#and they were interplanar business partners

[the-butter-churner]

is it just me or did bill sound like he was asking pok on a date instead of propositioning him business wise

[astralprisms]

[☺ Skaro - The Shield of Shra'kt'alor☺]

1. [CHARACTER INFO]

OC NAME: Skaro

OC PRONOUS: He/Him

AUTHOR: Rook

2. [DIALOGUE]

1. Greeting message:

Do you have need of me?

2. Identify yourself:

I am Skaro of Shra'kt'lor, though I haven't called that place home in a long time.

3. Tell me about your Creche:

No creche, a monastery in the midst of Chaos. One of many. There isn't much to say. There we were trained, and there I learned to harness my psionic energy to better defend my mind and body, though I left to pursue a different path once that training was complete.

4. I need to know how you fight::

You may be expecting a monk, but the blade says otherwise. A fighter, then. But don't get too comfortable -- how many wizards do you know that can also swing a sword? I am a Zerth. I may prefer a blade to fists, but there is more to my fighting than meets the eye.

5. Can I ask a more personal question?

Not at the moment. I'm here on business.

3. [GRAPHICS]

4. [BONUS RESOURCES]

Skaro started life as Xa'rok's Dream Guardian, so you'll often see him in the Guardian's armor, but I got too attached to him, so he gets to exist on his own now, too.

In the AU in which he exists alongside Xa'rok as himself and not just the visage of a prisoner the Emperor once met, Skaro was born in Shra'kt'lor and became both a philosophical student of Zerthimon's and a practitioner of arcane-focused fighting, earning himself the honorary and hereditary title of Zerth. He has been around for quite some time -- age undefined but his physical body is somewhere in his 50s -- and in that time grown tired of the us against them mentality that keeps the gith people splintered instead of whole. He left Shra'kt'lor to follow this desire for unification, interplanar-traveled often, and found himself invited to and then a part of the sha'sal khou. He has been working with the organization for years and after meeting Xa'rok in his travels, brought them along into the fold. In this universe, he and Xa'rok are partnered and they continue Xa'rok's work alongside their work for the Sha'sal Khou, as some of their interests align.

@vikintor

[sekiromi]

A Devil You Do, ch. 6

pairing(s): Raphael x Tav/Reader, Astarion x Tav/Reader themes: reincarnation, soul bond, past lives, lost memories, pining, slow burn cw/tw: canon-typical violence, gore word count: 6.9k previous chapters: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5]

[read this fic in all its glory on ao3!]

Chapter Six: The Famished Come to Feast

Two doves on the selfsame branch, Two lilies on a single stem, Two butterflies upon one flower: - Oh happy they who look on them!

You did not enjoy interplanar travel, you decided, tightening your grip on the devil whilst your free hand flew to his upper arm, squeezing your eyes shut as you waited for it to be over. Luckily, you did not have to wait long, your feet coming to rest with only a slight sway on solid ground after a mere few seconds. Raphael placed his hand over yours and looked down, eyes silently asking if you were alright. You managed a tight smile which seemed to satisfy him, and he led you both down a cobbled alleyway awash in the orange glow of the streetlamps overhead.

Underneath a forest green awning attached to an old building that simply bore the words ‘sub rosa’ in golden lettering, various tables and chairs were arranged in a neat grid, each with an oil lamp burning in the centre, some filled with patrons of the restaurant, others empty. All kinds of creatures seemed to dine here, some you did not even know the names of and had never seen before, but they all appeared to have one thing in common; whether they were alone, with a partner, or amongst a small group, there was an air of secrecy about them, an illicit understanding that their business was their own and no one else’s. You got the feeling that you should not look too closely at anyone nor try to eavesdrop on any passing conversation, and politely averted your eyes as Raphael opened the door, gesturing for you to enter first.

Inside was a small bar that stretched to the back wall with glasses, goblets, chalices, drinking vessels of every kind displayed on open shelves around the top and hanging from rails underneath. Wines of every colour, region, and vintage lined the cabinets, accompanied by interesting looking bottles of spirits, liquors, and various other distillations that you did not know the names of, forming an iridescent rainbow of glass that shimmered in the light. From another room you could hear the muffled sound of a piano being expertly played, a piece you recognised as the gentle, romantic rhythm of Liszt’s Consolation no. 3. Behind the bar, a rag in hand as they dried the bottom of a glass, tail keeping time of the piano solo like a swaying metronome, stood a tall tabaxi, their inky black fur interrupted by a bib of white that extended from their chin beneath a crisp dress shirt overlayed with a fitted waistcoat, bow tie perfectly symmetrical in the centre of their elegant neck.

“Raphael,” they greeted warmly, returning the glass to its home as they rounded the end of the counter and approached before stopping to give a low bow, “good evening to you, and your delightful companion.” Striking yellow eyes fastened themselves on you, thin pupils imperceptibly moving across your smaller figure as they appraised you. Transfixed by the creature, you could not look away. “How are you both this evening?”

“Quite well, thank you, Six. How about yourself?” You were surprised to hear Raphael reciprocate the question, and turned your gaze to him as he exchanged pleasantries with the waiter. He did not notice your look, or pretended not to at least.

“Very well, thank you for asking. If you’ll both please follow me, your table is just this way.”

They led you past the bar and through a red curtain half-covering an arched doorway to the left. This room was dimly lit, shaded lamps diffusing faint, warm hues across the small space, and casting soft, substantial shadows in convenient places. There were fewer tables inside than outside, you noticed, no more than six all together, and all except one were filled. Towards the back of the small room stood a baby grand, rich and perfectly polished mahogany reflecting the flickers of the many candles alight. A demure elven woman draped in a black dress of fine silk played tunefully, feet pressing pedals beneath as her fingers danced across the keys, their tone resonating softly within the chamber of the instrument.

Six led you past the other seated patrons to a table tucked away in the back, sandwiched between the wall and the windows. Raphael gestured for you to take your pick of the two seats, and you slid into the one further away that allowed you to look across the room, your back to nothing apart from the wall behind you. It was not until Raphael took the other seat that you realised you had voluntarily put yourself into a corner.

You smiled up at Six in thanks as they placed a copy of the wine list in front of you, offering some clarifications and advice on the rather daunting list of options. Altogether there were about seven pages to flick through, three dedicated to just red varieties, and you did not fail to notice that there were no prices listed.

“For tonight’s menu, I recommend a paler wine,” they brandished a quill from somewhere and, leaning over you, drew little stars next to their favourites as they flicked through the pages, “any of these will pair well with your meal, an orange one in particular will complement the flavours without overwhelming them, but you might prefer a white if you like a slightly sharper taste. If there’s anything you’d like to try first, just let me know. I’ll give you both some time to decide.” Raphael gave a nod of acknowledgement, turning his gaze towards you as Six bowed their head and slipped away. Glancing down at the menu, you perused the wines they had marked, not confident in your ability to pronounce many of them at all. Below each was written a brief description in a tiny hand, noting the top-most flavours and general texture. You skimmed them all, filing away information about which were sweet and which were bitter, which had sharp hints of citrus and which had more mellow notes. They all sounded good to you, though not that you considered yourself much of a sommelier. Usually you would drink just about anything.

“Anything take your fancy?” Raphael asked, his own wine list left untouched in front of him. You glanced up at him before looking back down, your mouth twisting thoughtfully as you flicked back and forth through the sheets.

“Hmm…there’s too much to choose from, a lot of these sound really good.” Your eyes skimmed the same passages again as you propped your elbow on the table, resting your cheek against your fist before placing the menu down and fixing your gaze on the devil sat across from you. “What would you recommend?”

He gave a satisfied smile, honoured to have been asked.

“Like you say, many of them are very good indeed. Have you had the pleasure of tasting a wine from Tashalar before?” He asked, leaning back in his seat and slowly lifting one leg to cross over the other as he regarded you. You shrugged and shook your head.

“Not that I can recall.”

“In that case, might I suggest we share a bottle of Amarast Nectar?” He watched your gaze return to the list, eyes searching fruitlessly. “It’s on page six.”

You found it halfway down the page, its region of origin listed as the Delphin Mountains and notable flavours including orange blossom, dried apricot, elderflower, and a hint of chestnut with a salty finish to it. It sounded intriguing, and you were not opposed to trying something new, so you nodded in agreement.

“Sounds good to me.”

“Excellent.”

When in range, he alerted Six to your decision, and you watched as they left for the bar. Taking a moment to further inspect your surroundings as you waited, you again cast your gaze over the room. Hushed conversations faded into the melody of the next movement the elf played, cutlery clinked in soft chimes against crockery, and the atmosphere felt tight, almost intimate.

“What made you choose this restaurant? I would have thought you’d have a private room or something with your own personal chef.” You asked with a tilt of your head. Raphael raised an eyebrow.

“Is this restaurant not to your liking, mouse? You haven’t even tried the food yet.”

“No – I didn’t mean it like that. I just thought…I don’t know, I didn’t expect you to take me somewhere public.”

Raphael seemed to consider your words closely for a moment, drawing in a thoughtful breath as he searched for a response. In the end he settled for the truth.

“I did consider somewhere more private…however, I thought you might be more comfortable in a neutral, public setting,” he explained, before gesturing around the room, “besides, sub rosa is still quite an exclusive ‘members only’ club. Not just anyone can book a table here.”

You felt your heart settle a bit, sort of almost…touched, that he had the foresight to consider your trepidation.

“Oh. Well, that’s very thoughtful of you.”

He offered you a smile and a nod, silently saying but of course, as Six returned with your bottle of wine. They moved to fill your glass first, offering no more than a finger’s width, before looking at you expectantly. There was only half a moment’s hesitation as you figured out what you were supposed to do, you could not remember the last time you had been to a restaurant where you had been expected to try the wine before you committed to the whole bottle. After all, it was already open now anyway, what would they do with it if you said it was not to your tastes? You never could figure that out.

Delicately pinching the stem of the crystal glass, you aerated the amber liquid with a gentle swirl before lifting it to your nose. You did not consider yourself a sommelier, no, but you still had your senses. A burst of fruit and florals drifted up as you inhaled, hints that were amplified even more on your tongue, lingering on your palate in delightful swirls. Raphael watched you closely from across the table as you sampled the drink, enraptured by the performance as you flicked your gaze from him to Six, giving the latter a nod of approval and gesturing for them to fill the glass.

“I’ll be back with your first course shortly. Enjoy.” You watched as they departed before turning back to look at Raphael with a curious gaze.

“But…we haven’t ordered?” You questioned, arms folded in front of you as you leaned in closer. Raphael merely smiled, reaching to pick up his glass.

“Here at sub rosa they offer a very select, seasonal set menu that changes each day depending on what produce they are able to procure in the morning. There is only one option for each course.” He explained, not moving to take a drink of his wine.

“Is now a bad time to tell you that I’m kinda fussy?” You asked with a smile.

“Yes.” He tilted his head down a little to look at you through his eyelashes, amused, before raising his glass into the space between you both. “Now, let us drink. To new business partnerships.”

Lifting your own glass you gently brought it to his, careful not to accidentally break it, before bringing the rim to your lips for a sip. It was sweeter the second time around.

Six returned soon after with your first course; crostino topped with warmed goat’s cheese, a sweet fig jam, and fresh mint leaves that tingled on your tongue. It was the best thing you had ever eaten, until the next course came out. A rich brown crab served on a bed of sauteed saltwort and topped with slices of juicy blood orange provided a nice, light contrast to your starter. And, as Six had promised, it paired excellently with Raphael’s choice of orange wine. The figs made a return for your dessert, baked into a buttery, crumbling tart crust alongside a nutty frangipane cream filling, presented in such a perfect slice it was worthy of a portrait, you decided.

Between courses and mouthfuls of the delicious food, you enjoyed a pleasant conversation with the devil. He told you about how he discovered this place, explained that it was first just a wine bar but, after a suggestion from him (and a small monetary investment) they opened up a kitchen and started to offer food. He mentioned how the main currency of the restaurant, rather than gold, was secrecy. Patrons of all ilk and walks of life sought sub rosa out for its policy on strict confidentiality. No business discussed within the walls of the restaurant would be repeated to anyone, and details of reservations were destroyed shortly after they had been fulfilled. You could come to sub rosa for an evening and be entirely lost to the world, something you felt you could soon get used to.

As the conversation developed, you had to wonder what the motive of the evening was. How many clients did Raphael take to fancy restaurants, charm them with his sharp tongue and opulent tastes, lavishing them with his attention? You did not kid yourself into entertaining the idea that you might be the first, nor the last; there was not a chance in the Hells. Still, he seemed like a busy man, and the fact that he had taken the time to turn his attentions to you alone felt significant, but you could not figure out why.

The truth, not that Raphael would let you know, was that you intrigued him beyond logical reason. Every meeting with you thus far, no matter your mood, had been an enjoyable one, and he had been invested in every detail of your journey from the start. Recently, he had found it hard to stay away, exercise some restraint, and let you come to him of your own accord. He wanted to get you alone, free from the whispering of the Emperor, from the judgements of your companions, allow himself to get a proper read on your character, discover something new about you. He wanted to give you a break, provide an opportunity for you to be entirely yourself for an evening. No open quests, heavy responsibilities, difficult decisions; just a fancy dinner.

And, if you happened to take a liking to him after tonight and felt more agreeable about signing his contract, well, then the evening would have been a wild success indeed.

The last piece of your tart lay on your plate before you, perfectly prepared to contain the optimal ratio of crust, cream, and fruit altogether. The perfect bite. You almost could not bring yourself to eat it, because then the meal would be over, and you would likely never again taste something so heavenly.

“Not going to finish your meal?” Raphael asked, his own plate now clear.

“I am. I’m just…savouring it, I guess. I’ve never had figs before, you know. Didn’t expect to like ‘em so much.” You idly poked the baked fruit with your fork

“Figs to fill your mouth…” Raphael mused, empty fork resting on his lips.

“Citrons from the South,” you continued with a fond smile.

“Sweet to tongue and sound to eye,”

“Come buy, come buy.” With the final line, you gave in and reluctantly devoured the last morsel.

“A fellow fan of Rossetti? You find ways to surprise me still, mouse.” You were not sure if it was the euphoria from the food, the effects of half a bottle of wine, or whether you were under some kind of spell, but the particular octave of Raphael’s voice this evening, the low purr that hummed in his chest when he spoke, did something to you, something unspeakable, something you dare not linger on.

With a sickening drop of cognizance, you realised you were attracted to him. A devastating realisation.

“Everyone knows the ‘Goblin Market’.” You ended up responding with a shrug, tracing patterns on your plate with your fork and trying to even out your voice.

“Do they, indeed…”

The desire to lift your head and look at him was immense, but you knew he was already looking at you and you could not bring yourself to meet his gaze just yet.

“Anyway, it’s not my favourite of hers.”

“Oh? Pray tell, my dear, which is your favourite?” You had him intrigued now. You could feel his eyes grazing your cheeks as you placed the fork down, looking thoughtful for a moment.

“I prefer ‘An Old-World Thicket’.” With a breath in, you lifted your eyes to cast them across him. He had averted his own gaze for a moment, wracking his head for a verse of the poem you spoke of.

“…Remind me how that one goes?” He asked with a hint of something akin to vulnerability.

“Oh it’s a long one, I can’t remember the whole thing. Let me think…” You wandered your own memories of being read bedtime poems as a child, searching for a full verse left untouched by the effects of the passing of time that you might be able to recite. After a few seconds you cleared your throat and began the first that came to mind.

“The pleasure I remember, it is past;      The pain I feel is passing, passing by;      Thus all the world is passing, and thus I:           All things that cannot last Have grown familiar, and are born to die.”

Raphael nodded eagerly in recognition as you spoke.

“Ah yes, I remember. Quite a sombre poem to have as a favourite, no?” He observed, moving to undo a fastening on his coat as he reclined.

“That’s what I like about it. The contrast between the beauty and vitality of the nature she describes around her and the solipsistic darkness within her. It’s very real and honest.”

Raphael felt the urge to ask you if it was a poem you related to, if that was why you held it dear, but decided that was too personal of a question for now.

“Any other hidden passions I’ve yet to uncover?” He settled for, resting an arm on the back of the chair casually.

“Oh, plenty,” you responded with a smile and half-laugh, “but I’ll save those for another night. Why don’t you tell me something, instead?”

“As you wish. What would you like to hear?”

You looked pensive for a moment, fingers tapping against your cheekbone and irises gazing upwards as you thought. Across from you sat a font of knowledge and experience. The stories Raphael could tell would no doubt be enrapturing, epic, and moving. You tried to think of something you might like to learn about, but there was so much to choose from. For a moment you considered asking about the Fall of Netheril, he had mentioned before he was there when it happened, but you quickly decided against it. You did not want to encourage discussion of the crown and therefore, by extension, the unsigned contract. Not yet, anyway.

“How about…‘The Harrowing of the Hells’?” You suggested, gazing curiously as his face contorted into an expression of displeasure.

“A rather unpleasant one, that. Would you not prefer a lighter tale?” His reluctance to divulge had you intrigued, and you could not help but to press him.

“I always preferred the darker fairytales as a kid.”

“My dear, the Harrowing is no fairytale. Besides, to hope to understand it there is another story that predates it that must come first. A long, sad tale in and of itself. Not suitable dinner discussion, I assure you.”

“Good thing we’ve finished our dinner, then.” You returned with a sly grin. He stared at you fixedly, narrowing his eyes and silently daring you to push the subject further. Upon seeing no sign of relent, he sighed.

“Alright, then. I must warn you now, though – this story does not have a happy ending. Are you familiar with the tale of ‘The Dove and the Devil’?”

An old fairytale from your childhood, one your mother would recite as a cautionary tale of sorts to prevent you from getting into too much trouble.

“I think so…it’s the one about an angel who was seduced by a devil, he tricked her into sin and so she was cast out of the Heavens? Then she rotted in the Hells while he profited from having corrupted such a divine creature.”

Raphael laughed mirthlessly and shook his head.

“You mortals always need a villain in your stories, don’t you? It was much, much simpler than that.” He glanced around before leaning in closer, which naturally encouraged you to do the same. “They merely fell in love, and paid the price.”

You felt your expression tighten into a frown.

“But, and I mean no offence here, devils…can’t love…can they?”

Raphael tilted his head and gave a small shrug.

“I suppose it depends on the devil. But usually, no, devils do not concern themselves with such infantile emotions. This one, however, did.”

You opened your mouth to add something when Six suddenly appeared and asked if you were both finished with your food so that he might clear the plates, forcing you to sit back and put some distance between yourself and Raphael. The waiter then inquired as to whether either of you would like a coffee, an offer both you and Raphael accepted, and left quickly to prepare them.

“Why? What was different about this devil?” You asked, leaning forwards again and crossing your arms on the table in front. Raphael looked thoughtful for a moment, ruminating on something, before responding.

“He was young, I suppose. He had not yet learned to hate.”

“So…what happened, then?”

He gave a sad sort of smile, wondering on where to begin for a few moments as Six returned with two espressos, placing them before you both gently with a clink of ceramic, and promptly left again. The enticing, toasted scent of the coffee graced your nose with hints of clove and cherry, a combination that seemed to warm you from the inside even before your first sip. You suddenly had the feeling you might never be able to smell coffee again and not think of this moment; being sat here in the dim light with Raphael, listening to his stories, enjoying his company, basking in the joy of a genuinely wonderful evening.

“Very well, allow me to set the scene, if you will…”

Raphael recounted the tale in spectacular, dramatic detail, gestures and expressions animated as he built towards the climax of the story. His voice, full of emotion and the weight of distant memories, described how the angel and the devil met on the material plane as children. How, both being the spawn of powerful immortals with whom they had a difficult relationship, they bonded unexpectedly. Knowing they were metaphysical opposites, but too young to really understand what that might mean, they played and indulged in mortal pleasures together, visiting great empires, witnessing catastrophic chaos, relishing in mighty battles, causing their own mischief. They experienced a shared youth together, sparing each other from what would have likely been an otherwise lonely childhood. This bond that they developed bloomed into friendship, and friendship eventually started to mature into something more.

They were nineteen when they committed their cardinal sin. Succumbing to their mutual desire, they made love in the blanket of the night, the moon and stars their only witnesses. Heavenly hands wandered infernal peaks and valleys, clawed fingers drew forth stuttered moans, and bodies intertwined in a magnificent collision of the divine and the damned. There was no insidious seduction, no illicit temptation, just a pure, adolescent, reciprocal hunger for one another that brought them together.

Once the Gods learned of the corruption of their asset, however, they raged. She was forbidden from stepping foot in the mortal realm again, and instead was sentenced to spend the rest of the century repenting for her sin in the Seven Heavens. Safely within the clutches of the spiteful Gods, her mind was poisoned against the devil, and any fond thoughts of him alchemised into ones of resentment. Feeding her convenient lies, they told her that a devil was not capable of love, that he was merely seeking to claim her precious soul as a powerful bargaining chip, a feat that would have earned him great honour amongst his kin. This is the lie that came to be known as the tale of ‘The Dove and The Devil’.

Confined to Mount Celestia, she spent her years training alongside a holy army in preparation for the Gods most ambitious plan yet: a full-on siege of the Hells, a war that would later become known as the Harrowing. With her methodically-nurtured contempt for the infernal and her overflowing divine powers, there was none better suited to head the charge. For over half a century she led scores of celestials into Avernus, striking down all devils, fiends, and demons in her path as a golden warrior, a reformed angel.

“She was a fearsome thing to behold, indeed. It was a perilous time to be a devil, you know, looking up to see her streaking through that red sky, it filled you with such a gripping sense of dread. Even now, I shudder to think of it…”

A devil that dies in the Hells, after all, dies for good. There was a devil though that, despite the concerted efforts of the deities, she could not bring herself to kill, even as he tried to kill her. Parts of Celestia, of course, can burn out the evil lurking within a soul, extinguish any corruption that had been implanted, but it cannot cure love. And, despite everything they had come to believe about each other, that love was still there. It was this love that became her undoing; in a moment of blinding fear, without hesitation she took the life of another celestial, one of her own charges, that was about to strike down her devil. This betrayal was a sin that the Gods could not forgive.

She was summoned back to the Heavens to face the wrath of her Gods. For all her virtues, she could not undo her actions nor deny the painfully obvious truth: her very spirit had been permanently marred by the hands of a most unholy creature, she had been contaminated and corrupted, and thus there was no place in Heaven for her. Stripping her of her station and immortality, they banished her to Nessus where she would be expected to remain for the rest of her now finite life, however long that came to be.

In the depths of the Hells, she could not hope for absolution from her Gods, but instead her devil proved to be her saviour. He recovered her from Nessus, taking her with him back to Avernus, where they fought together to bring an end to the Harrowing of the Hells, united as one.

“I would like to be able to tell you that this is where our story ends, that the dove and the devil arose victorious and retreated to a quiet, easy life together in relative peace, that they lived happily ever after in the Hells, content to spend a small eternity within each other’s arms. Alas, I did warn you this was not that kind of story. Although the Harrowing was over, another war was waging, a war that sent tremors across the realms, a war that was being fought on their very doorstep. I am, of course, talking about the Blood War.”

It would be during the battles of the Blood War that they would pay the price for their unbridled avarice. Believing they could do anything together, they gathered their own armies and set out to secure new victories. When a chance to acquire Cania arose, they were too hasty in taking it, sparing no thought to the circumstances under which the opportunity had appeared. During their siege, they became separated, a turn of events that was by no means coincidental. The Lord of the Eighth had set a cunning trap, enticing them with the potential of a new conquest, and then struck the devil where it hurt the most. Mephistopheles killed the angel, impaling her on her own sword, leaving her on display for the devil to find. In the tundra of Cania, he could not save her, and with her immortality stripped from her, she departed this world forever, cold, in pain, and so far from home.

“And that, I am afraid, is the end of our rather bleak tale.”

You were speechless, moved deeply and profoundly with Raphael’s retelling, the story striking a chord in your heart that threatened to bring tears to your eyes if you were to dwell on it for too long. It brought forth supressed images, fractured memories of distant dreams left behind in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, dreams you had since forgotten. You tried to hold them within your grasp, tempt them to come forwards and reveal themselves, but the more you tried the further they slipped.

The devil across from you looked somewhat wearier after recounting this most grisly history, shadows clinging a little tighter to the skin beneath his eyes. There was something else, something he was keeping concealed for now. You sensed he himself had something of a role to play in this sombre turn of events, and you could not help but to inquire about it.

“Did you know her at all?” You asked quietly, the last remnants of your coffee now long cold as you took a final sip with a grimace.

Raphael stiffened marginally, if you had blinked you might have missed it.

“No, I never had the pleasure.” A lie, you realised. “But I did know him, fairly well.”

You reckoned with the decision to press him about his mistruth, ask him why he was lying to you, but you sensed it would be a fruitless endeavour. Either he would insist, and likely end up convincing you of his dishonesty anyway, or he would get angry, and you did not want to ruin the otherwise pleasant evening.

“Oh? What became of him, in the end?” You settled for. Raphael’s usually warm eyes dulled for a moment as his gaze fell from yours.

“In his despair, he took his own life. Some centuries after her passing.”

“A true tragedy, then.” You responded mournfully, heart breaking for the condemned lovers. Raphael huffed a caustic laugh.

“Hardly. He was a weak, pitiful creature by then. Putting an end to it was the only mildly redeeming thing he did.” You frowned, not sharing in his sentiment as the conversation fell into a natural, only slightly uncomfortable, lull. After a few beats of silence, Raphael spoke up again. “Anyway, enough about that. The night is still very much in its youth. Would you do the great honour of accompanying me on a little stroll to the waterfront? The view is delightful at this hour.” He asked with a hint of intentional vulnerability in his tone. You glanced out the window, noting the blackened sky and twinkling stars. You had no idea what hour it might be, for the most part the evening had drifted along of its own accord, enjoyable company and enrapturing conversation seeming to have interfered with your sense of timekeeping. Still, what harm could a little longer do?

“I shall indeed.” You responded with a nod, unable to help yourself from mirroring the smile that adorned his face at your acceptance of his offer.

“Let us depart, then.”

He stood and led you away from the table, back past the bar where you each thanked Six for the meal, who smiled with a bursting warmth and assured that you were welcome back any time. Since he did not mention anything about the bill, you assumed Raphael had already settled it beforehand, and idly wondered how much it had cost him. You refrained from asking, running the risk of the answer making you feel either cheap or guilty.

Once outside, the welcome, tender warmth of the restaurant was replaced by the fresh night breeze, nipping at your exposed skin and causing goosebumps to erupt in the wake of its caress. You drew in a tight breath, steeling yourself against the sudden chill, cursing yourself for not bringing a cloak or something to shield you from the cold, and followed Raphael closely as he led you towards the main street before taking a right, turning to the river path.

Glancing down to check on you, he noticed you had drawn your arms around yourself, shoulders shivering almost imperceptibly, face contorting into a grimace as the wind rushed up from the river to meet you in an unpleasant gust. Without hesitation he undid the fastenings on his coat, slipping it from his shoulders to instead place it over yours. You looked up, bewildered, about to utter a polite refusal which he immediately silenced.

“I do not feel the cold as you do, my dear. You need it more than I.” You could not argue with him, though you would have liked to. The heat of his body lingered on the inside of the coat, radiating deep into your skin and instantly stilling your shivers. Without it, you could see the rest of his outfit: a smart, well-fitting waistcoat gilded with gold sat atop a loose, ivory dress-shirt, a crimson cravat holding up the collar, black trousers tucked into leather boots that tapped softly against the cobblestones as you walked. He looked good, worryingly so. You could not help but to admire him unabashedly as you reached the towpath. Flicking his gaze from the river to you, he stifled a grin, watching your eyes roam across him without restraint.

“It’s quite the view, is it not?” He asked, glancing back across the river where the reflections of the golden streetlights, twinkling stars, and dazzling full moon danced on the ripples. Soft, quiet wingbeats appeared from behind as a heron flew low over the water, feet tickling the surface and sending up a fine spray. Idle couples wandered the path ahead, arms tucked into each other, heads close, whispering their secrets.

“Mmm…yeah…” Your voice was distant, distracted, and when he glanced back down he could not stop the amused smile from pulling his lips upwards to find your eyes still fixed on him, hovering somewhere between his neck and clavicle. He leaned in close, lowering his head to murmur into your ear.

“You’re not even looking,” he teased in a hushed tone, relishing in the blush that erupted across your cheeks and nose at both the proximity and his observation. You turned quickly to look across the river while he chuckled deeply and gently reached for your hand, tucking it into the crease of his elbow as you walked, forcing you both closer. He considered jesting a little more, but decided against it, instead content to watch the way the reflection of the ethereal lights danced in your eyes.

The minutes passed in a comfortable quiet as you walked together up the path, the warmth of Raphael’s body at your side keeping the cold at bay. You pondered on the events that had unfurled this evening, curious as to why he never brought up the topic of the contract. You had assumed that was the whole point of the entire charade; charm and subdue you into signing it, but he had not mentioned it once thus far, and you had to wonder why. Could it be that he simply enjoyed your company, and wished to spend time with you?

Ha! What a foolish thought.

You silenced that line of thinking, aware of the dangers it presented. Raphael was not only charming in his very nature, but well-practiced at it too. He was specially designed and crafted to tempt mortals like yourself, he made a living out of it. If you were in any way special to him, it was only because of the position you had found yourself in, the chance to procure the object of his deepest desires just within your reach. It took a great deal of effort to remind yourself of this.

Should you sign that contract and complete the deal, your business with the devil would be finished. Would you see him again after that? You had no idea.

“I understand your craving for power, by the way,” you heard yourself saying, apparently unable to let the evening end without touching on the unspoken topic. “I crave it too.”

Raphael looked down at you, regarding you with an honest curiosity, intrigued at both your willingness to address the subject and your admission. You were not the type to pursue something as grand as world domination, you did not seek to subjugate and overrule. From what he had learned of your nature, you sought the opposite.

“May I ask, what for?” He asked, footsteps slowing down slightly.

You peeked out of the corner of your eye to look at him, considering your words.

“I just…one day, I want to be so powerful that I no longer fear anything at all.” You admitted quietly, ashamedly, turning you gaze towards the celestial glow of the moon.

Fear was not something he inherently associated with you. Throughout your adventure you had shown faultless courage, arguably foolish bravery in the face of some very dire circumstances, rushing into deadly battles with a fierce determination to emerge victorious.

“What is it that you fear, little mouse?”

You both came to a stop, your hand slipping from his grasp as you approached the stone wall, resting your arms against the cool bricks and staring out across the river to the bank opposite.

“These days, losing control of my own mind.” You answered as he joined you, only a sliver of a gap between your bodies. There was a look in your eye, you had left something unsaid, but implored him to understand what you meant. You were not just talking about the imminent ceremorphosis should your task fail, you were worried about being manipulated into making decisions you otherwise would not make. By the Emperor, by your friends, by him. “As well as the usual, of course. Losing those I love, my home coming to ruin, dying a painful death…the standard stuff.”

He hummed in acknowledgement and leaned in a little closer.

“You know, I am sure we could work something out. If I were to acquire the crown and all the power it bequeaths, I could protect you and those you hold dear. We could flesh out the terms in the details of your contract.”

You chuckled a little, smiling.

“I’ll consider it.”

The hour was growing late and your eyelids heavy. After watching you stifle several yawns and rub at your eyes like a weary infant, Raphael suggested calling it a night. Despite how nice it would be, he could not stay here forever with you – he still had other business to attend to, besides yours. Other clients to check up on, other contracts to draft. The work, unfortunately, did not stop just because he had.

As before, you took a firm hold of the arm he offered to you, bracing yourself for the unsteady feeling of racing through time and space. You were relieved to find it was not as bad as the first instance, and you appeared before the Elfsong Tavern without even a wobble. The streets were still littered with people milling about, coming and going from their evenings, some walking rather precariously.

With a sigh you went to remove your grip from the devil and jumped only slightly when Raphael’s hand enclosed around your smaller one, turning you to face him as you watched, unsure. He brought your hand to his lips, pressing a slow, intentional, tender kiss to the backs of your fingers, closing his eyes as he did, giving your hand an almost imperceptible squeeze before returning it to you with an expression on his face that seemed to suggest it pained him to do so. You felt your throat tighten at the unexpected gesture, not sure what to say. Luckily, he spoke first.

“Thank you, little mouse, for entertaining me this evening. It has been a truly illuminating experience.”

“Likewise. Thank you for the dinner, I had a good time.”

“I am very glad to hear it. Take care, I’ll see you soon.” With a small nod he turned on his heels and headed towards Wyrm’s Crossing. You watched for a moment, almost until he was out of sight, curious as to why he chose to walk instead of just vanishing into the air like usual. You wondered whether he would look back at you, wondered whether you wanted him to. He did not. At least, not until you had turned away and already ducked into the tavern.

It was not until Astarion, lounging amongst the cushions on the floor of the room with a book in hand as the others slept, gave you a peculiar look as you entered, tilting his head curiously that you realised any hope of your activities of the evening remaining your little secret were well and truly toasted. You groaned inwardly, silently cursing the devil and wondering if this was in his plan all along. How you were going to talk yourself out of this one, you had no idea. You were literally wearing the evidence.

Raphael’s coat sat perfectly atop your shoulders still, and the fabric reeked of cherries and musk, leaving no doubt as to who it belonged to, who you had spent your ‘date’ with.

Astarion gave you a shit-eating grin, eyes sparkling with intrigue as he snapped the book shut.

“Tell me everything.”

[chapter seven]

[writersstareoutwindows]

The degree to which my own ttrpg games have come to occupy the place in my brain that fandom did in high school is at this point staggering, and I intend to make it everyone’s problem.

So *cracks knuckles* at long last, here’s a few of the thousands of words I’ve written for Carella Maginus, my dearest bard (affectionate, derogatory). She is the daughter of an ambitious elven noble and a human founder of Crux, a travelling interplanar city. Due to fantasy Punnett squares (and Carella being the revival of an old character, whom I didn’t want to change into a half elf), Carella skews much more human, while her older brother Cassius is much more elven.

Siblings is hard, when your dad sucks and only one of you remembers Mom. When one of you is heir, and one of you is—well, hardly even spare.

-

(The first few paragraphs were a prompt written by my partner.)

“Hey, Cassius?”

Carella’s brother unfocused his eyes and rubbed a stray hand against them, the other holding his page on the dusty tome before him. It was late in the library, and Carella was getting tired of kicking her feet under the table and listening to Cassius, in his boring blue academy robes, turning pages, endlessly studying.

“What?” He sounded tired. Too tired to be annoyed at the interruption, hopefully.

Carella voiced the question that had been nagging at the back of her head for some time. She was a little nervous to ask, but not enough to defeat a curiosity that felt strong enough to swallow her whole.

“What was Mom like?”

Cassius paused, surprised. He marked his place in the book by inserting a smaller booker. 

‘You sure you want to ask about that, Ellie?’

‘Don’t call me that—Cass.’

Her retort made him laugh. Leaning back, he said, ‘All right. You know how Dad is an asshole who tells us how to spend every minute of every day?’

‘Cassius!’

‘Well, Mom was nothing like that. Try not to yell, Carella, we’re in a library.’

She squeezed her fists beneath the table and fumed. But then her brother did something she’d never seen him do before: he softened. The furrowed lines between his brows went away, and as he pushed his hair out of his face, she saw him smile for the first time in days.

‘Mom wouldn’t even give me a bedtime. She argued with Dad that I’d tire myself out eventually. I thought she didn’t know that I was staying up to read even when he did put me to bed, but I never seemed to run out of candles…’

His gaze had drifted. He was looking over Carella’s head as his fingers traced a pattern on the tabletop. She had leaned in to listen, desperate not to miss anything.

‘She used to tell me bedtime stories. Both of us, actually. You were too young to remember.’

‘What kind of stories?’

Carella whispered, because she was afraid of scaring him off. When they were younger, he had been easier to talk to. They would play together, even when he was twelve and she was just six; they hadn’t really had anyone else. These days he was always busy, with heavy shadows under his eyes, and he was more likely to snap at her than talk to her. She didn’t want to break whatever spell was making him talk like this.

Cassius grinned. ‘Adventure stories, when we were lucky. My favorite was about the dragon in Pyre. Well, it’s everyone’s favorite, that story is famous.’

Carella didn’t know it, but she didn’t want to look silly by asking. Dad had said that she asked too many questions; it was better to keep her mouth closed until she had figured things out by herself. Looking at his sister, Cassius tapped his fingers on the table, then pushed himself to his feet.

‘The bestiaries are around here somewhere. Hold on just a second.’

He returned in a moment holding a thick book bound with bright painted wood. Plopping it in front of Carella, he leaned over her shoulder to turn the pages until he came to the section on dragons. A hand-painted illustration of a red dragon, its neck gracefully arched, its raised wings transparent as glass, covered two full pages.

‘This is what she fought.’

Carella had gone wide-eyed. She pulled her feet up onto the chair so she could crouch over the book, the better to see every fine detail: the sharp ridge of each scale, the talons at each wing-tip, the yellow-orange glow of fire in its throat.

‘By herself?’ she whispered.

‘I’m sure the other Founders helped. But she was the one who survived the full brunt of its firebreath in her face, she was the one who got up on its back with all the fires of a volcano raging around them, and she was the one who planted her halberd in its spine and drove it like a ship, all the way down a river of lava to the bottom of Pyre.’

Carella had gone from staring at the dragon to staring up at her brother, whose face had lit up as if he were looking into that bright volcano.

‘At least, that’s how she used to tell it.’

And Carella thought she had heard that, even if for just a moment: her mom’s words, her mom’s voice in Cassius’. At least, she let herself believe.

‘That’s amazing,’ she whispered.

‘She was amazing.’

If Carella didn’t know her brother better than that, she would have said that a bit of his kid self was showing through in that smile. He sat back in his chair, but he’d pushed the magic books, or whatever they were, away by now.

‘She was nothing like Dad. I don’t know why she married him. She never so much as yelled at me, even when she was furious.’

‘Dad doesn’t yell.’

‘Not at you.’

Cassius shrugged, irritated. Carella was holding her hands in fists beneath the table again, this time nervously. Before she could think of something to say, Cassius went on.

‘Whatever. This isn’t about him. He just has a habit of getting into everything and screwing it up.’ He sounded like he was talking more to himself now. ‘It’s what he must have done to her.’

When he glanced up, he blinked as if only just remembering Carella was there. She was sitting very still, watching him with wide and careful eyes—the same way she watched their father, when she was trying to read what he wanted. Cassius swore quietly in Luthién.

He said, ‘She was a really good singer’ as if he were apologising.

And it worked. A soft feeling pricked Carella’s chest. In a warble, she said, ‘She was?’

Carella loved music. She sang and played piano, and was falling fast and hard for the violin. Cassius knew it all too well; more than once, he’d told her somewhat unkindly to be quiet while he was studying. But he’d also accompanied her on the piano a hundred times. Making music was like making her own little world, and she was good at it, too. She knew she was good at it.

‘She really was,’ Cassius said. Now would have been the moment to give his sister a reassuring touch, but he hesitated. ‘She could sing these long, epic story ballads without stumbling once. And she was the best for lullabies. Like I said, she didn’t put me to bed very often, but when she wanted to, she’d just have to start singing, and,’ he snapped his fingers, ‘out like a light, every time.’

‘Did she—?’ Carella paused. It was a stupid question, an obvious one, but still, she wasn’t sure of the answer. She pushed it out of her mouth: ‘Did she sing to me?’

Softly, Cassius said, ‘Of course.’ He only had half a memory, but he shared it anyway, making up what he couldn’t recall. ‘There was one night, you were sick, I remember because you would not shut up. But Mom held you the whole time, just, rocking you, you know. And she sang to you. I could hear her singing all night.’

Cassius hummed a little melody, something simple that Carella didn’t recognise.

‘Mom was...she was a good mom. She was brave. And funny—her stories could make me laugh for ages. And she was strong...I thought she was strong.’

Cassius closed his eyes. Something painful moved across his face, flickering in the low lamplight.

‘Cass…?’

He shrugged. ‘Guess I was wrong. Even she wasn’t strong enough to put up with Dad.’

Carella flinched.

‘What does that mean? Why do you keep saying stuff like that?’

‘Because it’s true? Because if she were still around, maybe we’d be a little less fucked up?’

‘Stop it!’

Cassius raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. It made her want to scream.

‘Well excuse me, Ellie. I assumed you’d finally worked out that our other parent is a bastard, in all but blood. Why else would you ask about Mom?’

Carella looked down, at her fists held tight and small in her lap. She was so sick of Cassius always acting like he knew more than she did. She’d asked about Mom because there was a portrait that hung in their manor, of a woman with soft wavy hair and a clever half-smile, deep laughter lines and Carella’s nose. A woman their father never talked about. She just hung about the fireplace, looking down over her daughter, saying nothing.

‘Maybe I just wanted to know, for once! Did you think of that in your big stupid wizard brain?’

Cassius rubbed his temple. ‘We’re in a library…’

‘I don’t care!’ Carella stood up, slamming her fists on the table. ‘You fight with Dad, and you make fun of him, but then you turn around and act just like him! You think you’re so special, you think you know everything and I’m just some dumb kid, but all you really are is an ass!’

‘Carella! People are going to hear you.’

‘You couldn’t even stay nice for five minutes! Maybe I just don’t think it’s fair that you get to know about her and I don’t. You get to know everything!’

Carella slammed her palms into the bestiary, sending it flying across the table at Cassius.

‘What makes you so special?’

Cassius looked almost silly, holding the book awkwardly, spread-eagled against his chest where it had hit him. But then he glanced over her shoulder, and his eyes went wide. ‘Carella,’ he hissed.

She followed his gaze to see a frowning librarian standing between the shelves behind her. Everything inside Carella shrank into a very small knot.

‘Shouting is not permitted in the library. And there is absolutely no rough handling of books.’ They spoke severely, addressing Cassius but glowering at Carella. ‘I trust, young lord Maginus, that you will be leaving shortly.’

‘We will indeed. Thank you for your concern,’ Carella could hear him rapidly stacking books, ‘we were just heading out.’

Carella was paralysed in that angry gaze until Cassius took her hand. She startled, then hurried after him with her head down. She’d caught a glimpse of his expression, pleasant and calm, but that was the face he always wore in public. He had to be furious that she’d gotten him kicked out.

It was late evening in Crux, and the city was in Prime. Everything was cool and blue, the lapping of the canal waters a gentle rhythm. The city was only rarely so calm.

‘I’m sorry,’ Cassius said as they walked beside the water. He was still holding her hand.

‘But it was my fault.’

‘Not that. The librarians are assholes.’ Cassius raised his free hand to hail a gondola. ‘Sorry I set you off.’ He sighed, then showed her an apologetic grin. ‘I probably deserved it.’

Looking down, Carella just shrugged. This version of Cassius was a rarity, and she didn’t want to get used to it.

She knew more than he thought she did. As he hopped into the gondola and turned to help her, she watched his hair fall back from his pointed ears. In her portrait above the fireplace, their mom had round human ears like Carella.

Carella was good at noticing things. She spent a lot of time watching quietly, waiting to find the unspoken answers to her questions. Cassius was special because he was like Dad. Carella wasn’t, because she was like Mom. And she knew that that was why Dad treated her differently.

She’d just wanted to know if there was something about Mom worth being. Maybe something Dad had overlooked—even though she knew that Dad noticed everything.

Cassius was whistling. It took her a moment to recognise the same lullaby he’d hummed at the library.

As the gabled, gilded roofs of home began gliding into view, he said, ‘I didn’t mean it, you know.’

Carella looked up from where she’d been skimming her hand in the water.

‘What I said about Mom. At the end.’ He wasn’t looking his sister quite in the eye. ‘She was stronger than anything. I wish you’d gotten to know her.’

The gondola had bobbed to a halt, absolving Carella of a response as they clambered out. She wanted to keep her thoughts to herself, without having to pick one out and polish it down and share it out loud. In her head she could hold two images at once, without having to guess which one was right: the silent portrait above the fireplace, cold, remote, and unspecial; or the warm and lively, but faceless woman who sang in a voice deeper and fuller and yet still so like Carella’s own.

[baral-chief-of-memes]

{RP Event Script}

{Since the RP Event didn’t end up happening, I thought I would post what material I had prepared ahead of time.  I didn’t want to write too much ahead of time in case people got off track, but I’d hate for people to never see it.  Minis used with the kind permission of @pepperapb.  Note: as the event did not happen, none of this is canon to the timeline of the blog}.

Our story opens with all of you scattered across the multiverse, going about your normal business.  At the exact same moment, a Mini pops out of a pocket or coffee mug in front of each of you.  While Minis always bring comfort wherever they go, today they also exude an unmistakeable sense of urgency.  They begin pulling on you clothes and it become obvious they want you to follow them.  Surprisingly, as you do, you discover that you have started traveling in that extra direction that only planeswalkers can go.  The Minis lead you through the Blind Eternities to a plane many of you are familiar with; Kaladesh.  By allowing your Mini to pull you along, you find you are able to materialize precisely where she wants you to.  You appear in a dark corridor, the only light coming from a large room some twenty yards away.  As you arrive, you see the others also appear, each also lead by a Mini.

It is a strange sight to behold; your new companions consist of many different species from many different planes and some of them are frankly bizarre in appearance.  You cannot imagine why the minis would bring together such a mismatched group.  Those of you who know each other note each other’s presence, but before any real greetings can be exchanged (or fighting break out) the sense of urgency from the Minis redoubles and they continue to pull at your clothing, urging each of you to follow her.  Confused, you follow towards the lighted room.  

As you are able to see better, you note that the signs seem to indicate this is some kind of prison, though most areas you can see look like they have been abandoned.  Up ahead, you see what was obviously some kind of special solitary confinement cell.  This one won’t be holding anyone now though, as a large hole has been blasted into the side of it.

Through the hole, you see a strange scene.  A Mini sized set of explosives and what can only be the detonator button are on the ground.  Debris is scattered on the floor of the cell.  In the corner of the ceiling, a bee hive buzzes with activity.  An automatic food dispenser continues dropping an unidentifiable meat substance on the ground.  On the wall, the words “My work begins again” are written in what could charitably be called meat sauce.  Those of you who have visited the prisons of Kaladesh before (or followed the interplanar net) immediately recognize exactly where you are: Baral’s cell.  Of Baral himself, there is no sign.

Mini grabs you attention again and you are suddenly certain that these were their explosives, but Baral was gone when they got here.  You hear two sets of armored footsteps coming down the corridor and turn to look.  Two guards come in, panting as though they had been sprinting in their heavy armor.  When you look back, all traces of the Minis have vanished, including the explosives.

The first guard looks at your group in surprise, though for the moment not hostility.  She steps forward and asks “How did you get here so quickly, we’ve only just reported the breakout to the captain?”

The guards look at you in exasperation.  It’s clear that they don’t really know who you are or why you’re here, they just want you gone.

The second guard gives his partner a shrug and tell you “If you really want to help find Baral, why don’t you go talk to the chief?  I’m sure he can find some way to use you.”

You follow the guards’ directions to the guardhouse.  As you walk inside, you are bombarded by the flurry of activity that seems barely contained by the stone walls.  As you proceed inside, the hurried guards giving you a wide berth and not-so-subtle looks to your more unusual companions.  As you get to the reception desk the clerk, to her credit, recovers quickly from her surprise and asks in her most polite (but clearly confused) voice “Can I help you?”.

The receptionist is clearly both weary and wary, but eventually she shows you to the captain’s office.  Inside is the captain himself.  You can tell from his fancier armor and giant office.  It’s a good thing his office is so large, since all of you wouldn’t fit inside otherwise.  He gives the receptionist a confused glance, and your party several more.

“Visitors to see you, captain.” the receptionist tells him in the most professional voice she can muster.  “I think they’re here about the escape.”

“Yes yes, very good.  Please return to your desk.  I’ll… take care of our… guests.”

The receptionist leaves while the captain give your group another long look.  He takes a bottle of something that smells suspiciously like alcohol out of the bottom drawer of his desk and pours himself a small glass of the amber liquid.  He drains the glass, then looks to you and says “What can I help you with?  Make it quick, this is a very busy time for us.”

The captain looks at you, exasperated.  He was clearly unprepared for any of the answers you gave and frankly isn’t sure if he believes half of what you said.  But, after a moment he seems to come to a decision.

“Well, I don’t know about all that, but if you really do want to help catch that monster Baral, I’m not exactly in a position to turn down extra help right now.”

He pours himself another glass, stands up to pace around, and continues.

“Early this morning, we got word that Baral had escaped his cell some time during the night.  At first we thought he had managed to break out, but our investigators quickly discovered that someone on the outside had helped him.  It seems the guard that night, Ripu, was part of a secret group who are still loyal to Tezzeret’s regime called Tezzeret’s Claw.  They broke Baral out, presumably so that he can join them.  We still don’t know why they put a beehive in his cell before they went though.  Since then, we’ve had multiple reports of former Renegades going missing.  We tried to keep it quiet but word’s gotten out pretty fast.”

The captain drains the rest of his glass and looks at you with a surprisingly sharp eye.

“If you want to help, well we aren’t exactly in a position to turn you away.  If you find anything out about Tezzeret’s Claw, report back immediately and come directly to me.  We’re still not sure how many more guards are part of the Claw.”

He opens a drawer on his desk and pulls out a box full of small, metal badges.  He hands each of you a badge, then puts the rest back in his desk.

“Take these.  It’s an official deputy badge.  It’ll let other guards know you’re ok, and gives you the limited access to some of our equipment for the duration of the crisis.  Just don’t go getting any funny ideas.  When this is over you’ll have to return everything, including the badges.  Now, if you don’t mind, I’m pretty busy.”