes of lightning. Hotch stiffens like he wants to argue, and Spencer waits patiently for the debate.

It never comes.

Spencer looks to his side only to see that odd look in Hotch’s eyes again, like he’s searching Spencer for something he’s not even sure of himself.

And then he nods, subtly at first and then firmer, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as Spencer. He turns away to look out the window, raindrops casting long shadows down his cheeks and below his eyes as they race to the bottom of the glass, and Spencer feels it in his chest when the moment breaks.

Hotch never pulls his hand away. Spencer draws shapes across his knuckles.

#southern accent hotch is so important to me #literally the basis for this entire scene #this fic will be done Eventually #its 40k and growing #(it was supposed to be 20k or less)#i cant stop #cozy writes hotchreid #hotchreid #heid #aaron hotchner x spencer reid

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hobgobknowsbest · 1 year ago

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I've come to think of the recent trend making goblincore "pretty" as sort of like... a renaissance faire. We all know the medieval times were nothing like they are represented as at a faire, but it's still nice, still entertaining. People dress up as these idealized, pretty, fantasy versions of squires, knights, princesses, princes, queens and kings, laughs are had, money is spent, and everyone eats a giant turkey leg.

Same general idea. Who wouldn't love to live in a sun-dappled hole in the ground, in the middle of the woods, somehow subsisting off the land without the hardships that come with that lifestyle, happily gardening and sipping tea by candlelight? Chasing down the occasional human, causing mischief in the local town that's close to your acres of forest?

Perhaps I'm too stuck in the moment, but all I can see is what's at hand; the here and the now of it. Goblins and bugbears, bogarts, púca, changelings and creatures of all shapes and sizes, trapped in our little meatsuits, suffering from a whole new kind of culture shock day in and day out.

You can't stop humanity from encroaching too far upon nature's domain because they already have, and now you find yourself amongst them. Behind enemy lines, more or less.

You can't make yourself a hole in the ground because every inch of this land is somehow owned, regardless of whether or not someone has ever even set foot upon it.

It becomes less about roleplaying a hobbit on the weekends, and more about surviving with the power of sheer spite.

Your disguise is mostly above suspicion, so you can, for the most part, act and dress however you like. At your core, you are still the antithesis to humanity, so you find yourself stitching your clothes together, proud of your rips and tears. You earned them. You can't fully grasp the idea of money, no matter how hard you try, and so "the grind" is likely something you don't participate in.

Now, rules you are familiar with, but the ones you find in front of you have no sense to them, and feel as if they aren't directed towards you.

You're leery of people in general, and so are slow to make friends. You find yourself, more than likely, getting close to those who have been rejected by society as well: punks and felons, anarchists, street kids and van-lifers. You probably consider yourself a member of one of these little communities yourself.

It's a lonely sort of life, at the end of the day, no matter what you surround yourself with. No matter what you decide to distract yourself with. Finding more of your kind is difficult, even with the aid of the internet, but you can likely spot them here and there, and it is refreshing to bounce your unique energy back and forth.

What I'm trying to say, while I derail myself here, is that I'm coming to the conclusion that there's two sides to goblincore: there's the fashion side, and the lifestyle side. Everything becomes a fashion statement at some point, so I can't really complain.

If someone I met started dressing like me in real life, I'd be flattered, y'know? It'd be weird, as it'd be their own strange version of my normal dress, but it's still oddly endearing. A little Single White Female, but still endearing.

But if you're a lifer, if you've lived this way well before it was given a title, trust that your kind are out there. You're not alone.

You just might have to dig through a little bit of trash to find them.

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c-e-d-dreamer · 1 year ago

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Barbarian Bat: Part Two

A/N: It is sadly the last day of @nessianweek but I have had so much fun writing lots of fics and reading lots of fics! And I want to thank everyone for reading part one of this silly little AU earlier this week. Hopefully, you all enjoy part two, and I'm hoping to update with part three soon. :)

Previous Part // Next Part // Read on AO3

The trek through the snow is awkward and quiet, Cassian leading the way and Nesta trailing behind, trying to keep up with his long, easy strides. He slows to a stop each time that Nesta’s steps trip up, each time her foot sinks too deep, but he doesn’t turn back to look at her. He merely waits for her to regain her footing, to dig her snowshoe out, and then they continue on through the dark and the mountains of white.

If the entire journey to the spaceship is going to be this way, Nesta isn’t sure how much longer she’ll be able to take before her anger and annoyance really get the best of her. She remembers taking the journey once before, when all the women were given the knowledge transfer so they would understand the language the sa-khui spoke. It had taken almost a day between the spaceship and the main cave that they now call home. A day of awkward silence. A day of this tense energy that’s thrumming in the air between them. A day of her stupid khui vibrating and singing away, the damned thing still not shutting up.

As they walk, Nesta looks around, trying to recognize any landmarks from that previous journey, but everything on this planet looks the same. It’s all endless waves of white, snow reaching as far as the eyes can see in every direction. It’s only broken up by the strange bushes on this planet, by the purple and pink wispy stalks that are meant to be some kind of trees.

Perhaps she’s seen that particular cluster of trees before?

But any familiarity Nesta swears by vanishes as she takes in the rocky cliff face they’re walking toward. Under the pale light of the two moons, the snow covered rocks look especially looming and ominous, like sleeping giants waiting to wake, to rise. It has a shudder skittering up Nesta’s spine, and she hurries her steps enough to stick close to Cassian’s side as he walks parallel to the cliff face.

He makes it about halfway along the cliff face before coming to a stop before some sort of small opening, the abruptness of it almost sending Nesta careening into his back. She scowls and glares at his shoulder blades as she almost trips over her own feet, her snowshoes sinking deeper with her effort to stop quickly. She doesn’t let up even when Cassian finally turns over his shoulder and looks at her again, letting him feel and see all of her ire.

“Stay here,” Cassian tells her before slipping through the opening between the rocks, a cave Nesta realizes. He doesn’t stay inside for long, stepping back out into the night and gesturing with his hand for her to enter. “It is safe.”

But Nesta doesn’t move. She stays rooted to the spot and crosses her arms across her chest. “I thought you were taking me to the Elder Cave.”

“It is too dangerous to travel that far at night. We will rest here then continue the journey at first light.”

“How do I know you’re even taking me to the Elder Cave? That this isn’t some trick where you pretend to go along with what I want.”

Cassian’s eyebrows dip low at the accusation, his mouth pinching as he crosses his own arms. “Do you not trust me?”

“No,” Nesta answers matter-of-factly, unable to stop her scoff even if she wants to. “Human men, those weird green alien men, the basketball head alien men, even giant blue alien men… you’re all the same. You’re all just men.”

It’s more information than Nesta means to share, a part of herself that she hadn’t meant to hand over so easily. She’s never been good at any type of openness, any type of vulnerability. She’s always preferred claws and masks and armor. Snap and snarl now, and no one will ever ask questions later. Push someone out the door, and they never have the opportunity to leave.

But Cassian has always seen through her every defense, her every wall, ever since she stepped on this godsforsaken planet. She feels it now as Cassian’s eyes sweep over her frame, stripped bare, every crack, every nick, every bruise to her soul on full display. It’s as though he’s cataloging her every expression, tucking each reveal from her away.

“Give me their names, then,” Cassian finally speaks.

“What?” Nesta whispers, blinking in confusion.

Cassian steps closer to her, the breeze carrying with it the heat that always seems to radiate from him, the scent of low burning embers and what Nesta has always sworn was pine. He’s close enough that Nesta has to tilt her head back to continue to meet his gaze, a fire practically blazing across his expression. His hand reaches up in the space between them, a whisper of his touch skating along her cheek, before he seems to think better of it. His fingers curl back into his palm, hands settling into fists at his sides instead.

“Give me the names of these men that have hurt you, and I will find a way to hunt them down, to shatter every bone in their bodies for ever laying a finger on you.”

The declaration has Nesta swallowing hard, even as her traitorous heart skips a beat between her ribs, even as her khui starts singing again. “Don’t make promises that you can’t keep.”

“Then I will make a promise that I can keep. I will never hurt you, Nesta. I swear it,” Cassian says, pressing a hand to his chest, to where his own khui answers.

He says the words with such conviction, with such earnestness on his face, that Nesta doesn’t know how to respond. Words tangle on her tongue, clogging the back of her throat and battling with the emotions swirling like a storm in her chest until all she can do is try desperately to breathe around them. There’s no stopping that cold and cruel voice whispering in the back of her mind, digging its claws in with doubt and hesitation. Even if she wants to believe him, even if she wants to speak those words, she’s been burned too many times. She knows exactly how this will play out in the end. So she merely presses her lips together, wraps her arms tightly around herself like that will help hold herself together.

Cassian sighs softly at her extended silence. “If it will make you more comfortable, I can stay outside the cave for the night.”

“I thought you said it was dangerous. Snow-cats and all that,” Nesta reminds him before chewing at her bottom lip and turning away from his piercing gaze. “It’s fine.”

Before she can change her mind or take the words back, she ducks down and steps into the cave. It’s certainly small, clearly meant to just house a single hunter for the night. There’s a designated area for a fire, and when Nesta squints through the dark, she spies a few supplies like fuel and spare spears tucked neatly along the far wall. The way the walls seem to press in around her has Nesta’s hackles raising, especially when Cassian steps inside just behind her with his tall frame and wide shoulders, but she takes a deep, steeling breath, refusing to give in to those swirling shadows within her.

She spots where Cassian set down their packs, and she cuts across the small space to them, more than happy to have something to do with her hands. She unties her furs from her own pack first, unrolling them out across the cave floor and straightening them how she likes. She chances a glance over her shoulder, watching as Cassian strikes flint to start a fire.

An orangey glow flickers to life in the cave, casting shadows and shapes across the walls and floor. The firelight bounces off the dark strands of Cassian’s curls, his hair pulled back and tied off with a leather strap. It draws emphasis to his horns, to the plates and ridges on his arms and the way they shift along with his flexing muscles. Nesta finds herself tracing the dark colored lines and swirls across his blue skin, Cassian one of the few sa-khui with tattoos.

As if he can feel her attention on him, Cassian turns his head, meeting her gaze. Nesta is quick to snap her own head back around, swallowing down the heat threatening to creep up her neck, the way her heart skitters and skips for a moment. She grabs for Cassian’s pack to distract herself, untying his furs and laying them out in what little space remains of the cave floor.

“You should try and get some sleep,” Cassian’s voice breaks the quiet. “If we want to leave for the Elder Cave at first light.”

Nesta knows that he’s right, so she takes a moment to tug off her boots and her various outer layers of leathers, damp from the cold and the snow, and rests them near the fire so they can dry. It leaves her in just the long, loose leather tunic she wears beneath, her legs exposed. She can feel Cassian’s gaze on them, goosebumps prickling across her skin in the wake of his attention, so she quickly slips beneath her furs.

She burrows deep into them, tugging the furs up and around her shoulders as she turns to face the cave wall. Nesta has never done well in the cold. Back on earth, she always kept her thermostat higher than most during the winter months, always had plenty of blankets on her sofa to pile on when she curled up with her books.

And of course now she’s stuck on a planet literally covered in snow.

Even with the furs wrapped tight around her, even with the heat of the fire, Nesta can’t help but shiver. She nearly jumps out of her skin when another layer of furs is gently placed atop her. She cranes her head enough to watch Cassian move away and back to the space where she had laid out his own furs earlier, her lip finding home between her teeth.

“Won’t you be cold now?” Nesta dares to ask, fingers toying with her now extra furs.

“I will be fine. I have slept in worse conditions,” Cassian dismisses, getting comfortable against the cave floor. “Go to sleep, Nes.”

Nesta sighs softly but she rolls back over and tries to get comfortable herself. She watches the way the shadows flicker and dance across the stone of the cave wall from the fire, and tries to focus on emptying her mind. This whole night has already been bad enough, and the last thing she needs is another round of nightmares to make things even more awkward between her and Cassian. She squeezes her eyes shut and keeps her breathing a steady in and out, in and out, until finally the blissful darkness sweeps her away.

~ * * * ~

Nesta blinks her eyes open slowly, sniffling softly as she rubs at them and tries to reorient herself. It takes her a moment to remember where she is, to remember the events of the previous night. Resonating with Cassian. Making the trek to this hunter cave. She presses a hand against her chest, but her stupid khui is surprisingly silent.

With a quiet huff, Nesta sits up, rubbing at her arms against the chill. A glance around the cave tells her that the fire has banked to just embers. It also tells her that she’s alone in the cave, Cassian nowhere to be seen. That fact has Nesta frowning, and she scrambles out of her furs, grabbing her now dried clothes and yanking them back on. She heads for the cave opening and the privacy screen still in place, her anger already beginning to spark at her supposed escort being MIA.

“Ho,” Cassian’s voice sounds from outside, and Nesta freezes. That’s the greeting the sa-khui use with one another, which means…

“Ho,” another voice answers, followed by the sounds of footsteps in the snow coming closer.

“I am surprised to see you out on the trails so early,” Cassian comments.

“I wish that I came with good news,” the other sa-khui explains. Azriel’s voice Nesta realizes. “Rhys is furious. He has accused you of stealing the human female to force resonance.”

Shit. That’s definitely not good news. Rhysand had made it very clear to the tribe about how the women who had crashed on the planet here were to be treated, had set very firm rules and very strict punishments. If he thought Cassian had kidnapped her, that meant he could banish Cassian from the tribe. And it would be all her fault. Guilt churns in Nesta’s gut, and she squeezes her eyes shut to try and fight off the wave of sickness.

Cassian lets out an annoyed huff. “I did not do that. You were there.”

“I know. Luckily, when I told them what had happened, how she tried to leave on her own and you tried to stop her, that you went with her to ensure she was safe, Feyre was not surprised. She said that her sister would do something like that, and many in the tribe agreed. They do call her the stubborn one. The scary one.”

“Do not call her that,” Cassian all but growls, his tone fierce.

Azriel lets out a pained gasp as though he’s been shoved hard, a moment passing before he speaks again. “I am sorry, brother. I know that you have a soft spot for her.”

“She is hurting. It is very clear. I do not know why no one else can see it.” Cassian sighs, his voice dropping quiet enough that Nesta has to lean even closer to the privacy screen to hear him. “I just wish to help her.”

His words, the unwavering sincerity of his tone, they have Nesta’s chest tightening, her traitorous heart skipping between her ribs. None of the men back on earth ever spoke of her like that, least of all when they thought she couldn’t hear them. She’ll never forget the words she overheard in school. The words Tomas would sneer with his friends behind her back.

Cassian barely even knows her, and still he defends her, still he declares how he wants to help, and he says it all without an ounce of doubt, without any hesitation. It has something suspiciously like hope threatening to bloom and take root within her, tying like a golden thread tighter around her heart and flooding warmth through her veins. Nesta tries to swallow hard around the feeling, around the way it thrums and purrs.

She realizes too late that it’s actually her stupid khui thrumming, realizes too late that the sound gives away the way she’s practically pressed up against the privacy screen and obviously eavesdropping. She scrambles away and to the other side of the cave, knocking her elbow back against the stone wall in her haste. She slumps down to the floor, curling her knees up tight to her chest as if smothering her khui will make it shut up.

“Do not worry,” Cassian’s voice startles her, and she snaps her head toward the cave entrance just in time to watch him slide the privacy screen back into place behind him. “I have made Azriel swear not to tell anyone about our resonance.”

“Thanks,” Nesta mutters; although her khui starts singing anew. Whether touched by the gesture or in protest, she’s not sure.

“But Rhys and Feyre have demanded we return right to the main cave when we are finished at the Elder Cave.”

“Okay…”

Cassian opens his mouth as though he intends to say something more, an emotion passing across his expression that Nesta can’t quite pinpoint, but he seems to think better of it. With a shake of his head, he settles near what remains of the fire, placing the quill-beast in his hand down in front of him. He tugs a knife free from his belt, skinning the small animal with practiced ease and slicing the meat.

“I’m not hungry,” Nesta tells him when he places a few pieces on the meat atop the embers to cook.

Cassian’s grip on his knife tightens, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “I do not believe you. You need to eat, Nes.”

“You said we would leave at first light for the Elder Cave.”

“I will not escort you until you have eaten something first.”

“Fine,” Nesta snaps, turning to yank her furs close enough that she can begin rolling them up. “I don’t need you anyways. I never asked you to escort me. I’ll go to the Elder Cave by myself.”

“Good luck finding your way,” Cassian drawls.

When Nesta finishes securing her furs to her pack, when she finally turns to look at him again, Cassian is smirking. It’s a challenge if she’s ever seen one. They both know she doesn’t know where she’s going, both know she’d just end up wandering aimlessly through the snow. It has her bristling, has her eyes narrowing as a scowl twists across her face. With a frustrated huff, she tosses her pack to the side.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re annoying?”

Cassian’s smirk morphs into a full blown grin at the retort, and he picks up one of the now cooked pieces of meeting, holding it out in offering. “Not nearly as much as since you have come into my life, but do not worry. I like it.”

Nesta snorts, but she scoots closer to take the meat. “You like when I insult you?”

“I like this game we play. I like the way your eyes blaze. The pink that floods your skin here…”

Cassian’s hand reaches up between them as though to demonstrate exactly where he means, but his fingers just barely brush the skin of Nesta’s cheek before he freezes. Just that single, simple contact has a shiver skating up Nesta’s spine, has her breath hitching in her lungs. She can’t tear her gaze away from his, from the way his glowing eyes seem to bore straight through her. She swears she can feel the energy crackling in the space between them, just as surely as she can hear both their khuis singing away.

But Cassian seems to jolt back to himself, clearing his throat awkwardly and dropping his hand back down to his side. He turns his attention away from Nesta, focusing back on cutting the rest of the quill-beast meat up and popping the pieces into his mouth. Nesta nibbles on her own piece of cooked meat, trying to will her still thundering heart to calm.

“That sort of makes you a creep, you know,” Nesta finally comments. “Noticing all that. It’s almost like you admitting to watching me all the time.”

The comment draws a soft laugh from Cassian, and he offers her a sidelong smirk. “I cannot be blamed for always wanting to watch you. You are the most beautiful female I have ever seen.”

“Wow,” Nesta drawls sarcastically, rolling her eyes. “Does that line work on all the females you’re interested in?”

“The only female I am interested in is you.”

The words have Nesta swallowing hard and she tosses her last remaining bite into the fire. “I’ve eaten now. Are we going to the Elder Cave or not?”

Any good natured teasing between them, any hint of returning to the way things were before their resonance, it crashes around Nesta in the blink of an eye. Cassian’s smirk falls away, his entire expression hardening again. He shoves his knife back into his belt with enough force that she winces, but he pushes to his feet and begins to move about the cave, using snow to put out the embers of the fire and grabbing his and her packs.

Nesta can do nothing but pull back on her cloak and boots, can do nothing but follow him back out into the snow and biting wind. The two suns shine high above in the sky, but with their small size and pale light, they provide almost no relief against the cold, and Nesta wraps her arms tight around herself, just barely holding off a shiver. If Cassian notices, he doesn’t say anything. He shoulders both of their packs, letting out a sound somewhere between a grunt and a grumble, and then they’re off.

If Nesta thought that their trek the night before was terrible, it’s nothing compared to the rest of the journey. They hike in silence, Nesta trudging through the snow just behind Cassian. By the time the Elder Cave comes into view, Nesta has never been more happy to see that stupid spaceship, her chest heaving from the steady exertion. Cassian pauses just outside the large, main door and ramp that acts as the entrance, his shoulder tensing for a moment before he lets out a breath.

“I will wait out here for you,” Cassian offers, not even meeting Nesta’s gaze. “I am sure you do not wish for our khuis to give away our resonance.”

“Good idea,” Nesta murmurs quietly.

Nesta offers Cassian one last look, but the sa-khui male keeps his gaze firmly on the line of trees around them, his arms crossed over his chest. With a soft sigh, she walks up the ramp and steps inside the large main room of the spaceship. She finds just Jurian sitting around the fire, skinning what appears to be a hopper. He looks up when Nesta enters, but doesn’t say anything. There’s always been a strange, almost unsettling, wildness to Jurian, especially since he spent so little time with the main tribe. It has Nesta keeping her distance rather than stepping closer.

“Is Vassa here?” Nesta asks, refusing to back down from the way Jurian’s eyes narrow, the sa-khui male still slow to trust anyone outside his mate.

Jurian still doesn’t say anything, but he lets out a quiet grunt and turns his eyes toward the door that leads deeper into the spaceship. The meaning is clear enough. With a quiet thanks, Nesta heads through the doorway and into the winding hallways. She steps around holes in the floor, making sure to give a wide berth to any crumbling walls and crushed doors, and follows what sounds suspiciously like someone singing a Taylor Swift song.

When she turns around another corner, Nesta finally locates Vassa, the redhead toying with the wires of some sort of panel in the wall. Vassa pauses what she’s doing when she hears Nesta, but her friendly smiling of greeting morphs into a confused frown when she glances over Nesta’s shoulder and finds the rest of the hall empty.

“Nesta? What are you doing here? Did a whole group come?”

“Just me,” Nesta explains, raising her chin and straightening her spine. “I came to use the medical machine.”

Vassa’s eyes sweep over her, confusion growing. “Medical machine? For what?”

“That’s none of your business. I just need to use it, okay?”

“Well, if it was working, which it isn’t, I would need to program it to do what you need.”

The world seems to stop spinning beneath Nesta’s feet, everything crashing down around her as she swallows hard. “The medical machine isn’t working?”

“It started smoking the last time I tried turning it on, so definitely wouldn’t recommend climbing in there,” Vassa explains with a shrug. “I might be able to fix it, but it’s probably going to take awhile since I don’t exactly have a manual handy, so if you need something super urgently? Not happening.”

Nesta lets out a quiet, defeated scoff, closing her eyes and tilting her head up toward the sky. This can’t be happening. This cannot be happening to her. She’s not sure what sort of grievances she must have committed in another life, why the Mother has apparently seen fit to issue this sort of punishment, but it’s clear the gods are laughing at her now. Bile starts to claw its way up her throat, and she swallows hard around it, shoves down the panic threatening to well up in her chest. With trembling fingers, she pulls out the IUD from the small pocket in her clothes.

“Is that…” Vassa starts, leaning closer to see. She glances up at Nesta’s face, as if looking for confirmation, before letting out a bright laugh. “Come on. Your periods can’t be that bad that you need an IUD still. Our khuis help with that now. Besides, that was probably keeping you from resonating. Now you can have a hunky alien husband like Jurian.”

“So what?” Nesta snaps, her temper beginning to flare at this turn of events. “You won’t help me then?”

Vassa sighs, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms. “I can try and fix the medical machine, but just know that it probably won’t make much of a difference. Our khuis are living organisms, remember? Now that it knows how to push your IUD out, it will just do it faster the next time.”

Nesta hates that she’s right. Hates that it’s a fact she’s been pointedly ignoring since she first realized what had happened back at the main cave. A fact she’s been running from since she resonated with Cassian. But there’s no more running, no more denying, and there’s certainly no reversing it.

Vassa keeps speaking, her lips moving as she says something else, but Nesta doesn’t hear a word of it. She doesn’t hear anything over the ringing that takes up home in her ears, over the rushing and pounding of her blood. She clenches her hands into fists, her nails biting into the skin of her palm, but it does little to help ground her. Already, she can feel herself spiraling, falling down beneath the crushing waves until it hurts to breathe, until she’s sure that she’s going to drown and no one will hear her scream.

It’s like an out of body experience, like being on the outside looking in, as numbly, Nesta turns on her heel. As she walks back through the winding halls of the spaceship. As she walks out through the entrance and into the sun and the snow beyond. As she walks and walks and walks. She doesn’t know where she’s going, where she will go, but Nesta knows one thing with absolute certainty.

She needs to get out.

—

Updated Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed): @moodymelanist @nesquik-arccheron @sv0430 @talkfantasytome @bookstantrash @eirini-thaleia @ubigaia @fromthelibraryofemilyj @luivagr-blog @lifeisntafantasy @superspiritfestival @hiimheresworld @marigold-morelli @sweet-pea1 @emeriethevalkyriegirl @pyxxie @dustjacketmusings @hallway5 @dongjunma @glowing-stick-generation @melonsfantasyworld @isterofimias @goddess-aelin @melphss @theladystardust @a-trifling-matter @blueunoias @kookskoocie @wolfnesta @blurredlamplight @hereforthenessian @skaixo @jmoonjones @burningsnowleopard @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk @ofduskanddreams @rarephloxes @thelovelymadone @books-books-books4ever @tenaciousdiplomatloverprune @that-little-red-head @readergalaxy @thesnugglingduck

#nessian #nessianweek2023 #nesta archeron #cassian #acotar #acosf #nessian fanfiction #nessian fic #nesta x cassian #IPB AU #my fic

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natalyarose · 3 months ago

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Hii! I read in your latest post how Jupiterian nakshatras oppose Venusian Nakshatras like purva phalguni opposes purva bhadrapada and I have both of these in my big 3, as sun and rising respectively, so what does it mean?!

Heyy! 🪷 (sorry, this ended up being long!!! It can be a nuanced topic lol)

♡ 𝒯𝒽𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉𝓈 𝑜𝓃 𝒪𝓅𝓅𝑜𝓈𝒾𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈 🌏

Good question! In my eyes, oppositions in a chart can be challenging, but a hugee positive when expressed well. It means you have 'the best of both worlds'. You inherently understand and embody completely opposing energies, which makes for a unique, well rounded, empathetic and possibly very skilled person.

Instead of the energy of say, your Purvabhadrapada Sun totally immersing you in only those energies; you have Purvaphalguni to show you the flip side of the coin & bring balance.

It's like if you (purely for example), imagine a person who has grown up in high society with luxury and wealth, but has also experienced struggle, lack and danger on the streets. This person is savvy in both contrasting worlds and develops empathy and knowledge, bridging the gap between conflicting energies/lifestyles.

This is kinda an 'airy fairy' observation of mine, but I have seen in charts, an opposition can point to a talent that the person holds. Especially when the Sun is involved- in an opposition with the Sun, the Sun is essentially bestowing light unto & illuminating the opposing placement, lighting it up.

If you embody/master both cosmically opposing energies, that means your mastery over then + understanding of them increases.

The dark side of oppositions would be friction, tug of war between the placements causing struggles fully realising the direction you want to go. There can be a struggle to make sure the needs of both placements are met and satiated.

In your case, your Purvabhadrapada Sun might be drawn to forgoing societal expectations and embracing 'strangeness', unconventionality. Though the Purvaphalguni energy in you might urge you to pursue a path where you are considered 'pure' and 'proper' in a societal sense. More 'refined', more choosy about who and what you entertain. You could also feel there is a friction between how you are seen (your ascendant) & your intentions (your Sun).

The way I see it, the opposition could lead to an inner war; or it could lead to the two energies sort of working together and becoming more powerful and influential, forming an equilibrium. I'd say the best way to reconcile the opposition is to figure out what the two placements have in common, and hone in on that connection.

Eg.

Purvabhadrapada & Purvaphalguni are both Brahmin caste.

both have connections to lions- P.bhadrapada being the lion yoni, P.phalguni being located in sidereal Leo, the lion

both are connected to drama, the arts and self expression

Usually with an opposition, the see-saw or tug of war between the opposing wants/needs of the placements can be solved easier if there's a planet that is for some reason stronger than the other. Like if it's exalted for example. That way the push-pull is ended by appealing to that 'stronger' planet's energy.

Another element of oppositions is sometimes what happens is the native experiences one of the planets on an external level, wheras the other is taken on internally since it's difficult for them to co-exist.

I personally have Saturn in a Jupiterian Nakshatra opposing Venus in a Venusian Nakshatra. I think Venus takes precedence energetically often because my whole chart is heavily Venus influenced plus I have another placement in that same Nakshatra. Saturn influences me to harshly judge myself and experience/perceive a lot of external friction from the outside world, whereas I hold my Venus closer to my heart and direct that energy towards myself & my art moreso.

#oppositions #astrology #sun opposite ascendant #vedicastrology #nakshatras #vedic astro observations #vedic astrology #vedic astro notes #nakshatra

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cirilla-fiona-riannon · 2 years ago

Text

Kicho's Main Story Chapter 6 Premium

These translations are not intended as a replacement for the game. Please support cybird by buying their stories. JP SPOILERS under the cut. Expect mistakes.

Kicho: "...ive…"

Mai: "What?"

Kicho: "I want to live."

(----!)

I didn't know to whom he was directing those words, but I felt an electric current surging through my entire body, making it impossible for me to stay still.

Mai: "Pull yourself together! Right, the pistol!"

Mai: "Maybe if I shoot the door with it, it might open, or the sound will alert someone!"

(I don't know if I can shoot well because I've never used it, but I can't leave him in this condition.)

(I need to do something.)

I was about to take it from his hand with my trembling fingers when一

Boom!

Mai: "!?"

The door swung open, and two heavy-looking boards fell, letting in the blinding light.

Mai: "You're..."

Motonari: "Ha! Serves you right, Kicho."

(Good, he seems to have calmed down a bit.)

Patting my chest in relief, I sat on the chair near the bed.

I brushed away the hair sticking to his side and gently wiped his forehead, making his eyelids twitch.

(Oh...)

Kicho: "Mai?"

Mai: "You okay?"

Kicho: "Yeah, sort of."

He slowly opened his eyes and turned his gaze toward me.

Kicho: "This is my room. What happened since then?"

Mai: "Motonari helped us out."

Mai: "Your subordinate, working with me, called for help when he came to the side of the warehouse and noticed something strange."

Kicho: "I see. We were saved."

Mai: "Yes."

(I wonder what would've happened to him if we had stayed trapped in there.)

(No, I don't even want to imagine it.)

Kicho: "It's already dusk? Looks like I've been out for a while."

Mai: "Yeah. I think you've been asleep for a few hours."

Kicho: "You've been here all this time?"

Mai: "Yes, of course. I was worried. Besides, I could call someone right away if something happened to you."

Kicho: "I see. Sorry I bothered you一Guh."

Mai: "Please don't force yourself to get up."

I hurriedly held him back as he tried to sit up.

Kicho: "............."

Mai: "Are you okay? Don't push yourself too hard. Just sleep."

Kicho: "I'm fine, just dizzy."

Mai: "Dizzy? That's not normal."

Kicho: "Then, I’m not dizzy. Anyway, let me go."

Mai: "Nope, you need to lie down."

I put some force into my upper body and pushed him down onto the bed.

Mai: "Uh-oh..."

Suddenly, my vision shook, and I fell.

Kicho: "Mai."

(This looks like I'm pushing him down!)

Mai: "I'm sorry! I didn't do it on purpose! I was nervous, so I had no energy left."

Kicho: "I know. But you're the one who needs to take it easy."

Mai: "----!"

He put his hand around the back of my head, and he gently brushed my hair.

Kicho: "Thank you for taking care of me."

Kicho: "I feel much better now, so you don't have to worry anymore."

Mai: "O-Okay."

Ticklishly, I pulled myself away and sat back in the chair as he carefully sat up and turned to face me.

Kicho: "By the way, why were you alone?"

Kicho: "That merchant guy never showed his tail, but I knew he was up to something."

Kicho: "That's why I sent you with my men, so you wouldn't be alone."

Mai: "He approached me earlier, so I decided to meet up with him."

Mai: "Could it have been a trap itself?"

Kicho: "Maybe, but there's no way to confirm that now."

Mai: "I'm sorry. I'll be careful not to make a rash decision next time."

Kicho: "Vigilance is necessary, but you don't need to apologize. You're the victim."

Kicho: "If there's anyone to blame other than that man's malice, it's me. I scared the hell out of you."

Mai: "That's not true. I'm really glad you showed up."

Mai: "Also..."

(What the hell was up with him back then?)

Kicho: "You look like you want to say something."

Mai: "Is it that obvious?"

Kicho: "I knew what state I was in, even if I couldn't remember much."

(So this is not the first time this has happened, and he knows what's causing it.)

(I really want to know, but it's too hard to ask.)

Well, at least I know that it's probably not some trivial circumstance.

Kicho: "What's wrong?"

Mai: "I'm not sure if it's something I should go into."

Mai: "But if you tell me, I can help you next time."

Mai: "I didn't know what to do earlier, so I got confused."

Kicho: "..............."

Kicho: "I'm not asking you to be helpful, but I'm willing to talk to you about it."

Mai: "Are you sure?"

Kicho: "It's better than having an unfamiliar gun in your hands due to confusion."

Mai: "Ugh. I'm sorry. I was desperate back then."

(I'm really glad Motonari helped us.)

(If I accidentally caused an accident with the pistol, neither he nor I would've gotten away unscathed.)

Kicho: "It's a kind of disorder."

Mai: "Disorder?"

Kicho: "Your world has several terms for it. To borrow a name from there, I'm claustrophobic. Do you know about it?"

Mai: "I'm not really familiar with it, but I've heard of it."

Kicho: "I see. As the name implies, this is something that develops in enclosed spaces."

Kicho: "Several things can trigger this. One good example is being in a small, dark place."

Mai: "So staying inside that warehouse triggers the symptoms."

(I'm not claustrophobic, but I was also scared of being trapped in a place like that.)

(I'm sure it was more frightening to him.)

My heart hurt as I remembered the way he looked earlier.

Mai: "When did you start feeling like this?"

Kicho: "I don't know. I just found myself in this situation."

Kicho: "Though I think it's probably due to my childhood experience."

Kicho: "I can still remember that dark, cramped room."

Mai: "Room?"

Kicho: "I asked you about your life before, so this time, let me tell you mine."

(I can learn about his past.)

Perhaps because of the tension, the air around us felt heavier as the tightly closed door of his heart was now slowly opening.

Kicho: "I was originally a different person who never existed."

Previous Part╏Masterlist╏Next Part

#ikemen sengoku #ikesen kicho #ikesen kichou #ikesen jp #ikesen #ikesen spoilers #ikesen translations #cybird

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meatymidnightmultiverse · 5 months ago

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PoV of a girl getting lost in the woods, only to stumble on a cottage that's abandoned. Yet, whenever she tries to leave she just ends up back there, and she's just getting fatter and fatter from the food in the pantry-

All these trees... It's so dense, everything is looking so similar the deeper you go. Small bits of light shines through the leaves, but not so bright to blind you either. It all really is confusing... Until you come upon a meadow... And in the middle of it was a cottage. Even though it seems dim inside, it doesn't seem to be in any state of dilapidation. Though, the door opens quite easily. Hmm, you call out to see if anyone is inside... But it seems to be empty... Investigating around, it seems plenty easy to roam about the foyer and into the kitchen... A spacious table and many chairs sit within... And the door to the pantry is open. Odd... But the sight and smell of food fills your senses quickly. With how long you've been lost, you must be famished... Surely it'll be okay to eat something, right? Nothing seems to be dusty or moldy or rotten... No, it's all... Simply delicious! The first bite into a creampuff fills your mouth with such sublime sweetness! One after another... Following suit to a cupcake next! A different sort of sweet mixed with a savory in there is truly magical! Many minutes later... You've had your fill and you feel the energy to once more brave the woods in search of a way home!

To which you attempt as such... But circling around has led you to the cottage once more in a matter of minutes... But surely you were just going in one direction... Weren't you? Strange... Perhaps it's simply a similar design? Venturing within... Well, even the furnishings seem mostly the same... Though... To a discerning eye, perhaps an inch or two larger in width? Not that you'd notice such a detail... But once again, the pantry is open just as the last and this was well stocked too! Hmm... You know you just ate... But this odd hunger tugs at your gut... Perhaps... One more snacking is in order... And a nap...

Okay, time to set out again as dawn has painted the sky and a breakfast has been consumed. The bed was incredibly comfy, but your attire felt a hair more snug than yesterday... No matter, it's surely nothing...

Again and again, you find yourself finding cottage after cottage with nary much change than that tiny little widening of furniture and perhaps a few new morsel types to be found within... And... Well, it isn't just the furniture that's been widening either...

But, surely it's naught but your imagination... However, upon the twentieth cottage... The door slams shut after you enter! And... You can feel something ushering you towards the kitchen... Your feet stumbling across the floor... The hunger roaring so loudly in your belly... And this time, the table is set... Take a seat... Indulge yourself...

Oh... What's this? Are you full? Are you sure about that...? Can you truly resist the feast that still sits upon the table...? Even as... Odd... Is that slice of pie getting... Closer...? Is it... Floating...? The answer is as swift as the slice flying past your lips! And it isn't alone... An army of floating servings is now marching down your gullet... As you feel hands glide across your stomach... But you can't see anyone! What... Is this...? And why does it feel so warm...? So good... So... Pleasurable...?

"EmBracE tHat feEliNg... EAT... grOw FATTER."

#gluttonygirls #(i hope this was good!)

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tetsunabouquet · 1 year ago

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Heir To The Lands Chapter 6

Webs of Doubt And Frustration Masterpost

Janus had reported the whole event to the queen, how the First Heir's powers only seemed to work on an instinctive level, and that he clearly seemed to value the little girl that had been with them. What he did not tell, was the strange sense of familiarity he felt when he saw the boy. Like he knew the boy. Janus couldn't help but feel like there was a resemblance, and whilst he knew his father's family was all dead, he did not know much about his mother's extended family. Could he be related to the First Heir? It was a question he had not expected, and one he might not want to find an answer to. Ash was the most important thing in his life, aside from Clary, and their plans were too important. Family or not, that boy would die.

The group nearly got Catarina to have a heart attack when the Portal suddenly appeared out of the blue in the living room. The blue skinned woman took in their distressed faces and as she saw Jem clutching Emma, her centuries long nursing instincts took over. She rushed to the patient. "What has happened?" She asked. "Faerie hunters attacked us. Emma seems to have been wounded with some sort of poison." Tessa said as she laid Emma down gently on the couch, Catarina making sure her head was properly supported. They worked together flawlessly, like the old times were they were war nurses together. Emma was in good hands. Kit, inhaled deeply before he went up to Ty and Julian. No matter what had happened, he couldn't stand the sight of seeing Ty looking so distraught in his living room. "You can trust them. Catarina is one of the best nurses on the planet and Tessa is the most dependable woman I know." Kit said, slightly flustered at the embarrassment of saying it out loud. Tessa smiled at his words.

Within the lands of Faerie, Livvy had quite easily gotten lost. Not that it mattered, the strange nature of Faerie's time somehow meant her bond with Ty wasn't affected, no matter how long she would venture. That, at least, was a comfort. Which Livvy definitely could use in this mess of a place. It was pretty, and absolutely gorgeous. She couldn't deny that. At first, she had just been unable to walk, mesmerized by everything and wanting to see every little detail. She thought Ty would love this place. Livvy didn't knew who sent the soldiers, but considering Kieran was nog king, the primary suspect was the Seelie Queen being out for Kit. But the Seelie Court wasn't that easy to find, as it turnts out. She really could have appreciated a guide, or a map. At this point, she was already sure she had been travelling for about a week, and there was still no Seelie Court or even some kind of road sign. She could cry tears of frustration about now. It was only by chance of luck, that she heard a pair of frustrated goblins from a distance. "My sister was supposed 'o be 'ere by now, but no, the lass has still yet to arrive." "It is all but that Nephilim boy's fault!" "Aye, if the Queen had not captured 'im, her desires would not have deluded her." Now that caught Livvy's attention. The Seelie Queen had captured someone? She raced towards the direction the goblins appeared to have came from, wondering if it would lead to the Seelie Court. She passed an endless number of trees bearing Faerie fruit, motivated with new energy. She kept going, she had to. Who knew who the Queen had captured, and wether they were in any danger. Suddenly, Livvy noticed her enviroment began changing, became more refined. She halted, and started moving forwards in a more careful approach, trying not to appear noticed by anyone. Stealthily, she crept forward through beautiful shaped bushed, lush flowers beds. Livvy then knew, where she was. This must be the Seelie Court's garden.

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super-paper-swap · 11 months ago

Text

Super Paper Swap: Prologue (OLD)

This is a post version of my 2017 Super Paper Mario AU Fanfiction, Super Paper Swap.

Word Count: 5,285 words

Chapter Summary: Mistress Tempo begins to set her plans in motion, starting with the marriage between two unlikely individuals. Meanwhile, Luigi wakes before a strange fairy that needs his help to save all worlds.

Author’s Notes: I fixed a mistake from last week’s chapter where I said it was the Prologue, it has been corrected to say it is the Introduction. THIS chapter is the Prologue. So, if there is any confusion, that’s why.

Princess Peach gradually awoke to the sound of distant mumbling. She didn't dare open her eyes due to the terrible ache in her head that felt like a pebble violently shoved into her cranium. She wasn't lying on the floor or floating in mid-air, she was standing on solid ground. She wanted to rub her head, but she was already holding something in both hands.

"Ooooh" She moaned from the pain of her migraine, "Where am I?"

There was a sweet and sinister sound of muffled laughter, "Mhmhmm, rise and shine your highness." The voice was familiar, too familiar.

Peach strained to open her eyes, but when she finally did, she desperately wished she hadn't. Before her was an alter with Bowser, somehow wearing a white tux, on the opposite side of it and floating behind the alter was Mistress Tempo with a suspicious looking book floating beside her. She looked down to find herself wearing not her usual dress, but instead a white wedding gown. In her hands was a bouquet of matching flowers, their fragrance seemed to lessen the pain flooding her head.

A great cheer erupted from behind Bowser, the sound of a thousand koopas and goombas in celebration. The sound made her feel ill, these creatures had no right to be happy, they were a nuisance and a threat to her people.

"Wh-what's going on?" The princess asked, her question came out as a mumble from the splitting headache.

A small pulse of energy dispersed next to Tempo, and from its source appeared a most peculiar being. He was roughly Mario's height, maybe taller, wearing some sort of yellow robe so long that it looked like it would fold upon itself if its wearer were on the ground and a shawl over his shoulders that hid his hands from visibility. His seemingly distraught face appeared to be a mask, white on right side, black on the other; he had a yellow hat with tiny ears poking from the top and three purple stems from what might have been a jester's hat jutting out from underneath the first hat and being weighed down by golden bells. Around his neck was a blue collar with another bell underneath the chin that seemed to hold up the shawl.

"Ah, Dimentio, what news do you have?" Tempo spoke to the strange jester-creature, apparently called 'Dimentio'.

"Preparations are complete Mistress! You are free to begin the ceremony as you please." Dimentio exclaimed, his voice seemed to flutter as he spoke. One of the stems twitched, as if alerted by something, and turned his head in the direction of the twitch, towards Princess Peach. The assistant cowered a bit at her sight.

"Chao my friend, you must be Princess Peach. It is pleasure to meet you." Dimentio bowed to the princess and then turned back towards Tempo, his voice becoming timid when he spoke to Peach, almost like he was scared of an unfamiliar face.

'At least he was polite.' Thought Peach.

"Yes, this is our lucky lady!" Tempo said with a childlike grin. "Now how about we begin?"

The sound of bells replaced the chattering of the audience below, Tempo faced the alter, still grinning like an idiot. She cleared her throat before speaking in a more proper and serious tone.

"Bowser, fearsome King of the Koopas, do you take Peach to be your lawfully wedded wife 'till your games be over?"

Peach looked towards Bowser, his expression showed hesitation as he stared back at her.

"Y-yes?" He stuttered, looking back at the monotone dressed woman.

Tempo broke her composure as cracked another grin and began to giggle to herself. She was quick to readjust and continued with the ceremony.

"Peach, noble and pure-hearted princess, do you take Bowser to be your lawfully wedded husband 'till your games be over?"

"HOLD ON THERE LADY!" Peach wasn't having any more nonsense; she was going to get answers. "Under royal decree, I DEMAND that you tell me what's going on this instant!"

"Heeheehee, isn't it obvious your highness? This is your wedding!" Tempo was absolutely giddy with childlike amusement towards the nonsensical events that were unfolding. This behavior had begun to tick off Peach, especially since the Mistress had acted so formal and benevolent before. It was like the change in scenarios had made her into a different woman.

"Ok," the princess grumbled, "but why, in the name of whatever divine being you believe in, am I marrying THAT goody-goody, bumbling, buffoon?!"

"Um, yeah, and what's with the 'fearsome king' thing you said earlier? I hope you meant to say 'friendly king', that sounds a bit more fitting." Bowser interjected, albeit nervously.

"Stay out of this Koopa!"

It was at this point that the two decided to bicker, ironically enough, like an old married couple while Tempo proceeded to laugh at the insanity before her and the audience members murmured amongst themselves.

"Please princess, I'm just as lost on the details as you are, but this lady seems to have gone to a lot of trouble to plan this event and something tells me she's not going to take 'no' as an answer. Let's just go with it, maybe this marriage will be good for us."

"No! Absolutely not! And who picked out this RAG of a wedding dress?! It's awful!" The princess, in a fit of rage, threw the bouquet in her hands at the hysterical Mistress Tempo. Her anger seemed to skew her angle, causing the flowers to instead hit the Mistress's unfortunate assistant square in the face. Tempo's laughter was halted by the sudden assault towards Dimentio, her expression switched to that of confusion as she eyeballed Peach.

"I demand to be returned to my castle this instant!" Peach proclaimed with her arms crossed.

She heard a single snap of fingers, and suddenly her headache became unbearable, it felt like something was both worming itself into her thoughts and clawing its way out of her skull. Numbness and a strange, controlling force spread through her body; she stood up strait, stiff as a plank, staring directly at the opposite side of the alter. Dimentio, who had been flailing about seconds prior, was upright again and holding his right hand in preparation for a snapping motion. The distraught on his face looked more like worry.

"I apologize Princess, but your sudden lashing out is somewhat unnecessary. Please don't make this any harder than it has to be and answer Mistress Tempo's question.

"Do you, Princess Peach, take Bowser to be your wedded husband 'till your games be over?"

"No." Peach refused, the pain was making her dizzy.

"I was going to be gentle, but you leave me no choice." Dimentio snapped his fingers, the pain increased exponentially. Something in her mind took hold, her thoughts overrun with ideas that weren't her own.

"Now Peach," Tempo glared at the princess with a deadpan look, "do you take Bowser to be your husband?"

"...yes...I...d-do..." As soon as she finished speaking, Princess Peach collapsed to the ground; a small green sprout was faintly noticeable on her head, having been previously hidden by her crown.

The entire room shook like an earthquake, the crowd erupted with screams of panic and fear. Near the very back of the crowd, a certain red plumber was startled awake from unconsciousness by the commotion.

"What the-? Where am I?!" Mario managed to pick himself up and get his bearings. He quickly recognized three of the figures at the top of the staircase.

"HEY! What's going on here?!" He began to push and shove his way to the top.

A blinding black light emitted from the alter with a large, shadowy, and ominous heart-shaped object at its center, seeming to leak with destructive power. The heart rose up to Mistress Tempo, who began to laugh, this time with a more maniacal tone.

"HAhahaha! Finally, we have unleashed the Chaos Heart, as was written in the Dark Prognosticus!"

"Marvelous work my mistress!" Dimentio chipped in, the whimsical flutter in his voice reappearing.

"HALT FIENDS!" Mario stepped in, finally reaching the alter.

"Oh? Who might you be?" Tempo asked, her curiosity peaked by the small man. "I don't believe we've been formally introduced."

"Mario. Plumber and older brother. I'm here to stop you before cause any more trouble then you already have!" He pulled out his hammer and prepared for a powerful attack. Dimentio flew between Mario and the Chaos Heart in a defensive stance.

"Please wait a moment sir! There's no telling what might happen if you're not care-" He was caught off-guard by the plumber actually throwing his hammer at him. The impact forced the assistant to collide with the Chaos Heart. Neither Dimentio nor the Chaos Heart were damaged, but the small jester still clutched his head after the attack.

"Beat it freak-face! I'm here to take down your grayscale boss! Huh?" Mario noticed a sudden reaction with the Chaos Heart.

The physical contact with Dimentio seemed to cause the heart activate its power; the entire room rumbled and the already blinding light grew so bright that all vision was completely obscured.

Sometime later, the light cleared, revealing an empty room. Tempo, Dimentio, and the ominous book, known as the Dark Prognosticus, reappeared unharmed.

"Are you alright Mistress?"

"Perfectly fine my friend. I'm not sure what I can say for the other though, but I'm assuming they're still in one piece." She turned to him. "The Chaos Heart is secure and ready for use, please try to round up the members of our wedding crash, they might be of help to us."

"Yes Mistress!" He paused. "So I suppose you are prepared to turn to a new page of dark prophesies?"

"Yes, we shall put them to good use." She held her arms high up into the air, "Darkness, open wide your mouth! Consume all worlds as is foretold in the prophecy, and give us your power to use as we desire!"

"Hey!"

There was a voice.

"Wake up!"

There it was again.

"Luigi! Wake up!"

It was calling to him, loud and clear. His eyes opened very slowly, it took a while for him to see the creature, but it was there. Right before him, on the ground he lay upon, was a sort of fusion between a pixie and a bat.

The bat-shaped creature was completely blue and seemed to be made out of polygonal shapes. The "wings" were like an outline for a right triangle but with the 90 degree point facing upwards and the line itself having the thickness of being drawn with a large highlighter. There were three much smaller triangles that were positioned like ears and a tail. This bat was just the right size to fit inside a hollowed-out watermelon of normal size, which was surprising tiny compared to bats Luigi was familiar with that were typically man-sized. The pixie-like part came from the way the body seemed to glisten and shine in the light. He could almost make out a pair of eyes and a fanged mouth that glowed an orange tint, but only when he squinted, almost like it was an invisible face of sorts.

"Are you awake yet?" The bat asked in a surprisingly creepy tone.

Luigi instinctually grabbed his hammer from his side to swing at the creature. As soon as he stood upright, the pain from earlier rushed back to him. The damage inflicted from just one attack was overwhelming, how could one person be so strong? He used the hammer as a crutch.

"Hey now! Don't freak out!" The bat flew up to Luigi's eye level, "This is just the way I talk." I's voice, although not as creepy as initially thought, was still a bit unnerving, but the squeaking sound it made things a little more humorous.

"You wouldn't happen to be Luigi would you?"

"Who's asking?"

"I'm asking!"

"And you would be?"

"Blecky! Bleh heh heh!" The bat introduced himself with pride in his voice. "I'm a pixl, a special type of fairy." Well, Luigi was almost right with assuming he was a pixie.

"Hey, you wouldn't happen to have met a lady called Mistress Tempo would you? And with a princess and monstrous king as her captives?" Blecky asked Luigi with concern.

"Well," Luigi scanned the room, "judging on the lack of people in this room, I'd say yes and double yes."

The pixl briefly flinched, "Oh geez, so she's already beginning to form the void..." There was a hint of anger as he spoke. "We don't have much time, come with me!"

"What?!" Luigi wasn't given much time to react as the bat latched onto his chest and he began to feel a spinning sensation. For a second, he neither felt nor saw anything; even the pain from before seemed nonexistent.

When the spinning ceased, Luigi was no longer in Bowser's Castle. Instead, he was on a plateau made of some sort of white brick or other building material. The ground he stood upon had a design completely alien to him and the sky was an odd khaki color. Blecky let go of Luigi and flew about a foot away from him while a figure approached them. Luigi slowly stood up to observe them.

The figure in question was female wearing a red, flowing gown with a yellow, and somehow segmented, sash over her shoulders. She wore a yellow, pointed turban similar to one worn by a fortune teller with a four-point star hanging at the end. Her face was obscured by a large pair of red glasses and a white cloth with a faintly visible star patter covering her mouth. Her yellow-orange hair was held around the back by the turban to appear incredibly short and curly. She seemed young, but something told Luigi that she may have been ancient and simply didn't act her age.

"Blecky my dear," asked the mystery woman "who is this you've brought here?" She examined Luigi from afar, "Shirt of blue, trousers green, and a mustache cut crisp and clean! A lucky find my little Blecky!"

"He must be one of the four mentioned in the Light Prognosticus, there's no doubting it! Oh, and his name's Luigi."

"Can someone explain what's happening right now?" Luigi asked, clearly confused by the whole situation.

"Of course my friend, let me come to your end." She moved next to Blecky. "Welcome to Flipside, a town between dimensions. It's quite far from the Mushroom Kingdom, and that's no pretension.

"My name is Merlee, descended from the crafters of the town you see. I study ancient texts to stop the end of all worlds from the vortex above us that swirls." She directed her attention to something directly above them. Surely enough, there was a small, black and purple vortex up in the sky, occasionally lightning seemed to spark inside of it and a purple mist would appear and disappear at random.

"What is that?" Luigi asked, he felt like he was going to be asking many questions in the near future.

"That is The Void my dear, a hole in the fabric of space. It's location we cannot quite trace, it will, in time, grow large enough to consume all and leave nothing in its place. It was created by Mistress Tempo, the woman who has given you woe. She wields the Dark Prognosticus, a most sinister tome; its dark prophesies foretell our doom." Merlee spoke with a solemn tone.

"'A fair and lovely princess...a furious monster king...the union of these two will call forth the Chaos Heart, the consumer of worlds...and the Chaos Heart will ravage the sky, and so bring forth The Void'" The bat's words sounded prophetic and bold.

"This quote is from the Light Prognosticus of my ancestors long ago, another passage in it goes as so: 'The Void will swallow all...naught can stop it...unless the one protected by the dark power is destroyed. The hero with the power of eight Pure Hearts will rise to this task.' Now hero, this I ask..."

She then pulled out a large heart-shaped object that glowed many brilliant shades of red; the gentle touch of its shining rays on Luigi's skin seemed to heal him of all his wounds as the pain that was bothering him before immediately disappeared when the heart appeared. It floated just above the mystic woman's head.

"Will you take this Pure Heart whose light upon which you bask?" Merlee asked, her voice trembled, as if the possibility of him saying 'no' absolutely haunted her.

"I can't say no to such a desperate request," Said Luigi, "especially if the universe is in danger. Merlee, I accept my destined task, and with it, the Pure Heart with which you beseech upon me!" The spark of his inner heroism shined in his eyes as he spoke. Despite her face being obscured, Merlee was obviously smiling when she was given his response.

"Excellent Luigi, with that I bestow the Pure Heart onto thee!" The heart floated to Luigi, descending from above him into his arms, surprising him with how light it was for its size.

"Blecky," Merlee looked back to the bat, "please lead Luigi to the heart pillar of this town, I'm sure he could use you to get around."

"Righto!" The bat flew in front of Luigi's face, "Follow me!"

The green plumber did as the bat asked; they went down an elevator in the left-hand area of the plateau. As they went down, it turned out the plateau was actually the top of a giant white tower in the dead center of Flipside; there were at least two visible floors below the top of the tower, but Blecky insisted there were three floors and a basement, he mumbled something about a second basement as they exited the main lift connecting the second floor and the tower.

There was a fence a number of feet away from their side that seemed to block out some outskirts of town complimented by another fence behind the tower. There were two large buildings on each side of the tower and an elevator between each building.

The buildings seemed small at first glance, but the distance between them made the rest of their structures visible, showing them to be a bit more spacious then initially thought. To the left of Flipside Tower was a house of warm, sunny colors and three noticeable star-shaped windows above the door; to its left was an elevator button to the third floor and a cream colored shop with a red roof. The right side of town had an inn with the same coloration as the shop, a currently inactive elevator button for the first floor, and a cream colored building with a green roof, housing the town fortune teller, as opposed to Merlee who only looked like a fortune teller. The town was scattered with different people that all appeared as if they were made of geometric shapes, they were friendly, but Luigi was a little unnerved by them.

Blecky led Luigi to the left side of town to the third floor elevator which magically materialized around the two when the button was pressed and quickly took them up. The third floor wasn't much to look at, two fences on either side and a view of the outskirts, but on the opposite side of the floor was a white pillar with a tiny of amount red barely visible at the bottom and a heart shaped opening facing the outskirts. Looking up, Luigi could once again see the sky, and in addition to that was a view of Flipside Tower in its entirety; it had to have been about a hundred feet tall based on how Luigi was standing.

"Come on Luigi! Over here to the Heart Pillar!" Called out Blecky, the bat had already flow over to the other side of the floor, bursting with excitement. Luigi passed by two townsfolk, one of them a young girl that was fascinated by the void's mysterious nature; he decided to not tell her about the true nature of the vortex and simply let her admire it.

As he approached the Heart Pillar, he felt a resonance from the Pure Heart that grew strong the closer he got to it. When he finally reached the pillar, the Pure Heart seemed ready to launch itself out of his arms.

"Set it free Luigi!"

Luigi did as Blecky said, the Heart Pillar sent out a pulse of energy that pushed him back ever so slightly; the Pure Heart flew ever so gracefully into the hole on the pillar, glowing ever brighter. The light made clockwork patterns around the heart for several seconds before finally dissipating.

He felt something gently sit itself upon his head. Two tiny, familiar ears peaked from above into his field of vision.

"Hi there." Blecky chirped in a bat-like fashion. "I'm tired; you know your way back to the tower right?"

Luigi nodded as the bat nestled for a nap. Before Luigi could walk to the elevator, he was approached by the little girl from before. "Hey Mister, have you seen that hole in the sky?" She hopped about in anticipation.

"Yes, I have. It's pretty scary looking isn't it? Hopefully it won't hurt anyone." He rubbed the back of his neck as he answered, nervous that the child would ask about the intimidating vortex. Instead he was surprise when the child looked at him with confusion, was it something he said?

"Scary? You're a really weird mister, assuming something is gonna hurt someone because it's scary. Maybe it only looks scary and is actually very nice." She giggled, her innocence keeping her blissfully unaware of how dangerous the Void truly was. "My name's Ellie, what's yours?"

"Luigi." The plumber answered and cracked a grin when little Ellie danced around him, repeating him name between fits of laughter as if she had heard the funniest name in existence, her pigtails bopping up and down with every movement. An older man walked towards the two, drawing Ellie's attention. She ran towards him excitedly, the conversation they had was unintelligible to Luigi. He headed in their direction, towards the elevator, Ellie waving goodbye as he passed by her and who he assumed was her father.

Back on the second floor, Luigi decided to examine some of the buildings before making his way to the top of Flipside Tower. Through the glass door of the shop, there was a taller woman setting up items for her future customers, her golden hair was held up in a messy bun. The sun-colored house had a note on the door, "Merlee is out, please wait for her to be about." was written on it in the fanciest cursive he'd ever laid eye on, this was obviously Merlee's house. On the other side of town he could see a cloaked head peaked out of the door of the fortune teller's house, briefly glancing in Luigi's direction near Merlee's house and the tower elevator before cowering back inside and locking the door.

Walking to the space between the rhyming shaman's house and the tower, Luigi felt the need to jump, as if there was an invisible object of importance there that somehow saved him from a nonexistent problem; this was a normal feeling for him that usually only appeared in places of importance. He jokingly referred to these particular spots of personal security as 'save points' and never bothered to question why they existed, they just did, and that was perfectly fine.

By the time he had made it back to the top of the tower, he was surprise to see a red door next to the elevator, engraved in a number of clockwork patterns. Merlee stood in front of the door, admiring it like it was work of art. Blecky woke from from his slumber and flew to the mesmerized shaman woman, when she did not say anything, the bat instead nudged her for attention, startling her out of her trance.

"Look my dear, a door does appear! This dimensional door will do its part to lead you to the next Pure Heart. Blecky," she then turned to the pixl, "use your powers to guide our friend through the new space. When the Pure Heart is found, please return to this place."

"But of course!" He replied with no complaint.

Merlee handed a small, red-and-white striped object that looked similar to the warp pipes of the Mushroom Kingdom to the green plumber.

"So long as a signal to this return pipe is near, its power will return you here. Use it when you must my dear." So explained Merlee about the so-called 'return pipe' she had given him.

"A friend mine lives here, Bestovius is his name. The Light Prognosticus foretells he will grant one the power to flip through the dimensional plane. Go forth hero; let your destiny be claimed!" With those last words, the shaman woman allowed Luigi entrance through the door.

Our hero's adventure was beginning!

Elsewhere, in a dark, sinister, and rather large room, Mistress Tempo was having a meeting with Dimentio and two of her three other high-ranked followers. Dimentio stood to the Mistress' left, silently and slightly behind her, while the other minions were several feet in front of her, enthralled even by the sight of their emotionally unstable leader.

"Good news everyone, our beautiful Void has successfully ripped itself into the dimensional fabric of space itself, just as foretold in the Dark Prognosticus. It's only a matter of time until it consumes all these sad and sorrowful worlds." Tempo spoke out in an overly enthusiastic manner.

"That sounds absolutely superb my Mistress. You'll erase all those troublesome worlds and rebuild without war or fear, just as you promised, correct?"

"Of course Mimi, I have not backed down from my word in the slightest; our perfect worlds will arrive in due time." Tempo replied to Mimi, a young woman roughly Dimentio's height, if shorter, with green skin and matching green hair held up in a sporty-looking ponytail. Her yellow tube dress, sporting a red collar and belt, fell to the knees of her thin, black, mechanical legs. Her fuller exposed arms were just like her legs, and her eyes were empty and constantly stern-looking.

"If I might ask Mistress, where is our other co-worker? He is late to our meeting." The woman next to Mimi commented.

The woman, known as Nastasia, was an older woman, although she showed no signs of being any specific age. Her skin was a dark blue color that aggressively clashed with her messy, hot pink hair with purple highlights; the bangs were, for the most part, brushed to her left side while the rest of her hair was held up in the sloppiest bun imaginable, the fact it stayed up seemed to defy all laws of physics. Two fanged peaked out of her red-lipped mouth and her eyes were completely obscured by her orange, oval-framed glasses. She dressed similar to a ringleader, but not quite. The 'tie' she wore was a white, circular gem with a orange metallic bat wing on either side, the jagged trim of a white shirt revealed itself from underneath a magenta colored suit with a single white button and the sleeves folded up slightly to reveal the inside of the suit as completely white. Her knee-length pants were grey, puffy, and had a decorative white gem on either leg; her legs were otherwise covered up by white knee-high socks and her black, one-inch-high-heels. Her most important feature was her cape, externally, white at the top, but slowly speckling down into a light pink in the middle, to a light blue at the bottom; the inside was, oddly enough, the same color of purple as The Void outside the giant windows on the left and right walls of the room.

"Do not fret Nastasia, our friend is merely building his strength, he is a man of war after all, and a man of war must train himself if he wishes to bring himself closer to the end of conflict." Tempo's reply was more annoyed to the pseudo-ringleader than it was to Mimi, as Nastasia was constantly trying to find an excuse to get her co-workers in trouble, and, if not that, to cause mayhem amongst said co-workers to coax them into, at the very least, arguing with one another.

"Quite ironic wouldn't you think? To bring a man of war into an effort to remove things such as war from the universe?" Nastasia back-sassed to her boss, knowing that Tempo was far too kind to ever fire her.

Tempo did not reply to this comment directly, instead she looked away, the annoyance now completely obvious, as she mumbled something about different stroke for different minions, she quickly returned to her enthusiastic demeanor, "Disregarding Nastasia's comment, let us discuss more important matters. The Dark Prognosticus is our recipe to ending these rotten worlds of old and making all of our dreams come true, and like every recipe, we must follow its instructions carefully, otherwise it will become a recipe for disaster instead. Dimentio," she directed to conversation to the immediately startled loyal assistant, "what are the whereabouts of our green friend from the Mushroom Kingdom? Does he live?"

"Miraculously enough, yes. Yes he does." The jester fidgeted as he spoke, seeming put off by something.

"Excellent, deliver him here to us then."

"About that..."

"Hm?"

"I'm afraid he's no longer in the castle or that dimension."

"...oh..." Tempo was silent. She clasped her hand over the necklace in a brief moment of concentration. She gave him a forgiving smile and release the necklace from her grasp, "That's ok then. Do we have a clue where he's at?"

"I can sense dimensional disturbances in a further off dimension, it's most likely the hero of prophesy." The purple stems attached to Dimentio's head shuddered, not from fear but rather from the disturbance.

"Really? Heroes will be heroes I suppose. Mimi, I know your power alone will be enough to halt his progress, but just in case he decides to put up a fight, do not under any circumstances end his game. Weaken him until he can no longer stand his ground and deliver him here. Keeping this man alive is vital to ensuring our success!" Mistress Tempo commanded her follower with delicacy and precision, making sure she understood every word.

"With pleasure my Mistress." Mimi turned to her feminine co-worker, "Nastasia, would you be interested in coming along? I know you have important vampire business to be attending to, but I think this would be worth your time, you know, female bonding time and such."

"Why not? I've not much better to do, and watching you fight brings shivers down my spine. As for that vampire comment, I'll let it slide for now. Just don't be surprised if there's a swarm of bats in your room somewhere down the line." Nastasia was quick to answer Mimi, never ceasing to contain her off-putting grin.

"Oh! And be sure to update our friend before you leave!" Tempo hastily requested to the two women before before they teleported away.

"So, you wish to stop me?" Mistress Tempo asked quietly. "Clearly you do not see error in the worlds we live in." She held her arms out wide, as if ready to preach to the heavens above, "No matter, I will be your guiding light, and show you to the path to eternal joy. Hurry if you must hero, for it will not be long before these worlds meet their end!"

#super paper swap #super paper mario #super paper mario au #SPS Fanfiction

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gingeart · 2 years ago

Text

Out of the Ash

dnd pc pre-campaign set-up / 8,021 words / sometimes you, a wizard with a shaky grasp on your identity, stumble out of the feywilds poor, starving, and alone, and are met with countless kindnesses you are sure you do not deserve. this is your story. / content warnings for self-loathing, weed, and ptsd flashblacks (fire, injury, abandonment) / everyone but fen belongs to @mercilessperciless!

He’s not sure when he walked out of the Feywilds and back into the Material Plane. Somewhere along the line, he must have, because he can see a city, a defined one, in the distance. Fey architecture doesn’t look like architecture— it’s more of a harmonization of nature and magic, making the best out of what is yet to be as it grows. It doesn’t matter. He’s not in the Feywilds anymore, and he needs a new arcane focus. Just focus on that. Nothing else matters.

He can see where the fire began to die out as he walks, the areas where the greenery was too lush for it to take. The sound of animals around him is... marginally better than silence. Means he’s headed in the right direction, at least. He just needs to get to town and get this arcane focus. Then he can keep going.

He tries to ignore the hollow inside of him that aches for the touch of flame, some sort of feeling to tell him he’s alive and real. “Was the hand not enough for you?” He mutters to himself, staring at his own poor bandage job before he drops his hand again. His voice is dry, raspy; who knows how long it’s been since he’s had water? Better not to speak. Conserve what energy he has for walking.

He can’t tell if the blur of his memories is from exhaustion, or hunger, or something else entirely. All he knows is that he has to make it down the mountain, into that town, and get an arcane focus. After that, he can figure things out.

He walks for two days without stopping. For two days, he walks down the side of this unknown mountain, towards the city he saw first through bare, dead branches. Through some sort of campground, where he ignores the blatant stares of the people around him. Someone starts to approach, to ask if he’s okay; but he doesn’t see them, hardly hears them. He doesn’t have time for this, he has to get this focus. Though his vision swims, he pushes forward. One foot in front of the other, come on. If you can’t walk up to a shop, how are you going to kill a fey?

He scans the streets for anyone with some sort of staff visible (a wand would work too, but they’re not as easy to spot). People are giving him strange looks; but they don’t have staffs, they won’t be of any help. He has to keep moving until he finds someone with a staff, and they have to be local, because otherwise they won’t be of any help.

The road opens up into something wide and full of intersections, and he stops as he scans the area. Bigger area, more places to look, more people, this is going to take forever, focus, it doesn’t matter—

A staff.

He narrows in on the staff first, sizing it up— a big hunk of something on the end, definitely a magical staff— before his gaze inevitably makes its way towards the person it’s attached to. “Are you local?” He asks bluntly.

“Yeah, I’m—” She pauses, face changing, “Oh geez, you okay?”

“Where’s the nearest magic shop?” He moves his eyes from her to the buildings around them, taking each in as his gaze snaps from place to place. None of the ones he can see are a magic shop.

“Uh. This way,” she stands, grabbing the staff from her back (he tenses, beginning to reach for his own before he remembers its nonexistence) and placing it on the ground. When no spells come to life around him as she begins to walk with its aid, he follows in her wake, eyes glued to her feet. His vision is still fuzzy at the edges, but at least this way, he has something to focus on. Her boots look well-worn, and he can’t help but admire the craftsmanship as he pushes onward.

They turn onto several streets before she pushes open a door, holding it open for him. He doesn’t acknowledge it, making straight for the counter. When he lifts his gaze from the floor to meet the man in front of him, he’s greeted with an owlish blink before a “What can I do for you?” emerges from his lips.

“I need a new arcane focus.” There is so much weight behind that single sentence. It’s only added to by a deep layer of gravel in his voice, from where breathing in smoke and embers, where not speaking for at least two and a half days, have begun to have detrimental effects on his throat.

“Ah. You might be in luck,” he begins to turn, “let me get the Wandsmith.” He only goes a couple of steps before he turns again, “Sorry, do you want like a Prestidigitation or something?”

“No, I want an arcane focus,” he replies immediately. Did he not make that clear enough? How can he get clearer than stating it immediately?

“Oooookay!” The man disappears into the back. Good, no need to repeat himself again.

The world around him swims in this moment of stillness; he grips the counter with both hands, focusing on the deep pain in his right palm, and grits his teeth. It keeps him grounded, at least enough that he stays standing.

He watches the door until it opens again to reveal a tall crane-person and the man from earlier. His eyes follow them both as they approach him, and he simply stares at the crane, who stares back. He’s not going to read into it: he just wants to get his focus.

He holds eye contact for a long moment (maybe several) before the crane speaks, “You look like a staff man.” An uncannily accurate assessment. “I am the Wandsmith. Have you lost your focus or has it been destroyed?”

“Destroyed.” Anger and bitterness seep through the word as his face darkens. If he had his focus, sparks might be rising; but he doesn’t. They don’t.

“Then I will craft you a new one. Free of charge, though I will ask you a favor which you may say no to.”

His expression twists for a moment at the word Free, a flash of confusion (nothing is free nothing is ever free not for him there is always a debt to be paid) that settles again into that same tired determination as he hears the rest of the sentence. “What is it?”

“A potentially dangerous venture.” The Wandsmith hardly pauses, “There are postings around town with the summary, and I will call upon interested parties. Return in a few days, I will craft your staff.”

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath as he nods, resolving himself to the idea. Dangerous usually means it will take a long time, and every minute that ticks by is another minute She’s still alive; but he doesn’t even know what he’s going to be doing yet. No need to jump to conclusions. “Understood.”

They straighten, and almost seem to smile: “Then I will see you then, Fenberos.”

His metaphorical hackles raise as he hears his name for the first time in a very, very long time. Every inch of him tells him not to trust this person, if they can pull a name from thin air (names have power, he knows this all too well); but he’s in no position to refuse a free staff, with no money and no focus. Instead, he bites his tongue, turns, and leaves.

His vision swims as he emerges into the sunlight once more, and he grips the wall to keep himself upright. It’s not until a hand is placed into the dead center of his vision that he realizes that the woman with the staff has followed him out. He looks from her hand up to her face, trying to get some sort of read on her, waiting to see what she wants from him. Payment for her information? He doesn’t have that. What else would she want? Better to ask and have a definitive answer. “What do you want?”

“I was going to warn you, but you weren’t actually listening to what I was saying,” she looks at him with an expression he can’t quite read. “The Wandsmith is a... changeling, I think? Someone who can pick different faces.” He’s heard stories, but who knows if he’s met one before? No one reveals anything about themself in the Feywilds. “They’re a very powerful arcanist, so they can be off-putting, but I promise they’re a good person regardless of what their face is.” She smiles at him and brandishes her staff just enough to catch his eye, “They enchanted my staff to be Sure-Footed.”

Oh. This is a person, not just a means to get him to a magic shop. He blinks as he takes her in for a second time: bright blue eyes, a curly black bob, shorts with so many pockets, a gnarled wooden staff that she leans on the way he currently leans on the wall of the shop. She holds her hand out towards him again, and he closes his eyes as he tries not to let out the world’s deepest sigh. “Why do you keep holding your hand out?”

“You need a place to stay, right?”

Her question catches him off guard, and he knows his surprise slips through onto his face, because he’s too tired to keep it off right now. “… That’s correct.”

She smiles at him softly, and something in his chest twists in a way that feels so foreign and misshaped. “There’s a campground at the edge of town you can stay at, free of cost. I can show you there,” she offers, and suddenly her holding out her hand makes sense.

“Okay,” he nods, carefully pushing himself away from the shop’s wall. He wobbles for a moment before steadying as he begins to follow behind the woman back out of town, towards the area he came from. People are still staring at him: this time, he’s slightly more aware of their eyes. Their gazes burn into him; if he had his focus, he would burn back. Instead, he just keeps his gaze set on the woman’s shoes. (He doesn’t see the ash that follows distantly in his wake, and neither does she.)

She leads him to a secluded clearing, away from most of the rest of the campground. He takes it all in with a soft nod, noting all the flammable material that surrounds him and categorizing it mentally. It’s going to be so strange: he can’t remember the last time he lit a fire without magic.

“Here,” she holds something out to him-- a piece of bread? Again, a thousand questions run through his head as he stares at it; but hunger overpowers all rational thought, and he finds himself taking and devouring it before he even realizes what he’s done. He still feels shaky, but he doesn’t feel one strong wind away from passing out anymore. That’s an improvement.

“… Thank you,” he murmurs, keeping his eyes to the ground. It takes a moment before he realizes that he doesn’t know how to address her, and lifts his gaze again. “What should I call you?”

“Diana,” she smiles again (fuck, she’s pretty, fuck, why does she keep smiling). Is that her real name? Does she know the power behind a name? “You?”

She already heard his name from the Wandsmith, but she’s asking what he wants to be called. That’s kind of her, giving him a chance to define himself on his own terms. He opens his mouth to answer, but pauses as he realizes he’s not actually sure what his answer is. It takes him a long, strained moment before he finally, hesitantly, says, “Fen.”

“Good to meet you, Fen.” Her voice is still gentle, but she places an emphasis on his name, a certainty that he did not share. “... Would you like to clean up? The river isn’t far, but there’s bath houses too.”

She’s still there, still talking to him, still offering him help. Why? He doesn’t have anything to pay her with, he’s sure she can tell. Is she going to charge him later? Ask him to pay her back in favors? This will come back to bite him in the ass, eventually. It always does. But when he catches her eyes, her kind expression again, all thoughts stop. She’s waiting on him to make a decision. “You pick,” he ends up mumbling, unable to jumpstart his brain fast enough for his own standards.

She leads him away from the campground, towards the sound of running water, and gestures to the river as soon as it’s within sight. “I’ll be in earshot if you need anything,” she flashes him a smile, but doesn’t move until he begins to move as well, processing where he is and what’s been said about 10 seconds late. He doesn’t watch her leave, turning his gaze towards the river. When was the last time he saw running water as anything but an obstacle for the Blaze? It feels strange, walking up to it.

He doesn’t undress before he steps in. His clothes are ragged, covered with soot, and they need the wash as much as he does. He almost expects the water to sizzle as he steps in, but it doesn’t: it’s cold, shocking him awake and clearing his mind of all thoughts but the sensation. He grits his teeth, wading deeper in, until he stands at about hip-height. The water rushes past him, but his feet are planted firmly; he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and ducks under the water.

The cold assaults him, numbing the tips of his ears and his toes. He runs his good hand through his hair, doing his best to scrub it and his face clean before he runs out of breath. It takes... longer than he would like, and several rounds of ducking under, before he stops seeing black run off his skin. By the time he drags himself out of the river, he’s shivering (a sensation he hasn’t felt in a very long time). He doesn’t like it, the way it sinks deeper and deeper into his bones with each passing second.

The bandage on his hand is sopping wet and not much cleaner than it was, so he unwraps it, feeling the sting of the fresh air on his burnt palm. He dunks it into the water a couple of times and squeezes it out before he begins to rewrap the wound, wincing at how tight it is. Letting the hand hang loose, he makes his way back to Diana, who is sitting not too far off from the clearing where she left him. She hauls herself to standing with the help of her staff, leading him back towards the campground once more. Sitting there in his spot is something underneath a neatly folded towel: he moves to grab the towel immediately, beginning to dry off with one hand before he realizes he has taken without thought of cost, assumed it was for him. He glances up at Diana, only to find her looking at his hand.

“I have something for that,” she motions him towards her, placing herself on the ground and rummaging through her pack. Fen joins her after a moment, looking to see what she’s grabbing— a small kit filled with herbs and moss— and furrows his eyebrows. “Give me your hand.”

He holds them both out to her, unsure which one she wants. When she takes the bandaged one and begins to unwrap it, he realizes: she’s going to heal it, even though he didn’t ask. He stiffens at the thought, opening his mouth to warn her, “It’s, um. Not pretty.”

She shrugs, seemingly unbothered by the fact. Indeed, she doesn’t flinch as the bandage falls away, taking a moment to study the injury (an ugly, deep burn that radiates heat still) before she begins to grab herbs from the kit. Skillful hands make quick work of them, crushing a few different things together into a paste that she slathers onto the burn carefully. He waits for the magic to kick in, bracing himself for the pain of flesh regrowing; instead, he receives a cool, soft, balmy feeling that sinks into his skin, something that catches him so off guard he gives Diana a look of bewilderment. Nothing about her makes sense to him; and in that moment, with the weight of the situation he’s found himself in finally beginning to sink in, he looks at her with deeply haunted eyes. “Why are you helping me?”

Her head tilts, and for a moment, he’s reminded of a confused puppy. Very cute, but ultimately not understanding the question. “Because you need it?” The way she says it makes it seem like it never even crossed her mind not to help him.

He opens his mouth to say something, only to realize he has no idea what to say. Even if he weren’t exhausted, he probably still wouldn’t know what to say. Instead of arguing, he shuts his mouth, dropping his eyes to the grass as Diana pulls a new bandage from her kit and rewraps his hand in a much neater way. It’s still painful and hard to use, but the flesh doesn’t feel nearly as raw anymore, which is a significant improvement. He should say thank you, but he doesn’t quite know how to, and he doesn’t want to say something wrong and cause problems (like he always seems to end up doing), so he says nothing at all.

“I’ll be back tomorrow to let you know if your staff is done, and I’ll give that another heal then,” she packs her kit away, perhaps a little less neatly than it started out, and uses her staff to pull herself to standing once more before offering him a hand. Again. “Want help getting your tent set up?”

Why does it feel almost worse, being offered help rather than having to ask for it? It’s the assumption of helplessness, he thinks, as he hauls himself to standing without taking her hand. Asking for help, he’s able to say, I’ve reached my limit, this is beyond what I can do; but it stings to have another person think ‘This is something he can’t do’ without even giving him a chance to try. Even if, in this instance, she’s right: he can’t pitch a tent alone with one hand. But he doesn’t usually pitch one, just puts up a Tiny Hut— oh, no. He doesn’t have a focus to cast that with, and— “Can’t pitch what you don’t have,” he mutters (there’s a trans dick joke in there, somewhere), before he raises his voice to something meant for other people to hear. “I don’t have a tent.”

“This one is yours now,” she pats the folded fabric that the towel lay on top of, and Fen blinks. His expression mirrors hers from earlier, the same blank confusion of not quite understanding; and she begins to unfold it, moving in a way that lets him watch. He takes mental notes, in case he has to do it again later; but he knows it would stick better if he could do it himself. “Rachel should be by with a bedroll in… not too long, hopefully,” she glances back at him as if to make sure he’s still there, nodding to herself as she continues her work. “Meemaw probably won’t be by until tonight.”

“You don’t have to wait with me,” he says immediately, wanting to make it abundantly clear: she doesn’t owe him any more time, never owed him any to begin with. She is free to go whenever she wishes (and he wishes she would, because his head won’t stop spinning and he knows she’s part of why).

"I probably won't stick around for too much longer, I just want to get you settled! Like I said, I'll drop by in the morning to have a look at that hand again." She flashes him one final smile and a wave as she begins to walk off, pausing halfway out of the clearing and turning back to call, “Oh yeah, if you come to the communal fire tonight, Rachel usually has cookies!” (His stomach rumbles at the thought.) “I might show up for a cookie too, honestly, they’re really good.” With that, she turns back around, calling one last time, “See you later, Fen!”

His head doesn’t stop spinning— of course not, he chides himself, he’s still hungry and exhausted— but still he pushes forward, grabbing what sticks and branches he can from the edges of the clearing. Most of them are still green, but he can and will make it work. He’s burned the life out of enough creatures, he can certainly burn the life out of some sticks.

He kneels with little care for what it does to his knees, hands already in motion to set up the frame for his small fire. He still has his dagger (for now), and the piece of flint he carries in his pack just in case. It’s been a while since he’s had to light a fire by hand, but muscle memory takes over; and before he realizes what’s happened, sparks are drifting down to the tinder he’s gathered, setting alight what dead leaves he could scrounge up. He catches himself staring intently at the sticks, willing them to catch fire, before remembering that he has no focus, no Calida, no nothing. The leaves die out before the kindling can catch, and he closes his eyes, gritting his teeth in frustration. Nothing is ever allowed to be easy for him, is it?

“Fine,” he grumbles to himself. More tinder, then, and he’ll make sure to give it enough oxygen to flourish, this time. He begins to stand, only to feel the rush of blood to his head, and stops. It would make him feel better to have a fire, but he knows that if he doesn’t trance soon, he’ll probably lose consciousness. Shifting as best he can into something resembling cross-legged, he stares straight forward, into the open forest. He can’t keep an eye on everything around him, doesn’t know how safe this forest is, but he can keep his eyes forward. That much, at least, he can do.

Four hours pass painfully uneventfully before the sun begins to set and he focuses his senses back into himself, taking stock of his situation. He’s still tired, but now his main concern is finding something to eat. Diana said something about a... communal fire and cookies?

He’s on his feet before he realizes it, driven by the thought of food and flame. Following the pathway out of the small clearing leads him to a larger clearing with several different paths that disappear beyond view. He stares ahead with tired eyes (of course even getting there is an obstacle) and takes a deep breath, trying to keep himself level. If he can just find a person and ask for directions, it’ll be fine. It’ll be fine. He just needs to find a person. This is a campground, and people are likely to stick to paths. So, logically, if he picks the most well-trodden path and walks it, he’s bound to meet a person eventually. Set in his course of action, he nods, scanning the paths he sees until he settles on the one with the most wear (one of the paths on the opposite side of the clearing), and begins his quest.

It’s only a couple of minutes of walking before he sees a tent in the distance and veers left towards it. Sitting in a cloth-and-metal chair outside is an older-looking gnome with smile lines alongside his wrinkles who appears to be enjoying the last of the sun. Fen walks right up to him, casting a shadow over the gnome. “Will you tell me which way the communal fire is?”

The old gnome opens one eye curiously. The other follows only a moment later, taking in the elf in front of him. “Sure,” he nods, gesturing towards the path Fen just came from, and points the way he had been walking. “Just keep following the widest path back towards town. The communal fire is just on the edge of the forest, over by Meemaw and Rachel’s. I can show you there, if you like.”

He blinks, caught by surprise again. This is the second person who’s just readily volunteering their time to him. And again with no payment stated. “No, I can find my own way,” he shakes his head, turning to leave.

“It’s really no trouble, but if you’re sure,” the old man offers.

In that moment, the loud growl of his stomach reminds him why he’s there, and he cracks probably faster than he should. “… If you don’t mind. Please.”

The man looks at him with such concern, and Fen tries not to shift uncomfortably under his gaze. He doesn’t like being scrutinized like that, and he really doesn’t like being pitied like that. He’s so tired, and he doesn’t have the energy to keep dealing with people. He just wants to get to the fire.

Finally, the man nods, stands, and begins his slow walk. Fen, not expecting this pace, nearly trips over the smaller man in his haste to get going. “Fuck, sorry,” he apologizes, taking a quick step back to give the old man room to recompose. He hates walking so slowly, but he wants to have eyes on the old man at all times until they reach their destination. Never hurts to be cautious.

“So, what brings you to Savaholm?” The gnome asks curiously.

Savaholm. The name rings a bell, and he racks his scattered brain for more. It’s a… small mining town across the continent? But this town isn’t small, this is a full-sized city. How long does it take for humans to build something on this scale? How long ago did he read about this place?— The old man asked him a question that he ought to answer. “Just… needed to stop for some supplies.”

The man smiles, nodding. Apparently this is an acceptable answer. “We get a lot of folks at the campgrounds just there to resupply before they head back out. Are you a woodsman, then?”

“No,” he shakes his head, keeping his eyes on the path ahead. He does not say anything else.

There’s a pause just long enough to be awkward as the man waits to see if he’s going to continue talking. As soon as he realizes he isn’t, the gnome opens his mouth again. (Is it too much to ask for some quiet? He can barely think over his hunger.) “Name’s Henry, by the way. You can usually find me either at my spot or at the diner if you ever need a friendly face to talk to. Oh, we’re here,” Henry pauses as the forest opens into a grassy clearing that keeps the buildings at bay. The path continues towards a cute little cabin with a fire burning contently in the back.

All thoughts leave his mind as he abandons his guide for the fire. He hardly hears the “Well— okay— see you later?”, already halfway there by the time the sentence is finished. Coming to a halt maybe half a foot from the edge of it, he holds his hands out towards it, waiting for the familiar dance of flame along his palms before he remembers where he is, the focus he doesn’t have. Still, he has to look on the bright side: it’s the first fire he’s seen in three days, and even small (it’s not that small, it’s still waist height), it is enchanting.

There are a couple of other people there, but he ignores their existence entirely. He’s not sure how long he spends basking in its warmth, ridding the last of the river’s chill from his bones, before someone comes out to greet him— an older dwarven woman with a thick gray beard, short and stout, wearing an (in his opinion, excessive) amount of cardigans, seemingly impervious to the summer heat. Respectable, if true. She looks him over once, frowns, and returns to the cabin.

He returns his gaze to the fire. That’s fine. People don’t need to like him, they just need to not kick him off his spot til his focus is done. He can just lose himself in the licks and curls of the flame again.

The sound of a door opening catches his ear, and he sits up straight, alert. It’s… the dwarf woman again, with— a plate of food in her hand. His stomach growls angrily once more, and he watches her approach with narrowed eyes until she’s right beside him. Wordlessly, she holds the plate out to him, a clear invitation.

He has just enough self restraint not to take it immediately. Instead, he takes a deep breath and asks, “How much for it?”

She shakes her head no and sets the plate into his hands, taking a step back but not walking away.

It takes all of two seconds before his willpower breaks and he begins to devour the first thing he sees on the plate— a yellow square of some sort of bread. Inside is some sweet grain, a pleasant pop of brightness against the drier crumb of the bread. It’s delicious, and he finishes the entire piece in the matter of less than a minute. He pauses only to ask, “What was that?” before moving onto the next part of the meal: meat, cooked until tender and then pulled, still dripping with juices. It’s almost familiar on his tongue, sweet and salty and acidic and a little hot: more food he doesn’t know. That’s right— Savaholm is far from Draguignan, his only point of reference on the Material Plane. New region, new food, obviously.

The woman doesn’t answer his question, but he’s getting the feeling that she doesn’t talk all that often, if at all. A little inconvenient, but ultimately not the end of the world. He can ask someone else about it later, right now he’s just concerned with finishing this meal. Sure enough, as soon as he’s finished with everything, he looks to the woman with a spark of life in his eyes once more. “Um. Could I have more if you have any?”

She nods and takes the plate back, walking back to the cabin with a quickness to her step that he is sincerely grateful for. He feels a little more grounded, a little more stable, with some food in his stomach, knowing that more is coming. He has a focus in the works that will take at least a couple of days to be crafted; he should take some time to decompress and recover. Sort through what few belongings he has, purchase some incense for when he has his focus so he can have Calida by his side again (he has to count and then keep all his gold for that, it can’t go anywhere else). Prepare for whatever the Wandsmith plans to throw at him.

This time when the dwarven woman returns with the plate in her hand (three squares of that yellow bread this time, and a whole lot more meat), Fen gives her a small, grateful nod as he takes it. She looks satisfied as he digs in once more, letting his hunger block out everything else around him as he dives into the meat once more. It’s similar to boar, but less gamey-- maybe some sort of regional variant?

“Fen, hey, glad you made it!” A now-familiar voice rings through the clearing, but he doesn’t lift his head, too busy shoveling as much cornbread into his face as quickly as he possibly can. It’s not until they’re right next to him that he realizes how close they’ve moved, and he tenses, holding his plate away from them as if they might take it. Instead, they ask, “Is it okay if I sit here?” and he blinks once to actually take in who’s speaking to him. Diana. Rather than answer, he simply scoots over to make room for her. She sits next to him carefully, settling herself after a moment of adjusting.

As soon as she’s sat, he holds up one of the yellow squares towards her. “What is this?” He rotates it slightly for her (in case she needs angles to confirm what it is).

“The— what you’re holding?” Her soft confusion and amusement permeate the air around her. “That’s cornbread.”

Cornbread. “And the grain inside, that’s— corn, then?” Though he’s read it before, he’s never said it out loud. The word feels foreign on his tongue, short and chopped, and he commits its flavor and pronunciation to memory.

“Yeah,” she nods, looking at him curiously before turning her gaze to the plate again. “You’re lucky, Rachel’s is a good first cornbread to have.” She eyes the meat before she turns to the dwarf woman and asks, “Pulled pork?” A nod confirms her guess, and she smiles. The woman glances towards his plate, and then to Diana; Diana nods, “Please!” After a moment, she adds, “I heard that Rachel’s cookies were making an appearance tonight, too?” A nod of confirmation. “Looking forward to them!”

The ease, the warmth, with which she converses feels so foreign it almost makes him uncomfortable. If not for the food still on his plate (quickly dwindling) and the promise of cookies, he might leave, just so he wouldn’t have to sit there and feel how wrong and out of place he is. No one here should be treating him with the kindness he’s being given.

“Fen?” His eyes snap to hers as he hears his name, waiting for what comes next. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure if you heard me.” Oh. What came before, not what comes next. He shakes his head no, stabbing another forkful of— pork, she called it?— as she speaks again. “That’s Meemaw, walking back with the plate. Rachel is her wife, they live in the cabin there. Did either of them ever come by your tent?”

He shakes his head no again, finishing off the last of his pork and setting the plate on his lap. “It’s fine. I don’t need a bedroll.” It’s not hard to just sit and trance; the ground works as well as anything else. Comfort hasn’t been a priority in a long time, and he doesn’t want to keep indebting himself to people.

“Really?” The expression on her face reads as skeptical to him, which is a little irritating. What reason would he have to lie? He’s already made clear that if he doesn’t want to talk about it, he just won’t talk.

He shrugs, keeping his voice neutral. “I usually sit when I trance anyway, it doesn’t bother me.”

“When you— trance?” She echoes, seemingly not understanding the word, or at least not understanding in this context. Maybe she doesn’t know how trancing works?

“Humans sleep, elves trance,” he says, as if that will explain everything. Her puzzled expression tells him it does not, and he closes his eyes as he holds back a sigh. It’s not her fault she doesn’t know, he reminds himself. “It’s a, ah, recentering, of sorts. From what I’ve read, sleep shuts off your senses and gives your mind time to rest; trancing does much the same thing, except that we don’t have to be unconscious for it. Takes less time, so it’s more efficient.” He doesn’t have the energy to go into much more detail than that, so hopefully, she gets it.

It’s the most he’s spoken to her all day (no coincidence that it’s after he’s eaten and found a fire). She looks intrigued by the concept, turning to face him a little more. “That sounds useful, and I can see why you wouldn’t need a bedroll; but isn’t the ground uncomfortable for an extended period of not moving, regardless of whether you’re sitting or lying down?”

He’s saved from having to answer by the dwarf (Meemaw, commit that to memory) returning with two plates in hand. On one sits a healthy serving of pork and cornbread; the other holds a several-layered tier of cookies. Following behind her is a halfling woman dressed not too far off from Diana (pants instead of shorts is the biggest difference he can see), with longer hair pulled back in a braid. She gives a wave to Diana, who waves back. While she accepts her plate of food from Meemaw, the halfling walks towards him with an efficient stride for her height. She holds a much smaller plate of cookies in one hand, and extends the other out to him (vertical, not palm up, that’s to shake hands). He eyes it cautiously for a moment before taking it with his good hand: her grip is firm but not painful. With his dominant hand still out of commission, his own grip is a little awkward; but she seems satisfied after one shake and drops his hand.

“Welcome to Savaholm! Sorry I couldn’t drop by earlier, I was in the middle of makin’ that cornbread when Diana let me know you were here,” she apologizes. “Said your name’s Fen, that right?” (He nods.) “Good to meet ya.” From tucked under the arm holding the cookies she produces a roll of— bedroll, of course— that she places on the ground alongside him. “This is for you, there’s a blanket rolled up in there too.”

The lump in his throat at the thought of another gift with no price is too hard to swallow. “I can’t accept this. I have nothing to pay you with.” (He misses the look that Meemaw shoots her wife, but Rachel and Diana certainly catch it.)

She only pauses a beat before she picks the bedroll up and sticks it in his face. “It’s yours now, hear me? Take it. It’s a gift.”

He is acutely aware of the fact that every single possession he has can be packed into the single bag currently at his feet as he takes the bedroll and tucks it inside. (There’s even still room for the tent.) What’s left of his life, all in one place. Fen takes a deep breath and focuses on closing the bag. Another gift. He almost opens his mouth to thank her, but stops himself. He can’t let any of this endear them to him. If he’s a dick, they won’t try to get close to him. So he says nothing, no thank you, just silence.

She holds the plate of cookies out to him. They look different from the ones he knew— what were they? The memory is foggy, and the answer slips out of his grasp as Rachel speaks again. “You look like you need one of these. They’re a, uh, special bake, if you catch my drift—”

“That could mean anything,” he interrupts, “can you be specific?”

“They’ll get you high,” she doesn’t even bat an eye. “If you take one, don’t take more than one. Meemaw has the normal ones. Start with—” she assesses him briefly— “half, probably, and wait a couple hours. If you still don’t feel anything you can eat the other half.”

As he’s listening, Diana wordlessly reaches over him to grab one. He watches her hand retract with a cookie, not processing what he’s seen until several moments later. The starts of several different trains of thought begin and die in the span of seconds as he picks and follows the most important one. “I still have nothing to pay you with.”

“Ain’t gotta pay me,” Rachel smiles. (He feels so out of place, out of his depth, here.) “Just take a cookie if you want one. They’re gingersnaps.”

Fuck. Yeah, he could use something to shut his scattered, racing mind up. It’s been one hell of a few days. He plucks one quickly off the plate, snaps it in half (though crisp outside, it looks chewy inside) and eyes it for a moment before stuffing the entire half into his mouth in one bite. It’s a little more food than he can comfortably fit into his mouth, but that’s certainly not going to stop him from eating it. Indeed, the spices seem to explode on his tongue, a familiar ginger flavor with an earthy undertone and a lingering sweetness. The only thing that puts him off is a strange, oily taste he can almost place as it coats the roof of his mouth, searching deep into his hazy memories until the flavor clicks. She said it would get him high. It’s feygrass, or something very similar.

“Oh, I still gotta give you the full welcome speech,” Rachel sighs, snapping his attention back to her. “Just some campground basics. Doesn’t take long, don’t worry.” She takes the larger plate of cookies out of her wife’s hand and hands over the smaller plate, offering him one of the (presumably) normal cookies. “Cookie’ll help it go by faster, though.” She chuckles as he takes one and bites off a more reasonable chunk this time. “First things first, fire safety.” (The irony does not go unnoticed.) “You’re welcome to make a small fire for yourself. There oughta be a lil spot in the clearing where people before you have made their fires; we just ask that you keep them in that little clearing, and keep an eye on them. Don’t leave your site without putting the fire out. Understand?”

He meets her eyes evenly. “I understand. I’m very careful about my fires.” She has no idea the depth of that statement; but he does, and he means every word.

She must be satisfied, because she moves on without questioning him. “Right! Then I suppose food safety is next. We get bears in these mountains! Don’t leave any food out, or in your tent. We got bearproof trash cans all around the campground, so use ‘em. Seriously, no one wants to deal with a bear by their tent at 2 in the morning.

“The less serious parts— we have breakfast here for those who want it at 8am every day. End of the Road Diner does food and patisserie the whole day.” (The fuck is a patisserie?) “Bathing options, you got the river not too far off from your clearing; but if you’re ever looking for a hot shower, we got bathhouses down the main path and just to the right. Any questions?”

It’s all a lot to process, so it takes a second before he shakes his head no, his body moving slower than he feels like it ought to. Is the exhaustion finally slowing him to a stop? Or is this the cookie, already slowly beginning to kick in? Whatever the cause, it must show on his face, because Rachel gives him a sympathetic smile and offers him the plate of regular cookies again (he takes one more). “Don’t be afraid to holler or come get me if you need anythin’, alright?” She leans over to Diana and whispers something; when Diana nods, she looks satisfied and stands up straight again, moving on to offer cookies to the other few people who are there.

He sits in silence next to Diana for who knows how long, the two of them just watching the fire together. (Though he can’t put a voice to it, he hopes that she can tell how appreciative he is of the silence.) When the cookie begins to kick in, he can tell— the way the pain of his hand slowly becomes a distant memory belonging to someone else, the way he sinks deeply into the log bench under him as his tense muscles slowly relax, the way thoughts fall away before they even begin— it’s a familiar relief. Nothing is good or even really okay, but this is better than things were.

“Hey, Fen,” her voice catches at him out of nowhere, pulling his eyes from the light of the fire towards her face. It dances on her skin, deep purple shadows and jeweled orange tones that cast her in a careless chiaroscuro. A constantly-changing beauty, fleeting from moment to moment (is it her or the fire he’s admiring now?). “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but... you looked pretty rough when you first came into town. What... happened?”

He turns back to the fire and stares straight into it as memories rush through his clouded mind. [A beautiful, frenzied high interrupted by the feeling of deep pain in his hand as red-hot shards of metal explode outward, a ringing in his ears as he grits his teeth and tries to keep his vision steady. Searching for Calida, for the Viscereine, for the Prince, for someone, for anyone in this smoke and deep, hot ash. Screaming to the sky as he slams his hand to the ground and nearly loses consciousness, feeling hot tears stream down his soot-stained face as he realizes that he is alone with no focus, no familiar, and no supplies. “Idiot,” he growls to himself as he hauls himself to standing. Of course this was bound to happen eventually.]

He’s acutely aware of her concerned gaze on him, pulling him back to the present. She’s still waiting on some sort of answer from him. He lifts his head towards the sky, studying the stars and their unfamiliar constellations as he tries to find some way to put everything to words. When he does finally speak, the grit in his voice does a pretty good job of covering up any sort of quiver there might have been. “Got left behind.”

Her mistake is in touching him. His body moves before he registers what’s happened: the feeling of a hand on his shoulder comes second to the instinct of self-preservation as he flinches away from the touch, nearly jumping out of his skin as he grabs for his staff. (Still not there.) It takes several moments of his heart pounding out his chest before he understands what she was trying to do (offer touch for support), undisguised anger and fear on his face giving way to wariness that couples with a bone-deep weariness. Introspection be damned, he does not want anyone touching him without warning him. “Don’t touch me without asking.”

She considers this, nods, and reaches out a hand to him anyway. She looks calm, unbothered by his reaction (where the people across the fire simply stare). He can’t let her kindness disarm him, can’t be careless, has to keep her at arm’s length. If not for his sake, then for hers, as someone with the misfortune of meeting him. Besides, he has much bigger problems to worry about. Friendship and connection are the last things he needs when he’s cursed like this.

He turns away from her, towards the path that will take him back to his campground, only for her voice to stop him: “Don’t forget your bag.” When he turns back to her, she’s already picked it up, holding it up for him to take. He grabs it quickly (whatever skin of his hand brushes against hers, whatever nerves spark to life for just a moment, he ignores) and turns away from her again.

“I’ll be by in the morning to work on your hand some more. If you want, we can get breakfast too,” her tone is even, a neutral base that he can’t interpret, “but for now, get some rest.” A moment’s pause. “Good night, Fen. Trance well.”

Between the high of the cookie, the fading adrenaline, and the way his body aches, he no longer has the energy to try to be nice or sociable. He slings his bag over his shoulder and begins his walk back towards his tent without so much as a nod of acknowledgement.

Fuck. It’s going to be a long few days until his focus is ready.

#gingewriting #oc #fenberos dartagnon #diana #dnd #it's not backstory per se but it is Finished and About Him and i think it's time to finally put it up so. here it is #this took place about 3-4 days before the campaign started!#as i said to lexi this morning: he's doing his best. his best is just rough

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