#around like a corpse behind me at all times and cant breathe under the weight of ❤️

[ispyspookymansion]

[awkwardbluefish]

Moments Captured in Time

Bruce was tired. Exhausted really.

Despite the burning behind his eyes and the damp drapes of curtains that were his eyelids he continued to work, continued to gaze at the luminescent blue screen before him. It was quiet in the cave, yet the migraine continued to pulse behind his eyes and tighten in their sockets. Some would argue Bruce wasn’t really working, they’d be right in a way. Technically he was working, but the only reason why was in avoidance of something he did not want to go through.

Sleep. He was avoiding going to sleep. Because Bruce knew when he let the curtains fall and the false peacefulness usually bought by darkness then the nightmares would kick in. The memories would burn, flickering in his head like a burning candle despite how desperately he tried to make it to stop. He didn’t want to remember that night. He didn’t want to remember the boy he had failed, the boy he told himself he would protect. He didn’t want to remember the night he had failed his own son, just because he wasn’t fast enough, because he wasn’t clever enough.

For a second, he closes his eyes, let his shoulders sag. The memories begin like a broken record and his heart burns because he knows he was too slow. His heart thumps in the cage he calls his ribs as the visualising begins. There was nothing left that night, nothing left besides a broken boy. There was nothing there of that building but ash and smoking debris. His chest aches because he remembers there was no pulse but checking anyway. He remembers broken ribs shattering under his palms as he pumped, desperate for a single breath. Desperate for five more minutes with his Robin, his son. It hadn’t have worked, his boy remained dead. He stayed a corpse, a life snuffed out far too soon by a psychopath. He was gone.

“Bruce,” the voice forces his eyes to peel a part, cracking them open to see a darkened screen. A sigh escapes his lips as he rolls his shoulders, hearing the bones crack and groan like a hollowed-out house with only the abandoned ghosts left in those walls.

“I’m working Alfred.” His voice is rough, low, as if it’s been through a grinder and barley made it out. He’s not working, a plain as day lie. Alfred doesn’t say anything to that, staying silent.

Bruce forgets sometimes that he isn’t the only one who lost Jason that night. He’s not the only one mourning the boy’s loud absence. He brows wrinkle but no words escape chapped lips. He won’t apologise. Cant. He’s the reason Jason’s gone. He doesn’t deserve to cry, to mourn, when it’s his fault.

“I see.” His father murmurs, and the sadness behind his words slice at his heart, leaving a gaping wound that bleeds sluggishly. Bruce stares at the dark screen as Alfred sighs and in the reflection of a crystal-clear screen he can see the sagged shoulders, the weary tilt of the brow. Out of all of that he zeroes in and the thin envelope cradled in his fingers. Bruce doesn’t ask but Alfred answers. “Master Timothy gave this to me. He noticed you were upset and believed you would enjoy this.”

The envelope lays on the keyboards. Bruce doesn’t reach for it, lowering his head as he thought of the small and brilliant boy. The boy who wiggled his way into his life, made himself such a home that Bruce couldn’t even bare to imagine forcing him out off. He’s failed Tim. Not like he’s failed Jason, god forbid, but he hasn’t been kind to the boy as of late. He’s snapped at Tim, the ocean eyed boy who gazed upon Bruce with such awe he never quite knew what to make off it. He’s taken his grief out on him, the kid that absolutely adored him. That loved him.

“He’s a good kid.” Alfred says. He doesn’t stay after that. But the words echo in Bruce’s head. He knows the words left unsaid. Don’t lose him too. Don’t push him away like you’ve done with Dick.

Eventually Bruce reaches out, lifting the envelope into dried up and broken skinned fingers. Carefully, gently, he opens the letter, watching as paper breaks as it clings to glue. Carefully he pulls the slim piece of something out of the paper cage, breath catching and throat clamping tight as the picture shimmers in the dim lights of the cave.

It was Jason. It was Jason, in his bright costume, alive and happy. It was Jason laughing, his wiry and far too thin arms wrapped tightly around his stomach, doubled over and Bruce can hear his laughter, loud and booming echoing in his ears. Its Jason, laughing at Bruce. Bruce, dressed up as Batman, egg yolk slipping down his cowl. The lighting of the alley shadows his features but Bruce knows he’s smiling because he knows this moment, remembers this moment. It had been nearing Easter, and Dick had created a competition that night to see who could egg Batman the most. Jason had caught him by surprise and Bruce remembers, despite the slimy yolk sliding down his back, cold and thick, he had been so proud of this boy for the surprise attack.

Tim. He had taken this photograph.

Bruce licks his lips, ribs caging in his heart tight. His heart is warm, blood bubbling in his veins. A small laugh breaks free from his lips, his eyes crinkling and heart clenching. He cradles the picture, a moment frozen in time and he smiles, pretending there wasn’t tears clogging up his eyes. A hand cradles his lips and he ducks his head, caving in on himself. In this picture Jason was alive. In this picture Jason was happy. In reality he was neither.

Swallowing down the tears he blinks his eyes, revelling in the fact it was just a tad easier this time despite the tears dampening the curtains even more. He shakes his head, unwashed bangs tickling his forehead. Body aching, heart hammering he forces himself to his feet, photograph clutched gently in his hands. The walls that usually held him up, made him strong, made him invincible, made him Batman, collapse in a pile of debris. Moment by moment, they fall. Salty drops fall down his chin, drenching a grey, sweat damp shirt.

Steadying himself he presses his palms to the black leather chair, focusing on breathing. Vaguely he realises he’s trembling. There was a rawness to it, like the pain was still an open wound, all of this forced out of him by a picture. The sobs were stifled at first as he attempts to hide the grief from the world, from himself, then, overcome with the wave of emotions he just breaks. All the defences he built up those upcoming weeks wash away by salt tasting tears. It was pathetic, the picture he was painting, one of grief, loss and broken devastation.

He had to pull it together. He had to see Tim. He needed to know if there were more, he needs to see these moments frozen in time. He needed to see Jason alive, even if it was just through a picture. He inhales sharply, unfolding himself from the curved form over the chair, picking up the debris of his walls and building them up all over again. The shutters come down; his emotion being walled off behind a mask of coping. He’d wear it around Tim, he had too. He just had to keep it up a little bit more.

Slowly he focuses, roughly scraping his balled-up fist against his cheeks, ridding away the evidence of his loss. Tim took this photograph. Could he have more?

He finds the boy resting on the couch. His face is scrunched up, eyes screwed up, creating wrinkles as he bites at his lips between his mutterings. He’s sitting there, mouth moving a mile a minute as he shifts through contents in an old shoe box. Bruce can’t make out the words, he never could when Tim murmurs like that, voice trying to catch up with his mind. He never minded it though, knowing this was how Tim sorted through his thoughts. He never does it during a stakeout, fingers always taking over and tapping along his knees and up his thighs so Bruce never had a reason to complain.

“You’ll draw blood,” Bruce’s voice echoes in the room. His voice is thick, deep and absolutely wrecked with grief. He swallows, tries to force a smile to his lips when the startled boy jumps, much like a startled cat. It falls short, watching Tim’s eyes fill in panic as he zeros in on the picture still clutched like a prized possession withing Bruce’s fingers.

Tim opens his mouth and Bruce can see the impending apologies about to spew from his lips, so, he steps forward. His lips clamp shut, tight as a clam and Bruce fiddles with the white edged border around the delicate photograph. God forbid, he was scared. He shakes his head and he knows he looks absolutely terrible and wrecked and he knows Tim can see it and he knows he thinks he’s done something wrong. But he hasn’t. Tim has done something absolutely perfect.

“Do you have more?” He asks and his chest burns but it’s nothing compared to his throat, coals stuck in the back of it.

Tim gazes at him, analysing. Then he nods, small and soft. His small, frail body shuffles over, cradling the shoe box tight to his chest. When Bruce doesn’t move, too scared too, he pats the cream cushion next to him, not meeting his gaze as he stares into the box with acute determination.

The weight shifts when he sits down and a small smile twitches at his lips when Tim’s raised along with the pillow. The boy isn’t bothered, smiling his small triumph when he finds whatever it is, he’s looking for. Carefully he pulls it out and holds it to his chest, eyes flickering to Bruce’s desperate expressions and nodding. He licks his lips, holds out the photograph at arms length.

Bruce nearly snatches at it, afraid that it would disappear into thin air. Despite the urge he’s slow, fingers twitching hesitantly a second away before Tim gently, forcefully, passes it to Bruce. His gaze flickers to the other picture, lips twitching by the way Bruce crinkles the edges with his grip. He makes no move to take it away and Bruce is grateful, knowing he wouldn’t be able to give Jason away again.

It takes a while for him to look at it, watching Tim give an encouraging nod at him that contrasts with the terror hidden behind those ocean orbs. He was scared he was doing something wrong, that he’d just hurt Bruce more. He could see the hidden worries behind those eyes. He was scared Bruce wouldn’t like it and Bruce could not stand that look on his childs’ face. He smiles, numb as it is, and trails his own blue piercing eyes to the photograph lying on his palm.

His eyes rake over the picture, devouring all the little details in a second. Despite that all he truly makes out is Jason, his boy alive and happy. There’s a huge grin on his face, mouth full of glimmering teeth. The domino covers his eyes but Bruce is brought to tears at the mere thought of how bright they are, how bright they were.

Any resolve crumbles and the pictures tumble out of his hands. He reaches out, desperate to cling to reality. His arms cradle around the boys’ shoulders, bringing him to his chest with a yelp muffled into his shoulder blade. Limbs are everywhere, bones digging into his thighs, arms and chest. A nose is pressed deep into his breast but it was nothing but good. The tears begin sliding down his cheeks again and Bruce was always and ugly crier but at this moment he couldn’t care less. Gently he cuddles the boy to him, burying his face into coconut scented locks, swallowing thickly, coals burning in his throat and his chest as he cries. He makes no sound, chest heaving and he feels oh so small hands weaving themselves around his back. His boy hugs him back, hesitant and nervous and Bruce brings him closer, having half the mind to place the brown shoe box digging into their waists on the crystal coffee table.

“Thank you,” he murmurs and the boy he manhandled onto his lap stiffens in surprise and if that doesn’t hurt Bruce than he has no idea what will. “Thank you, Tim, these are brilliant. Thank you for showing me.” He whispers, like it’s a secret only Tim is allowed to hear. The boy slackens in his hold, slowly and then he’s digging his cold nose into his shoulder blade and Bruce is laughing, tears streaming down his cheeks, eyes staining red the more the tears willingly spill.

“You can keep them,” Tim murmurs into his chest. Bruce’s voice is too wrecked, too broken to even speak. He swallows around the coals logged in his throat and manages to hum. Tim hums back and Bruce chuckles wetly, hearing Dick whisper in his ear about Tim being a Bruce translator.

“I’m so proud of you,” his words crack as tears begin to dry and crust on his cheeks and stubbled chin. Tim hums again, seemingly content with the silence. “I knew you knew our secret. But taking pictures of us? Absolutely brilliant, little ninja. You’ve done good. So good.”

Bruce says nothing after that, not when the arms tighten almost painfully around his waist, not even when his shirt dampens. He doesn’t tell Tim this is the first time he’s willingly cried in front of anyone without resistance. He doesn’t say this is the first time he’s laughed, smiled on the day of Jason’s death. He doesn’t tell Tim he’s the only reason why Bruce is keeping together. He doesn’t tell Tim he’s the glue keeping this small and broken family together. What he does tell Tim, is that he loves him.

[border-spam]

(Featuring @godkingsanointed ‘s amazing OC JK)

  Mid COV

   “There’s a H… there." 

Seifa tapped a black nail into the paper Jak-Knife was staring at so intently their mask’s front grill brushed against the page. They let out a rumbling groan, slowly shaking their head side to side as she reassuringly patted their hand, leaning pressed against the length of their back so she could peer down at the scrawled letter splayed on the table in front of them.

"A H? Why??” they whined, cupping the sides of their head in calloused hands with a dejected sigh. Words were stupid.

It had been a long day for both of them.

Sei had only just made it to her ship after a night of red tape and managing delays in her office below. Tyreen’s Saints had incredible skill in somehow making sure their daily business ended up impacting Troy’s in some way. Missing shipments, deadlines shifted far shorter than possible with no warning, the usual shit. She’d sat for hours after her shift, gritting her teeth while pouring through their condescending e-coms, pausing every now and then to distract herself from the frustration by catching flashes of today’s arena stream.

The Blight Devil had ripped through raiders on the flickering office screen as her papers shuffled. Heretics who’d led an assault on a protected settlement and refused to repent now faced the Holy Father’s executioner, a fitting end to parasites sucking lifeblood from the isolated villages the COV kept in food and medical supplies.

She’d found them after the fight as she left her office that night, leaning silently against the elevator gate in the lower workshop that lead to her ship docked above the Mechanicum. Head bowed and tilted to the side, ankles crossed and arms folded across their chest. They were spotless as usual, arena blood expertly removed from their skin, but the weight of the fight was visible on their frame - tired and quiet.

They’d perked out of their doze as she approached, and lifted a bag filled with something hot and spicy from the Slums as a greeting. JK was always like this. They had as much an open invitation to her home as the others, but while she’d retire some nights and find Ven and Eli already smiling cheekily from her kitchen table and expecting dinner to appear now that she’d gotten home, or Troy curled up asleep in the same tiny wall cot that she’d told him was his years ago, JK never entered without her.

Always waited by the elevator with offering in hand, a gift of food or beer like an olive branch. Habit, she figured. Something from a life of survival in Pandora’s roaming clans she’d maybe never understand, but she could appreciate even though she reassured them it wasn’t needed every single time.

She could tell they were struggling to keep going now still, heavy muscle shifting under her ribs as they groaned at the letter covered in smudged ink between their elbows on the kitchen table, muttering about the rogue “H” through their mask’s respirator.

Words made no damn sense, even less when they were marked down in writing.

 Bandit cant had always served JK well, icons, symbols, communication scratched into rocks and dirt and corpses with the tips of jagged blades. Writing was pointless, they’d been told that for as long as they could remember. Adults in their clan had mocked newcomers to Pandora, said their big words and fancy letters were just to hide behind. A mask without a mask, so they could pretend they were better, stronger than the salt and blood of the earth that crawled across the planet’s dusty wastes in scavenging mobs.

You didn’t need to write or read when your family could respond like a singular pack unit to bird whistles or rhythmic pounding on dry rock. Learning would be a waste of time and resources better used to serve the marauding horde.

This H was a waste. The flimsy, golden pen clutched in their calloused fist was a waste, a symbol of wealth, education, of weakness on Pandora. If it hadn’t been a gift, they’d…

“Because without the H it says tanks. Like, war-machines, you know?” Seifa laughed, pushing against them to her feet and shooting a deadeye finger gun at their chest with a silent pow as she back stepped to her side of the table.

“But gotta say, that looks like a love letter, JK” she grinned, lowering herself into her seat with an ungraceful thump.

“..She a fan of tanks?”

They huffed quietly, refusing to meet the shit-eating grin they knew she was aiming at them as she shuffled the papers in front of her and leaned back into her chair with a creak of wood.

���She likes tanks, yeah. She.. likes all weapons. All machines. Makes ‘em, fixes 'em..” they murmured as Seifa clicked her tongue in response, wolf whistling.

“Sounds like my kind of woman.”

“She’s… my kind of woman.” Jk replied through a crackling laugh, scratching the pen against the paper with practiced concentration. “She should have nice things like.. letters. She should have poems, songs.. chants… and thank you.” they looked up, catching Sei’s inquisitive gaze “Thank you for helping me.” She followed their hand, gesturing towards the paper with a blunt finger.

Sei laughed, smoothing loose hair back over her shoulder. “Don’t thank me, pal. I think if anything, I’m using you as a distraction..” she sighed, expression turning somber as she dropped the stack of papers to the table in front of her, grimacing. 

“This jank is terrible.”

“Words?” they offered, lenses catching the light as their eyes followed her when she stood. 

“Nah JK, numbers” she scoffed, rolling sore shoulders as she stepped towards the kitchen counter to their side. “WAY worse. Listen, want to try something gross?” the chair struggling to support their bulk squeaked behind her as JK turned to face the cupboard she was rooting through. “I got this new coffee..-somewhere.. where is..- Ahh!”

“I like coffee, sure!” they chuckled with a nod, thumping their fist onto the little table the pair had been sharing in her ship’s kitchen

“This coffee though - ” she corrected smugly “This coffee has been shit out of some horrible little monkey thing on Eden-2” she smirked, stifling a giggle in response to the barking guffaw that erupted behind her.

“WHAT” they yelled through the muffle of the mask’s filters, deep voice cracking in amusement.

Sei turned, waving the foil bag towards them playfully as she leaned back against the counter.

“I’m not joking, gift from an ore dealer me and Ven had to sweet talk into very generous trade agreements on Astrensis a month ago. I don’t know if he was trying to impress me or what, but this is basically worth its weight in platinum and it’s-”

“ - It’s shit juice!” JK gasped between rolling belly laughs.

“It’s fuckin’ shit juice pal, you’re not wrong!” she chuckled, smile wrinkling across her nose as she flipped the coffee maker’s switch, grinning softly as the clunky hiss of the machine filled the little kitchen quarters.

Jk sighed happily behind her, twisting to stare at their paper again. “Rich people are so wrong. They don’t belong, not here, waste everything. Just walking sacks of ego thinking their paper money will stop this place taking its due from 'em”. They grunted thoughtfully, then continued in a quieter tone.

“I thought you were a rich person when we first met, another off-worlder.”

Seifa turned, wide-eyed in surprise at the comment.

JK was someone she’d known for years now, but even with so many hours of quiet time together in this ship, a quiet hiding hole away from the Holy City’s heaving bustle and fame both their titles reluctantly carried, even after all this time, they rarely spoke of their own feelings in this manner. JK’s thoughts were something they held deep in their chest, opinion’s they’d share, advice they’d willingly give, but their thoughts? She wanted to hear more, it was an unusual glimpse into an incredibly interesting mind.

“You thought I was rich?” she balked, pointing towards her chest. “How? You seen the way I live?”

Their head tilted, turning slowly to glance around the cabin. Clean, homely. Plants and textiles covering cracked wall panels… repaired and well-maintained kitchenware, the coffee machine behind her newer than nearly anything else surrounding it. They shifted, looking down at the polished and well loved table, the stains and scratches buffed but still visible in the finish. Years of love and use.

They made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a laugh, tilting their head slowly to the side. “Not about what you own, Seifa. It was how you carry yourself. You’re the only person in the room till you don’t want to be, then you were never there at all. Eyes miss you.” they rumble.

“Don’t belong here. Don’t belong out there either, in the city. Covered in gold, thought you were like the others. You aren’t though.” JK hums, shifting their eyes to the scrapped together coffee machine behind her.

“..You’re like him.”

She’d laugh if that wasn’t such an insult, rolling her eyes and huffing a chuckle into her fist.

“Thanks. What a compliment.” she groaned, flashing a quick grin before lifting a finger to scratch at her jaw thoughtfully. "… I’m not rich though I fleece the twins for all they are worth, sure, but that’s just good business.“ the homemade machine behind her whistled quietly as she paused, breathing deep the acrid aroma of roasted coffee wafting through the room.

"My clan might not be called that, but it’s still what they are. We’ve a creed of support. One of us does well for themselves? Strikes it rich? Lucks a factor as much as skill. There’s 10 bad deals for every good one.. some get a real bad streak, JK.” they nodded, understand her meaning if not her experiences.

“There were times before the twins where I needed help from family, care packages and donations to keep my ship running and fuel tanks full, now I repay that debt with what I earn here, spread the wealth to others who struggle now like I did then.” Seifa shrugged, uncomfortable in sounding anything close to generous regardless of the truth. “ It’s our creed, like I said. Family first.”

Jk grunted, nodding to themself as they stared at the table in front of them, the scrunched letter in shaky lines.

“Family first..” they echoed, not quite to themself, and not quite to her either.

Family.

They let their eyes rest on the pen gripped in their hand, tilting it slowly. The solid gold barrel reflecting light the same way the gilded fangs in his crooked grin had as he pressed the box into their open palm. Troy had been so happy when he handed them the case, blushing and shifting his weight from foot to foot as he waited for them to open it. They’d not known what to do with the contents, looking back and forth between the solid gold pen and him awkwardly. Waiting for him to explain how they should react, anxiously hoping he’d guide them as always.

He’d laughed, plucking it from the case and pointing at the name etched into the bodywork.

“It’s for you, see, it’s your name like we p-practiced. J.a.k-.k.n.i.f.e, see it?” his hand had been trembling with excitement, cheeks flushed and smile squinting his eyes as he loomed over them, pressed close enough to hear his ragged breaths.

“Now when you write you’ll know I got your b-back, yeah? I’ve got your back, understand? 'Cus you’ll know that I know you can do it, and I’ll keep teaching you.”

They hadn’t known what to say, the words that felt right were choking in their throat. They knew Troy often compared himself cruelly to them, would emasculate himself by placing aspects of who they were on a pedestal then berate himself for not reaching. It was hard to communicate their awareness of it with him. He was so easily hurt by his weaknesses being recognised, it was easier to pretend they didn’t notice and insist on complimenting him when they spotted him sinking under his own detrimental thoughts. Lift him up when they saw him flag.

But this, writing? Reading? Troy was excellent at this. It was something he could help them with, and as soon as he’d realised they could do neither, he’d jumped on the opportunity to teach them. They understood it was a repayment of his own volition, even if they couldn’t understand why God King Calypso would feel like he’d owed them in any way. They were his guard. They shielded him. They didn’t need to be thanked, you don’t need to thank a brother…

Seifa waited for as silence fell between them, giving JK the chance to continue, but they said nothing, nodding almost imperceptibly as they continued to stare at the pen.

They got lost sometimes in the depths under that mask, but the people close to them understood, and it was easy enough to bring JK back into the current. Wait a moment, give them a chance to snap back, then pull them back into the conversation.

She cleared her throat to break the quiet.

“So, is this lady rich then? If she likes poems and songs… and weapons?”

It snapped them out of their daze immediately, turning snake quick to glare through the mismatched lenses at her instead.

“She… she has money yes, she works hard. Very hard. I don’t know if she even would like a poem. It’s just something.. I see sometimes on the echonet, those movies Troy watches.”

“You give poems to great women, don’t you…?” their voice caught on a question towards the end, something they weren’t wording but clearly needed an answer for.

Sei stepped towards them, reaching out to lay a hand on their shoulder as she carefully arranged the words that felt most right for them.

“Maybe..” she started tentatively, leaning down a little to meet their eyes through the mask’s glass. “..if that’s what she wants, sure. But it sounds like this woman doesn’t need fancy things, JK. Sounds like she’s plenty good at seeing the truth of what things are, huh?”

They nodded emphatically, the quiet choking sounds from under their mask emphasising their eagerness to agree.

“Thought so” Sei grinned cheekily. “Why not write how you see her then, huh? No poems, just the truth of how things are.” They rumbled as she patted their shoulder, turning back to the small kitchen to prepare their drinks.

She smiled triumphantly to herself as the welcoming sound of the pouring coffee mixed with the scratching of their pen behind her, before it was interrupted by a stern grunt.

“Seifa, how do you spell refuge?”

[faunusrights]

OFFAL HUNT REMASTERED LIVEBLOG // CHAPTER 19

IN THIS EPISODE OF MURPHY IS SCREAMING, CONSTANTLY, TRAPPED IN THEIR PERFECT NIGHTMARE:

Glynda was saying: “I know we aren’t friends. I know we aren’t partners. I know you’re a criminal. But—I think I can trust you. I think I have to trust you, even if you’ve done awful things before.”

EVERYTHING GOES WRONG BUT LIKE SOMEHOW WORSE THAN EVER? LIKE A WHOLE NEW BRAND OF LOW. LIKE CINDER’S GOT A PICKAXE AND THE CENTRE OF THE PLANET CALLS FOR AID.

IT’S BEEN A WHILE HUH!!!!!!!!!!!!!! but dw offal hunt, like the rising of the sun, the arrival of winter, and the eventual downfall of capitalism, always returns. so lets go.

(i just quickly reread chapter 18 liveblog to remember what happened and Ah Yes I Remember Now. The Suppressed Memories)

The place was emptier without Glynda. Quieter.

/gunshot oh we’re in danger right out of the gate huh? we got some yearning right out here? right now? how quickly the turn do tables.

Cinder appraised her work, holding the beige coat up to the light and squinting.

man i forgot. i FORGET. how much i just love cinder in this fic. sometimes she kinda zones to the back of my mind where she sits waiting for me to start thinking about her again, but now i remember that this cinder is Peaque. look at her GO, minding her own BUSINESS. im proud of her. does she know i love her.

It didn’t take long to don her new, fire-proofed clothes.

in another world, in a more comical plot, she used asbestos. it didnt go well.

The subtle warmth of the Dust teased tension from Cinder’s stiff muscles, even as she marvelled at the strangeness of her own bedroom’s space. It seemed bigger now than it had the last two nights.

h

She chose not to dwell on it.

h

i choose to dwell on it! ME!!!! I CHOOSE TO DWELL ON IT. HEY CINDER WHAT THIS GAY SHIT. hello. ma’am. can we look deeper into this. i, for one, would like to, and i, for one, think its of value to think abt this. that said, small segue

Quietly, Cinder murmured, “I didn’t freak out.”

THE FACT SHE SAYS IT ALOUD LIKE EM AND MERC CAN HEEEEEEAR HEEEEEEEER i am. INFATUATED with this family. cant wait for the 100k spinoff thats basically an elongated beach episode where they go to like. alton towers. or butlins. six flags??? thats a thing in america right??? anyway. beach episode. call me. (wink wink nudge nudge push push shove shove)

 We had to stop back in because Merc left his favorite binder, and it was 2 in the morning, so it was easier to crash here for the night than mess with the ship’s autopilot.

them,,, THEM!!!! mercury is just a son and childe. thast it. he canot change this. i love these kids so much i am SHAKING THE MONITOR RN!!!!!!! AAAAAAAAA

Stuck here in one of the homes they’d shared, Cinder missed them terribly. Missed the sound of their voices and the easy comfort of their presence. Finding the time to contact them had been difficult, between managing Glynda and Hati both, but Glynda was gone, and she’d sent Hati onwards to Atlas. She remembered her call with Emerald, before arriving in Umbraroot; she knew it had not soothed her or her fears.

im sorry was this chapter targeted at me, specifically, as a human being on planet earth? GOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I LOVE THIS FAMILY!!!!!!!!! THIS WONKY OLD BANDAGED UP FAMILY UNIT!!!!!!!!!!!!! i thrive every time they are mentioned on the page. it is a blessing. my succulents grow stronger each time they show up.

“No,” Cinder argued softly, “I had to. Mercury, you deserve to hear it from me as well. I am sorry. And I am promising you: I’ll come back.”

For a long, heart-wrenching moment, he was completely quiet. It was good that Cinder was alone in the apartment; laying herself bare like this would be unbearable with an audience.

GODDDDDDDDDDD AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

i am OBSESSED WITH THIS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! IM GOING TO BE THINKING ABOUT THIS UNTIL I D I E. of all thing the remaster does better than og, this is just. SPEEDING AHEAD. this whole CONFLICT this whole MESS just makes everything so much RICHER its like when u splash some wine in yr fancy food or stick some cinnamon on yr favourite desserts u dont NEED TO but it adds that lil SOMETHING,,, that little KICK that just ties the flavour profile together and in this case ofgughugguhu it just GIVES SO MUCH. im making SNOW ANGELS in the WORDS on the PAGE.

“Mercury. If I could prove it to you, I would. But you have to—trust me. For just a while longer.”

“It’s getting harder,” he said. He didn’t sound like he was lying just to hurt her. That wasn’t spite. That was honest anger. And it made her feel like dirt.

im less picking these for specific instances of like, things i want to say, but more just because bits of this r rly just so /chef kiss. cinder has these.... endearingly (take that whichever way u like) human qualities in OG to rly make u realise she had ties to add to her #Doubt but the remaster is just AMPING it up and u FEEL IT and ive never been more SYMPATHETIC to a round-faced sinnamon bun of assholery and fire id DIE for cinder fall and this is a fact PUT IT ON MY GRAVESTONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“Is there anything you need?” What was this? Cinder could barely focus on her words. It felt like... “Anything? At all?”

“We’re fine.”

“Mercury, wait please—” She was losing him. “I think—”

“Just hurry up.”

The line went dead.

this place is not a place of honor.................. no highly esteemed deed is commemorated here........................ nothing valued is here................ IM DYING

Cinder began to type out her response, and that was when the nausea really kicked in. 

[...] 

She recognized this now.

Glynda.

stress stress stress stress STRESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

There shouldn’t be anybody. Cinder had done everything in her power to cut Glynda from people who would interfere. To isolate her. Make it easier to bring her to Atlas, to the frozen north, to her mother and the machine…

Cinder’s esophagus quivered; furiously, she shut her eyes and thought of nothing.

god cinder don’t remind me that you’re an asshole and dipshit and also a moron im trying to be NICE and CARE ABT YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! STOP REMINDING ME YOU’RE A PIECE OF SHIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

FOR FIVE MINUTES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The front door clicked open.

Cinder couldn’t have said how much time had passed, only that it had passed slowly. What she did know was that it was Glynda returning, the sensation of boils bursting wafting off her soul. It crawled over Cinder’s flesh. She curled in on herself.

There were mites under every nailbed. Salt in her weeping mouth.

offal hunt’s brilliant use of this horror aspect is something i have tried previously to emulate and here’s a fact, take it from me: that shit is HARD. offal hunt consistently able to whack those real nasty, really Disgusting vibes on the head EVERY TIME is a work of art. i mean, kc and diesel do not fuck around, and therefore i am NOT surprised, but it’s only when u try this shit yourself that you realise: this is hard! this is difficult! it’s a huge testament to how GOOD this fic is in every way. also this whole fucking body horror aspect is something i didnt know this fic needed, but it did, and here we are. 

Thickly: “Things were going okay. If you hadn’t gotten nasty, I might have smoothed things over. I could have fixed things with my son.”

with my son

with my son

with my son

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA I CANT TAKE IT EVERY TIME ITS TOO MUCH FOR TO BEAR I CANNOT HANDLE IT I CANNOT STAND IT ITS LIKE BEING SHOT JUST DIRECTLY IN MY DICK

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

im like sweating rn

Glynda said, “I’m scared.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to tell you.”

I SAID IM SWEATING

Glynda asked, “Are you lying to me?”

And Cinder said, “What?”

“About me. About Witches. About Ozpin—” Cinder’s guts went sour. “—About anything. I need to know if I can trust you.”

I SAID I! AM! S W E A T I N G

“I know you’ve lied to people. Hurt people.”

Adrenaline and the image of her kids’ faces behind her eyes made a potent, sick cocktail. “—Not. Now.”

so lets like double back to when i said hey was this chapter written to target me specifically and as it turns out, yes. yes it was. yes it was and as MUCH AS I AM LIVING FOR THIS MOMENT THIS SWEET BUILDUP THE EXPLOSION AND THE CRATER IT ALL LEAVES BEHIND

I

AM

so this next bit is like. i cant really quote one section but as i was saying in Vague DMs, this whole bit feels like wading through mud. usually if you say something consumes energy to Read it’s in a Bad Way when yr bored but this is more like. you Feel cinder all over everything feels so sluggish and it’s like dragging your own corpse around as you try and leave and you’re TIRED and your LEGS HURT and you’re kinda thinking god what if i just fell face down for just a moment of my LIFE.

The putrid weight of Glynda’s soul filled the room until there was no space left for her.

it’s like being trapped in a sauna, like getting stuck in a humid waiting room. where do you GO. what do you DO. god this whole section is fantastic and offal hunt NEVER fails to fucking nail the Vibes but reading it is HARD. i literally keep having to stop and breathe like ive been holding my breath. jesus h christ.

a small intermission for a mood:

“Get fucked.”

back to regularly scheduled hell

Out of the bedroom. Down the hall. The walls were sweating with heat. She tasted smoke. 

i love that i just said how i feel like im trapped in a sauna and it turns out: thats because me and cinder both, baybee!!!! hahahaha help

Glynda’s soul chewed her to the marrow. “Move, Glynda.” 

cinder being hunted at the start of this fic: teehee! im running away! now im gonna getcha! heehee! arent i clever :) cinder being hunted now: this uh. this blows, actually,

Cinder’s pulse roared in her ears. Her hands twitched. She smelled Ochre Brown’s round face melting off. His wide smile shattered with each of his teeth, going black and popping like corn.

this chapter is probably my favourite so far for this blending of so many elements. i cant even begin to like. THINK STRAIGHT about how all of this is tying together. the lore. the THEMATICS. like i said this character rly is just Rich with what og lacked and oh is it RICH. im gonna read this chapter in future and see so much that i know ive already missed. holy shit.

“Ms. Fall,” she said. “The White Fang requires your presence immediately.”

NOT NOW

Cinder stood there looking at it for a moment. Her thoughts were slow. Copper-tinged. Something small and indulgent whispered to her through the blood-fog.

It was obvious enough what would happen if she got into this car. The driver would take her to a secluded place, where she would be ambushed by a squadron of battle-hungry White Fang grunts.

They’d try to take her down. And she was a killer, wasn’t she? Ochre Brown wailed in her ears with every thump of her runaway heart. Her hands itched for action; her teeth, for blood.

She’d burn them black.

never mind! you are already dead,

She thought about Glynda. About her saying that if there was trouble with the Fang, she wanted to come. That she would fight for Cinder.

She thought of Glynda’s question: What aren’t you telling me about Ochre Brown?

Yeah, fuck that.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA OH MY GOD!!!!!!!!!! WHAT A CLIFFHANGER!!!!!!!!!! WHAT A MOMENT!!!!!!!!!!!!! MORE MOMENTOUSLY: WHAT A CHAPTER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

this is EASILY my favourite chapter so far. EASILY. everything about this was peak offal. the relationships. the dynamics. the dialogue. the vibes. the Grossness. the fighting. the EVERYTHING. this is some other level and its BITCHIN. PEAK. that said im now very tired. im going to have a cup of tea and Consider Things for a few hours. brb.

[eorzeanharmony]

Mnemon - Memory

Character: Aethelric Firesoul

The sun sat low on the horizon, its dying rays painting the jagged mesas of western Thanalan in fiery oranges and rich violet. The vista was striking, and the solitary figure making its way down one of the myriad dry wadis sunk into the heat-scorched landscape still had it in his heart to appreciate it, however many times he saw it. The desert was harsh and unforgiving; even without its myriad dangers the land itself would devour an unwary traveler like the jackals that stalked its rocky expanse… yet like such predators, it retained a fierce beauty.

It bespoke the traveler’s relaxed frame of mind, though, that he took any time at all to look at the mountains for their glory at sunset. This was no mission of blood and vengeance, but rather of succor. The large satchel slung across Aethelric’s broad, darkly-tanned shoulders contained not weaponry but foodstuffs and first aid supplies, along with a few small luxuries… spices, tea, hard candies. Simple things, but precious, out here in the wastes. The scarred warrior’s yellow gaze also scanned the cliffs looking for the thin thread of smoke that marked his destination… the cooking fires of a small Ala Mhigan encampment tucked into a series of caves up in the foothills. Usually it was visible by now, but the lack of the thin white plume against the cliffside earned a frown and a slight hastening of his steps.

It was dusk by the time he reached the path up to the caves, and as he drew near, he could see the wide entrance of the main camp black against the paler backdrop of the cliff. But it was wrong… where were the fires, the bustle of lank bodies lit by their light, the sounds of song, chatter, and occasional laughter. The cave’s entrance lay dark and still, as devoid of life as it was when the encampment arrived. Years of experience had taught Aethelric the value of caution, however, and rather than charging up the scree toward the cave, he unshouldered his pack and loosened his sword in its sheath before cautiously approaching from an oblique angle amongst the rocks.

His boots moved almost soundlessly over sand and stone, a surety of step learned over two decades in this blasted waste. Once close, he could see the cookfires… or what was left of them. The ones on the periphery were still intact, albeit dark and still, while the ones nearest the entrance were toppled and scattered. As he tried to gain a better look without exposing himself, he found his footing suddenly uneven, the surface he expected to be solid proving soft and yielding… and not anything that a man should find under his boot. Recoiling with a near soundless hiss, he turned his attention downward to the darkness between the boulders… the dying sun now too low to lend much visibility to the hollows between boulders. But what he’d mistaken for dark stone proved to be none other than a body, toppled limp and unmoving in between the rocks. Scarred fingers found no warmth, though now that he’d ceased travel, he found the air already alive with the soft susurration of syrphids…always the first to feast after a battle. Straining against the darkness, and now that he sought them out with forethought, he could now just barely make out the uneven darkness to one side of the path…not just one body, but dozens, simply thrown down the scree hill into a rough pile.

Aethelric turned his gaze back to the mouth of the cave…where, as he squinted into the darkness, a dim light was still visible, deep within. Stifling a low growl, he shifted his position and stalked toward the cave, yet still without rushing, only sliding his scimitar out of its sheath and weighing it silently in his hand.

A moment was spent at the entrance, crouched down by the stones to one side. Within, perhaps twenty fulm down the passage, lay another pile of what were obviously corpses. Unlike those outside, however, these appeared to have been arranged with some care and what looked like a tarp draped over them… catlike, Aethelric stalked over to them to carefully pull back the corner.

What met his wolf’s gaze brought forth a snarl, unbidden and louder than he’d intended… but even he was unable to stifle the rage building in his heart. Every one of the neatly arranged corpses wore a black and red uniform all too familiar to him and one that raised bile in his throat. All of them also looked to have died from sword wounds… which brought him some small, cold comfort. Letting the tarp fall again, he turned and stalked toward the back of the cave and that dim firefly glow. No longer does he skulk from shadow to shadow… this was a march toward an intended goal, and one intended to result in one very clearly defined outcome.

As he reached the main cavern, the first thing the light beyond outlined was the massive, metallic frame of a Garlean Reaper unit. Aethelric had certainly seen such monstrosities in the past, but never this close, and never this inert. The metallic nightmare simply stood with its back to the entrance and the main chassis canted down to presumably allow its driver to disembark; a silent sculpture in iron death. Beyond lay a small camp… apparently cobbled together out of the remains of the residents’ things, a few crates, an Imperial sleeping roll, and… the sickness rose in his soul again… a box containing the precious items the bedroll’s owner had scavenged from the corpses of the fallen Ala Mhigans. On one of the crates, the source of the glow… no honest fire, but some strange light-emitting device. Of the owner, there was no sign. Cursing his luck under his breath, Aethelric leaned down to pick up the box when he heard an ominous click behind him and froze.

“Well well, what have we here. Seems like I missed one…” The voice was gratingly cheerful, the mocking amusement of someone content in the knowledge he holds all the cards. “Most of you grubby bastards fight like demons, for what good it did you. Where were you, hiding behind one of the sorry excuses for trees they have around here and trying not to piss in your armor?”

Gritting his teeth, Aethelric set the box back down again, but as he started to turn, a shot ripped past his ribs so closely he felt the heat of its passage. “Ah ah. Why don’t you just drop that weed chopper you’re holding. We don’t want any…accidents, heh.” With obvious reluctance, Aethelric stuck the point of his scimitar into the sand beside the box and slowly turned around to face his opponent. With the light behind him, the identity of the Garlean man was unmistakeable… and, now that he looked at him, not in the best of condition. His uniform was ragged in places, he’d lost his helm somewhere, and there was a sunken, desperate look in the man’s eyes that he recognized … How long had these men -been- out here? Now that he could see it, the reaper likewise looked in rough shape, its once-glossy black paint now sandblasted and chipped, rust creeping around every joint and gasket.

“… ‘We?’ Aethelric graveled, thinly smiling. “It seems there is only one of you now… the rest gone to sate Rhalgr’s thirst for vengeance, if I am any judge.” Wolf-eyes narrowed, “Even if you kill me… the desert herself will claim you; you cannot eat firesand or steel. Though I suppose you jackals are not above devouring the slain,” he adds, spitting on the bloodstained sand between them. For all his bravado, though…the Ala Mhigan sought desperately for a way out of the deadlock, but…truth was, he was on the wrong end of a Garlean carbine with a desperate man on the other. Silently, in the back of his mind, he offered a prayer…not to the Destroyer, but to Althyk… if there was ever a time where he needed an unexpected new path forward, this would be it. But…as ever… nothing answered him.

“SILENCE!” The carbine in the Garlean’s hands was shaking slightly, for all that this wasn’t particularly comforting to his target. “… Heh. Actually.. I might have a use for you after all. You desert rats know where the water is, don’t you? Eheh..” The ragged edges of his uniform fluttered in a gust of wind from the entrance. Just for a moment, the soldier glanced back over his shoulder, but then whipped his attention back forward again as Aethelric shifted his weight. “HALT! You’ll do as I say! Or you’ll end up like your filthy cousins outside!” What was intended to be a command cracked as it was given… and yet there didn’t seem to be any cause for it that the Ala Mhigan could see. A flicker of motion caught his eye, though, and he glanced up to the top of the silent reaper, just for a moment. There, above the thing’s dormant hulk drifted a small blue ball of light. A plasmid… not uncommon out in the wastes where the desert had claimed a soul or ten. The Garlean didn’t seem aware of it.

Aelthelric turned his attention back to the man, smiling thinly. “You will find nothing out here but your end, and your bones will bleach under Azemya’s unblinking gaze,” he growls quietly. “Your people know only how to take, and the wages of theft are death.” The longer he could keep him talking, the longer he had to contemplate ways to escape his situation. In fact, he was just about to ready another barb, when his attention was drawn back to the reaper again. There were half a dozen lazily swirling lights above it now… more than he’d seen anywhere other than late at night in the lichyard. With effort, he dragged his attention back to the soldier… and stared. Not at him, but past him. Out in the gloom of the desert night hung more small blue lights than he could count, swirling outside the cave’s opening like constellations fallen to earth. Slowly, they drifted into the cave mouth and gathered above the silent magitek machine with an inexorable deliberation. The Garlean mistook his vague shock and confusion for fear and lowered his weapon slightly. “Heh, you lot really are cowards, aren’t you. Not much better than those lizard things… no wonder you like it out in this dusty hell pit so much…” It was almost like the man needed to talk, as if the sound of his voice alone was enough to comfort his obviously frayed nerves. Aethelric ignored him, staring past him and slightly upward.

By now, the cluster of plasmid motes had become a cloud, swirling amongst themselves like a syrphid swarm, until one broke off and sank through the console of the stilled mechanical beast. Then…another, and another… until the last vanished beneath the reaper’s scarred hull. And, for a moment, there was only dark silence.

Then, abruptly, yet still without sound, blue fire erupted between the machine’s armor plates, racing from joint to joint like flame following a miner’s fuse, until every seam and port was limned in blue lichfire. And -still- the rambling soldier remained unaware… until the machine gave a small lurch, accompanied by a screech of corroded steel on steel.

With a small cry, the soldier pivoted immediately, bringing his weapon to bear on whatever new assailant had snuck up behind him, only to see… initially ‘nothing’, until he registered the eerie glow around the towering machine. Both he and his would-be captive watched in equal shock as the thing rose up on its long legs, tongues of luminous blue smoke leaking from every joint, and with another scream of tortured metal, took a step forward, the sound of its footfall like the crash of a coffin lid.

A terrified shriek ripped from the Garlean’s throat as he snapped, bringing up his carbine to spray bullets wildly against his own machine’s armored hull. Aethelric threw himself to the sand, covering his head in order to avoid the ricochets. The bullets from the light arm simply dug shallow scores in the reaper’s plating as it lurched forward another step… it moved like a puppet with broken strings; jerky and uneven yet with a terrifying strangeness to it that belied the simple action of servo and motor, the only noise it made the wailing howl of rusting steel on steel.

It took only bare seconds for the Garlean to empty his magazine, leaving only ringing in the ears from the report to counter the ominous movement of the machine. That and the mindless click-click-click-click-click of the man’s finger on the trigger of his now useless weapon.

And then, with a long, slow screech that echoed loudly in the cavern… a screech that sounded more like screams than simple mechanics should ever do…. the great black beast simply toppled forward like a falling tree and lay still. As it fell, there was a dull, unpleasantly wet crunch, and the abrupt cessation of sound.

Aethelric laid there, face down in the silent sands, for several moments… possibly an eternity, possibly only a handful of seconds, before slowly pushing himself to his feet. The only thing left visible of the soldier under the collapsed machina’s bulk was a hand outstretched, still grasping the carbine. The Ala Mhigan went to go pull it away but then hesitated, glancing back up at the reaper and taking a step backward. Luminous blue smoke still curled from it, but even now it was fading, leaving only a silent black hulk crumpled on the sand. After awhile, he reached out and lightly touched it before quickly withdrawing his hand and going to collect his sword and the box of valuables. He would return them to those families he could track down.

For now, though, he had a pyre to build.

[dellebecque]

Prompt #5: Locked Away

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast​

Who: WoL!Aden and Fray When: On the long boat ride to Kugane How: M, huge TW for graphic violence and suicidal ideation.  I cannot stress this warning enough. What: The Vault is not merely a place in Ishgard, not any more.This other Vault is Fray's sacred duty to keep. Where: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20487653/chapters/48744020

When his spear shattered on the armor of a knight he reached out with his free hand and jabbed gauntleted fingers into a weak joint of plate, ripped the man’s gorget free and rammed the broken spearhaft into his throat. More came while the knight collapsed in a cacophony of hideously wet choking noises. Aden tore the fallen knight’s sword from his hands, nearly as tall as Aden himself, charging forward to meet them with a bestial growl.

He profaned a path in flesh through holy halls, heavy boots ringing on stone between singing swings of steel and dying cries. That cacophony made music , music the song within him surged to answer, the memory of another melody weaving throughout. Blood soaked in through the joints of his armor, mixed with sweat and soaked his skin. But it wasn’t enough. Even as a vicious strike caved in a knight’s armor into their flesh, down to bone , it wasn’t enough. But gods , that’d felt good , the resistance behind that strike in his arms, the burn in all his muscles from putting that much weight behind a weapon. A soft, lascivious sound interrupted that hungry growl, tongue darting out to lick the blood from his lips.

He reached the very height of the building but for her spires, fighting his way through the staging ground here, and the sword finally broke, blade shattering under the strain of nearly cleaving a priest in half. Aden reeled on the last knight and recognized him. Even weaponless he broke into a trot, grinning, tail lashing sinuously behind him. Oh, yes , to have a chance to kill him again --the Twelve were kind. Aden shifted his weight, redirected his momentum as as Zephirin, untransformed, charged to meet him and swung. He only got enough height to kick off the flat of the blade mid-swing, and on the way down rammed his armored elbow into Zephirin’s face. Bone crunched, rather specific bone, and with the knight reeling from the blow, bloodied, it was a simple matter to hook gauntleted fingers into his armor to pull him down to the right height, to strike with the heel of his palm and ram the bone home. The knight went limp in his hands, face barely recognizable.

Applause rang out, clear and slow, and the sound of heavy boots on stone in a familiar gait. Aden’s head shot up, eyes feverish and alert, ears canted towards the sound.

“Good job.” The voice sounded so like his own, and his gaze met mismatched eyes, one green, one amber. Aden growled , but the shade gave him a wicked little grin. It wore blackened drachenmail in the more modern style he’d eschewed as still too damn fiddly , but seeing it on the shade he realized it suited him. “I think that’s every priest in Ishgard. Every knight. Everyone who ever supported Thordan.”

The weight in his hands shifted, and Aden looked down to see he held not Zephirin by the leading edge of his pauldrons, but Edmont by his coat lapels, bloody and broken. He dropped the body with an alarmed sound, sharp in his throat, but the illusion remained. The body hit the stone and bounced with a crack of bone. “What the fuck ,” Aden breathed, unable to tear his eyes from the corpse.

“Well, even your allies and family were part of the system before you came here. They all supported it. Helped it run. Patriots, the lot of them.” At the bottom of the stairs his shade stopped, standing at parade rest. “We can’t kill everyone who contributed to his death without killing them, too. But you already know that, somewhere inside, or we wouldn’t be here.” His shade’s ears canted forward in a friendly way. “Feel better now?”

“Why the fuck are you here?” Aden growled, reaching down for Zephirin’s sword--he got Edmont’s cane instead, looked down and saw a little blood and tiny shards of bone spattered on the head of it. He dropped it, swallowing heavily, and looked back up at his shade.

“They’re right to compare you to a dragon, you know.” His shade began circling the staging area, arms still clasped behind his back. “In power you are unmatched . Beyond mortal ken. And with each passing day you grow, boundless . Perhaps one day that little trick you’ve learned will rival even the celestial brood,” he brought one arm forward, panning his outstretched hand across open air, “commanding the receptive hearts of even normal spoken in your own emulation of dragonsong. Oh, then how terrible your wrath. We shudder to consider it.” That hand returned to his back, and as he continued around Aden saw the priests and knights here had also been replaced--there lie Artoirel, Emmanellain, Honoroit, with wounds he remembered dealing. “Yes, you’re the veritable long-lost-son of Midgarsormr, but flesh and blood rather than scale and aether. Or is it Nidhogg ?”

“You’re different from last time,” Aden challenged, trying to claw his way back to control of the situation. If his shade meant to ignore him, he could play the same game, challenge it in the same way. His ears flicked.

“From last time , no.” The shade’s ears flicked, too, tail twitching in a familiar gesture of calculated interest. “From before , yes. When first we met, I was… incomplete. Fading. A memory burned into the soulstone. Fray, I think?” Mismatched eyes glanced down, remembering, and Aden almost felt himself making the same expression. “ Fray . We like that. It suits your battle-lust. So perhaps I’ll keep his name. Honor his memory.” The shade passed by Aymeric and Lucia, sprawled as if one had tried to shield the other, then Estinien, among a dozen other bodies he recognized. “But we’re not here to talk about me. We’re here for you .”

“If we’re here for me then fuck off .” A rumbling growl sounded under his voice, and his fingers ached for a weapon. “Unless you’re ready to go another round.”

Fray laughed, a dark, unamused sound. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? And after all, that’s why we’re here.” He returned to the base of the stairs and stopped, standing at parade rest once more and smirking at Aden. “You’ve already had your vengeance in the waking world, but it fixed nothing in your heart. Feels hollow , doesn’t it? You’re still cold and numb, and anger is better than the blackness waiting under that stone.” Aden snarled, starting forward, but Fray continued on. “You keep pushing yourself though your body is broken because you need the distraction. You can project your rage, your blame, onto whatever they’ve sicced you on this week. But none of it really satisfies . You know who you want it to be at the end of your spear.” Fray brought both hands forward and gestured for Aden to look down. He did, almost instinctively.

Aden’s heart stopped . Haurchefant lay before him, as he had in death--but the spear piercing him through was not Zephirin’s aetheric lance, but the spear of Light, glorious in both power and aspect. For a moment the bottom dropped out of-- everything , and Aden shook, a hairline fracture cracking across that cold stone where his heart should be. It’s not real , he told himself without conviction.

“We know who you really want to blame.”

It’s not real , he told himself, but it… may as well be. Haurchefant had died for him, but Aden could have done a hundred things to stop it, and he’d done nothing.

“We know you’re not just looking for someone to project onto.”

He’d done nothing . And suspected now as then that, perhaps, he couldn’t die. The blessing might not let him. Which meant Haurchefant had died for--

“We know you’re not just looking for a distraction.”

But it wasn’t just Haurchefant . Aden finally tore his gaze away, throat tightening. He knew now this wasn’t really the Vault, knew that he’d find those heavy stone doors behind Fray writ in his own hand with a couple dozen names he could no longer say aloud. Over the years he’d realized each and everyone one of them could have been saved, not a single one of them need be lost the way they had. The already chill air seemed to grow colder, tongues of frost licking across Aden’s armor and drawing fanciful patterns.

Still, he missed Haurchefant so fucking much . He missed having someone who could stand by his side in a fight, someone who knew him so well a glance or a gesture sufficed to communicate volumes of meaning. He missed having someone to go home to, someone who would soothe his hurts rather than merely see them healed. He missed having someone who saw him as a person rather than a hero. Someone he could be weak in front of without fear. Someone who would challenge his boundaries and draw him out of his shell. And-- gods , he was loathe to admit it, but he missed the intimacy , someone who would touch him without inflicting pain. But he couldn’t let anyone else close enough for any of that. He couldn’t live through the loss again.

Aden didn’t want to live through it the first time.

“Harken unto me, Aden Dellebecque, Weapon of Light .” His head snapped up, gazing on Fray who stood at parade rest again, a more perfect reflection of him with each passing moment. “We made a bargain. And I will keep it. Mark it well: you may keep those who love you distant, and not let them know that you feel for them in return. I will help you in this, and I will bear the burdens of your heart when they are too much, just as I bear the burdens of your body. But you must open these doors one day and face what lies beyond. And soon . The strain is… damaging us.”

“We both know what’ll happen if I do,” Aden whispered. “And everyone’s….”

“Counting on you,” Fray said. “I know.” He blinked slowly at Aden. “I know, heart of my heart. Even with me to bear the worst, it hurts more than any agony of the flesh. But one day you must. And perhaps by then….”

Aden shook his head. “It’s all I have left. I can’t forget him--any of them--enough to… face it safely .”

“Then you must find hands that can heal you of this wound.” Fray said darkly. “As I told you before. We have no other viable option. The coward’s way is unacceptable. Seeking death on your enemy’s blade is unacceptable.” Fray held out a hand, and a blade of ice formed in it, tall as he was. “Until then.” He walked back up to the doors, squaring himself before them, and planted the sword point down, both hands on the hilt like the statues that stood sentinel in Foundation.

Aden surfaced from restless darkness to find himself curled into a tight, aching ball on his hard, small bunk aboard the Misery , thin blanket wrapped tight around him and a book open on its face next to his head. He didn’t have it in him to cry, Fray saw to that--just felt numb and cold, and… tired . His ears strained for any sounds beyond the creak of the ship and the slosh of waves. Hearing nothing other than the normal working sounds of the crew, Aden started in on what breathing exercises he could manage without uncurling, and slowly drifted back to sleep.

Blessedly, his dreams were bloodless.

[revthepunchbear]

The Guardian

The silence was deafening. Where once there would have been the sounds of a forest alive with life, now… There was nothing. Except for the breeze. Which was of no comfort at this moment. On its winds came the odor of war, death, the Blight, burning fumes of goblin machines defiling a once pure land. Sitting in a tree was the form of a twisted owl. Snow white feathers with gnarled twisting horns of bone jutting from it’s head. Wicked sharp talons wrapped about a branch, holding the creature in place. Inky black hues overlooked the landscape, taking their time to scout the area. After a moment, the owl alights from the tree, spreading it’s wings to glide down low to the ground. As it flew through the wartorn forest, the sound of rushing water grew louder and louder. Suddenly the tree line ended and the owl burst from the forest, swooping out over a vortex of water churning in a basin below. The creature took time to ride the currents of the air, searching the water almost as if looking for prey. This calm gliding wasn’t to last long though. With a zip, an arrow flew past the creature and off into the forest. Onyx orbs jerked to the shore to find the source, revealing a lone orc taking pot shots at the owl. Pulling wings and feet in tight, the owl made itself like a missile, dive bombing towards the attacker. Arrows kept flying, even grazing the creature as the orc belted out a cacophony of laughter. Even as an arrow embedded itself in the owl’s left shoulder, it made no cries. Then, just before it would impact upon the orc, a shift occurred. No more was the owl but now the lithe and svelte form of a leather-clad kaldorei woman. Ghostly white hair whipped and trailed in the air behind her, a stark contrast to the black leathers she wore. Clawed fingers came up from her side to savagely rip at the orc man’s face as she barreled into him. The momentum and weight of her dive were enough to knock him to the ground as those clawed fingers began to lash with speed and ferocity.

Inky black hues stared with rage at the man, the moonlight reflected in them as Reveria brutally pummeled her foe. She didn’t have the advantage long though, the orc soon gave her a swift punch to the chest which knocked the wind right from her. Staggered, the orc had his chance to bellow and throw her down on her back, climbing atop her. He began to twist the arrow in her left shoulder causing her to howl in pain. A hand lashed out to pull her mask down, and he began to chortle with delight seeing such a beautiful face. Rev had no idea what he was saying in orchish but she wasn’t about to let him have his way with her. With a snarl of hatred, she wrapped her arms about the man’s neck, screaming through the pain before her fanged teeth found his throat. She clamped down and began to vice into his throat, kicking up with her feet to try and bowl him over. That would have worked if they hadn’t already been at the edge of the basin. They tumbled over the edge as her teeth broke the surface of his skin and the beast within began to viciously tear at his throat. They plummeted towards the water, the sound of a screaming orc and snarling kaldorei echoing off the cliffs. With an enormous splash, the pair fell into the water which soon sucked the under and swirled them away.

Reveria never let go, the taste of blood in her mouth fueling her rage and desire to kill. As they were buffeted by the current, the orc suddenly went limp. At almost the same time, the pair were deposited unceremoniously onto a ledge in an underground cavern. With a punch and a final snarl, Reveria ripped her teeth from the man’s throat, tearing it out completely. His already lifeless form sat there and bled as she huffed heaving breaths. A clawed hand shot out and dug in his throat, pulling a pool of blood out that she wiped across her face with a tremble of delight. Finally, she looked around with those inky hues, a sigh of relief leaving her. By some miracle, she’d ended up right where she wanted to be.

She stood, giving the corpse of the orc a solid kick before spitting on it. Moving to follow a passage deeper into the cavern, Reveria let her clawed fingers trail along the moss-covered walls. Already memories were flooding back to her of times she had been here. Memories of Faendris. Her Shan’do. She had no idea where he was now but she could feel that he wasn’t here. An image of herself shivering, naked, sitting on the stone floor as she tried desperately to call moss to her to form clothes came to mind. Another image, a gateway to the dream. The Nightmare. Her min’da. Tears. Yet happiness lingered too. Stars falling from the cavern roof, dancing of crimson and azure flame mixed with shadows and violet. The astral plane.

The reverie was broken though as she came to the place she was seeking. The entire reason she’d risked coming to Darkshore in the first place. Within the cavern was an alcove. Which didn’t mean much because it was huge in and of itself. In the center was a bowl with ash, not much else in the area aside from a bundle of herbs next to the bowl. Another sigh of relief as she knelt before the bowl taking up the herbs in a clawed hand and bringing them to her nose. Not the freshest but they would still work. Her lighter came out and lit the bundle aflame as she set it in the bowl. Inhaling deeply, the familiar smoke filled her with a sense of peace. Suddenly an ethereal roar could be heard as if a great beast had woken and was bellowing it’s displeasure. The sound of rumbling thunder was heard, the roar growing ever louder until… He was there.

Rev slowly looked up into the face of the beast she had summoned, a fanged grin growing wide on her lips. Staring back at her was an impossibly huge bear, it’s wet nose wiggling as it sniffed at her. The two stared at one another for a time, almost as if challenging each other. The massive brown bear finally leaped at Rev, bowling her over with soft growls. The druid began to giggle as the beasts tongue lashed out, licking all over her face. “Uschi! Stop it you goofball! Gross!” There wasn’t much she could do other than flail around and hope the bear stopped, which, after a time he did. Uschi pulled back, canting his head as he stared at Rev’s stomach before nudging it over and over. “What the fuck Uschi! Stop being weird!” The kaldorei finally wiggled her way free, leaping to her feet. Her arms came out and wrapped around the great bear's neck and she laid her head to his a moment.

“Uschi… I need you. I’m sorry it’s been so long since I’ve been back. I shouldn’t have left you.” The bear warbled a soft tone, nuzzling against her face as if to say ‘It’s alright, I understand.’ Rev pulled her head back, looking with her inky hues into the vibrant emerald of Uschi’s. “I’m going to bring you with me Uschi. It’s not safe for you here anymore. It’s not safe for me. And… -He- isn’t here anymore. Will you come with me? Will you help me? Help me sate my cravings? Help keep me… Myself? Show me to the dream more often?” The bear didn’t even hesitate before licking her several times, front arms coming out to snag her up in a bear hug as he sat back on his hindquarters. “Oof.” Was all she could manage as she was squeezed tight against the soft fur of her spirit beast. Her own arms went around him, well, more like just… Laid against him. He was far too huge for her to even attempt to wrap him up. After a time, the bear set her down and looked at her, almost solemnly.

His paw came up to rest against her face, an almost sorrowful tone rumbling out from the creature. Rev fought off tears and looked away, down, anywhere but at Uschi. “I know… I’m not the same. It’s why I need you… I died Uschi. I thought I could handle things on my own and… I couldn’t.” Her gaze wandered back up to the great bear’s and she gently pressed a kiss to his wet nose. “I’m still me. Just… Different. I promise.” Clawed fingers ran through the thick fur of Uschi’s face, the bear practically moaning with delight as her scratches got all the right spots. As they came to a stop she gazed into her guardian’s eyes. “It’s time.” The bear snorted and pressed his nose to her forehead before standing back up on all fours.

Reveria limbered herself up, hopping in place and shaking her hands to loosen them up. Finally, she stood still before the great bear, bowing her head to the beast. He returned the gesture before lunging forward a step. He began to bellow a roar that might have deafened anyone else but Reveria was ready. She lunged herself forward as well, screaming back at Uschi. Slowly as the two raged at each other, Reveria began to lift into the air, and Uschi began to grow immaterial. Swirls of green energy flowed from the great bear to the druid, somehow neither one running out of breath to continue their shows of might. Her guardian grew fainter and fainter with each passing moment until with a final burst of emerald energy, he vanished completely. Reveria fell from the air, landing gracefully in a squat on the floor with her eyes closed.

Standing slowly, flexing as she did, the druid could feel the might of her guardian within her, his ethereal shadow forming around her like an avatar until she opened her jet black hues. ‘It’s done Uschi. You’ll be safe. I promise.’ She thought to herself. Now began the long journey back to Dead Sun, the first step… leaving this cavern and escaping from Horde territory. With a crack of her neck, Reveria set off, feeling safer already with Uschi in tow.

[valdim-heyworth]

Hunting Samuel Teague - Karazhan Conclusion

Part 1 | Part 2

In relation to: Goodnight Rian, Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Wake Up Rian

Blessedly, outside the town of Strahnbrad, Theron Valteric had managed to help Valdim Heyworth to his feet. He'd helped get him moving again, made easier as the much larger beast shifted into his human form. Together, they rested only long enough to share information, and give Valdim's potion time to take effect.

Rian had fainted. She was in a coma. What he'd feared was all coming to pass, now, and he was moving too slowly to prevent it. Together, as family, the two gathered their things and journeyed to Karazhan.

The tower was just as impressive, just as intimidating as his first visit here, what felt like a lifetime ago. The rusted iron portcullis lifted with surprising ease, signifying that the rust had already been broken once recently - very recently. The whole structure reeked of dark magics, still.

Cautiously, the two magic-users entered, Valdim cursing under his breath, quietly, "Ligh'... I forgot what a place this is..." He shakes his head, “It still gives me chills.” Theron lofted his gaze around, "Now, yeah.. but it'd been a sight before the cobwebs." Came his muffled tone from behind his mask.

Valdim nods, looking over the dust and cobwebs. "It was, Theron. It was..." His wolf-eyes looked over the expanse before him. "Some gall, using Karazhan..." Theron glanced back towards the Worgen “Fitting really, with the Teague's being friends of the Guardian.”

“...Wonderful. I may 'ave known'im. 'Ow did Rian look, Theron?”

Theron canted his head this way and that. "Pale... I'd assumed it was from the trouble she had with delivery. Maybe I was wrong." He hadn't seen the memories from Pyrewood, hadn't realized the same conclusions that Valdim had. “I doubt it. Samuel Teague is close. An' he 'as your mother.”

Theron quickly spoke up, as they wandered through the seemingly endless halls of Karazhan. “When she fell..”

Valdim blinked, only half hearing his words, “Yes, Theron?”

Theron shook his head, "Rian, She's the strong one. For her to not respond.." He huffed a sigh and picked up his pace. Together they moved faster, Theron's boots creating a steady cadence upon the stone floor, Valdim's claws scratching upon it. “We'll stop 'im… Ligh'...I forgot 'ow big this place was.

Theron smirked, likely playing smart to distract himself from the reality of what they faced, “Ah, you've been places bigger than this.” They turned a corner, almost running now. A pile of skeletons and corpses long picked over by scavengers littered the base of the rickety stairwell.

Valdim frowned, “Not many,” he eyed the bones tightening his grip on his staff. He snarled, his voice like gravel. "I jus… ' I hope we're not too late ---”

“You've heard about the Ball? The massacre of the nobles? Think since the Teagues were here and lost, their blood in the halls would offer more to him?”

Valdim's eyes widened at the thought. It seemed like more than leylines were at play here. Samuel Teague had chosen this spot carefully. “Per'aps..." The Library grew ever nearer, even old memories of this tower had led him to believe as much. The pair of adventurers hurried, spurred by their desires to resolve this, finally.

Theron's eyes looked over the faded and cracked paintings along the wall. “Shouldn't be too much farther.” The Worgen paused, freezing for a moment upon entering the once-forgotten library.  His fierce eyes look around, noting ancient tomes along musty bookshelves, wary, feeling a strange magic in this place.

Theron took in the library and its many tiers, various levels of elevation, seemingly endless in scope. "I... it's all a puzzle.." He muttered with frustration. Feeling the energy of the space, Theron motioned his hands over his collected mana-gems and loosed his own staff in preparation for anything to come.

A distant echo of a voice cried out, Valdim recognized from the memories, muddled by distance and the faint crying of a woman, “Where was your Light then…!? What good have you done, but fail and betray your family and vows? You will be released from your sin and born anew.”

Valdim snarled, feeling a rage fill him, the curse of Worgen. He holds his staff upward, blinking closer to the sound, trying to stay hidden behind rows of books. Simultaneously, Theron whispered a power word, fading to nothing more than a pale glimmer, gripping his own staff as he moved swiftly at Valdim's side through the bookcases, until they reached the stairs. It was as they reached the edge of the large cluttered study, they found their hunt had finally paid off.

Two large lumbering ghouls worked steadily, appearing nearly whole. One remained near a fireplace, as the other tinkering with supplies at the table. Between the two stood Samuel. Finally. His flesh only slightly rotted, appearing nearly fully restored. A foul profane chant beckoned from his lips, echoing now throughout the study. Laid before him was a woman, paled and grey, showing signs similar to the corpses found in Strahnbrad. Her wrists and ankles terribly bound as her head lazily lulled in protest to the Forsaken Lord's work.

Valdim cursed under his breath, furious at the man before him. His eyes narrowed, knowing who the woman was upon the table, immediately. Although they were so far separated, the sound of her pain filled him with rage. The Arcanist whispered towards Theron, "Get close. Stop th' ritual. I'll be a distraction." He suddenly swung from behind the shelf, an arcane blast launching towards Samuel Teague, hoping to make an impact.

"Samuel. This 'as gone on long enough."

Theron pressed forward not needing to be told twice. Reflex taking over, the younger mage suddenly pulled from where he stood to hide behind a closer bookshelf, as Valdim moved for his distraction.

Lord Samuel Teague glimpsed up from his chanting. A wry smirk pulling at his lips as the arcane blast collided and hissed against the barrier unseen. The forsaken offering a snide dip of his head continuing with the ritual.

The Worgen growled at that. He spinning his staff in the air again, summoning up his arcane reserves. "Perhaps y'didn' 'ear me, Sammy. I said this ends 'ere!" Another eruption of force, cracking loud against the Forsaken's barrier, carrying more force, and power than Lord Teague had accounted for. It all came down like shattering of glass. An angered sneer curled at the edge of his nose as he gave an upward nod.

Lady Elizabeth Valeric 's lips pulled into a tired smile. Her hidden messages had worked, her help had arrived. "You know.." Were the words that came from quivered lips. Who she was speaking to was uncertain.

Samuel Teague was close to finishing his spell work and refused to let it fail. The ghoul by the fire turned towards Valdim, pulling two hot pokers from the fireplace. Valdim blinked to the side, a shimmer of light here he once was. He frowned, muttering words of Arcane might, trying to counterspell the terrible Forsaken. Theron, seizing the moment, launched his own bolts of power, but neither seemed to affect the monster before them.

The woman on the table, Elizabeth, gasped and arched with a small cry, the shift in intensity of the spell work causing great pain.  Her beautiful auburn locks began slipping to grey.

There wasn't enough time! 

The Worgen considered another plan, embracing the beast inside him, instead. He growled, suddenly launching himself at Samuel, wicked claws outstretched. Valdim took the most direct path, charging the Necromancer, the Ghoul plunging two hot fire pokers into his side, as he surged past.

Samuel held fast against the assault, catching the beasts wrists. His chanting halted but the power of the spell held, waiting for the final words. "Mutt..." The man sneered and laughed, "Should have stayed away like a good dog!"

Theron rushed to the table where his mother lay as Valdim went for Samuel. The younger mage reaching for a stone to summon forth a barrier of his own. His gaze turned to Val with a nod as he prayed his own barrier would hold better than the forsaken Lord's had.

Valdim now felt the pain of the hot poker in his side, having burned terribly, piercing the thick flesh. That wound and the one from Strahnbrad taxed him. There was --- another method to silence him, end the ritual, and times were desperate. Baring his great teeth, the Worgen went for Samuel's neck, hoping to rip out the undead flesh. But teeth snapped just out of reach.

Samuel sneered at the Worgen, powerfully, beginning to laugh darkly as he was held, a rolling chuckle filled with darkness. Yet, the arrogance soon fell from his face as he felt his spell work falter -- interrupted somehow.

"What did you do?!"

(This happens simultaneously with the conclusion of this. https://rian-kestavin.tumblr.com/post/173202075261/good-night-rian-part-3 )

Light showered the study brilliantly and breaking away the shadow's hold upon this place. The weight of the dark magic shifting to the light. Theron flinched in the flash, raising an arm to cover his gaze as he held to the barrier around him and his mother's form.

Valdim had felt a weakness, a fatigue coming over him. He wounds were too much - but suddenly that light pouring through the room began to heal him, returning lost strength. Like a creature gone mad, Valdim started grinning, murmuring arcane words. His once-tired body began to glow with shimmering purples and blues, and arcane eruption exploding from his form.

Samuel now staggered in the Worgen's arms, the arcane burns beginning to tear at freshly restored flesh. The combination of blows brought the Forsaken lord to his knees. A grin pulled at his lips, torn away, "You're too late, you know.." He gasped out. "I die and you gain nothing, Dog." The ghouls stumbled back, hot pokers ringing against the stone as the undead creatures collapsed from the blast.

Valdim snarled, pulling back his lips, revealing his terrifying maw. He spoke quietly, the words somehow carrying weight in the room. "I gain satisfaction." Wicked claws moved to grasp upon Samuel's neck, tearing into the flesh, feeling the soft meat split between his fingers.

Theron watched, the Lord's laughter soon fall silent, his body jolting to get free of the tearing claws.  He called out to Valdim, "The fire, Val! Finish this for good!" The younger mage gripped his staff working to hold back his own anger and hatred for the creature.

Valdim heard the words calling out from behind him, Theron, a voice of reason through the cloud of rage that he once so carefully controlled. The beast turned, throwing Samuel Teague's unliving corpse into the flames of the fireplace. The Arcanist, Valdim shrunk, his human form looking towards the heat with an insistence.

"Burn, Samuel Teague. You're long overdue." Valdim glances back at Theron, "Elizabeth?!"

The younger mage held his gaze to the burning and writhing Forsaken Lord. A blast of his final darkness billowed out in the heavy plumes. Souls he'd taken wailing to their freedom. Valdim turned back looking at the frail looking woman. Her life essence had been stolen - running on fumes now. There was a peacefulness that washed over her as she felt the spell-work cease. Stepping to her side, Theron's gaze looked her over with a pained expression.

"You can fix it, Val? Right?"

Valdim looks over the poor woman, noticing the peace on her features, a small frown on his lips. "I-I don' know. Maybe a priest. Per'aps..." He swiftly left her side, in a panic, moving back towards the book Samuel had been chanting from, frantically turning pages looking for some way to reverse the process.

Elizabeth Valteric moved her hand to hold Theron's as she met his gaze. "He kept his promise.." A slow smile found her lips. "Valdim?" She tried to sit up but found she hadn't the strength. "Theron give... give us a minute?" Came her tired voice.

Valdim flipped through pages with a continued panic, the fear swelling, unable to find anything, his heart racing in his chest, trying to find some way to undo what had been done. As she called out, his shoulders trembled, "No! Elizabeth. We can fix this---"

Theron blinked his glossy gaze, he freed his mask before leaning down and placing a kiss to the woman's brow.

"Val.. She wants to speak with you." he gave a gentle squeeze to her hand, "Hold on, Mum, yeah?"

He let his hands freeze, realizing the terrible weight of reality. The wizard turned slowly, walking over towards Elizabeth, shaking, now. Theron stepped back letting the two have their space. Valdim begins to speak, his words catching, meeting her eyes with tears. "I'm sorry..."

Elizabeth Valteric shook her head and reached a hand for his own. "Don't you dare." Her own eyes watered, "You saved them when I couldn't. I'm the one who should be sorry." Her green hues fell from his own as her regret pulled at her seeing this impossible man who hadn't a bit since the last she'd seen him so long ago.

Valdim places a hand against her cheek... So much to say. So much time missed. Except...

He reaches into a bag, retrieving a small glowing orb, placing it in her trembling hands, wrapping his own around her gaunt fingers. "I missed you." Vladim's eyes met her own, even at this moment, choosing the selfless option.

"These orbs store memories. You have..." He paused feeling emotion building,  "You have a granddaughter named Serenity. Share a memory with her. She deserves to know who you are." He swallows, teardrops falling from his eyes.

Elizabeth Valteric blinked away her own tears, she was well familiar with how the orb worked. She gave a small nod. "You're not getting.. getting out of this." She spoke stubbornly, causing the hint of a smile to cross Valdim's face before she offered the last memory.

Playing out in the orb, now, the image of Valdim Heyworth playing with two young twins near the fireplace in their home in Willow Grove. A younger Elizabeth had been in her office and came looking for a distraction - It wasn't long before she was on the floor playing too.

Laughter and happiness.

She'd known many wonderful times but these days with simple enjoyment were her favorite.

Valdim leans over and presses a kiss against her lips, briefly, knowing that these were truly their last moments. After all this time. "Goodnight, Elizabeth. You can rest now. Theron and Rian are safe. I loved you Elizabeth, I always did." He stepped away, slowly, knowing Theron deserved his moment.

Elizabeth Valteric 's hand trembled slowly as she dared return the kiss. "I love you, too." Offering her last smile to him before he stepped free and allowed Theron to take his place. Looking to Theron, "You watch over him." She tried to offer as her son took her hand. "Watch over our family. I.." She swallowed once, "I love you... all..." Her hand fell still and the life left her gaze. Elizabeth was truly free of her torment.

Theron gripped his mothers hand tight. He was about to respond as she drifted away. His eyes dripping quiet crystalline drops as Theron moved to his knees. He hadn't any words as he quietly sobbed, Valdim pulling him into a deep, silent, hug.

((That’s a wrap! Thanks so much to @rian-kestavin! Tagging @theron-valteric for completeness, and @householt because of Rian’s involvement. Thanks for reading so much! ))

[mortimer-the-lab-maniac]

Portrait in the Attic

((I just took some sleep aid and still cant sleep so lets write a short fiction until it kicks in! Woo!))

Distant grey fingers of stormy clouds blocked out the sun, and brought down rain on the little shop tucked away on Tin Street.

Outside the little shop, cozy under the outcrops of surrounding buildings shielding it from the storm, merchant vendors huddled under what little shelter was provided or propped up canvas to protect their wares.

The attitude of shoppers and merchants alike turned harsh with the storm with foul eyes and looks peered up. One face inside that little shop looked on with a placid stare, calm like the puddles that would remain hours later.

Mortimer, owner of the small shop of grim oddities, looked out through a small gable window. The rain never really made him sad, at least not directly.

It simply reminded him of home.

Here on Tin Street, he had carved out a good life. His morbid science projects, while still frowned upon, did not deter his day to day business as a mortician. Fast cities have fast memories. And so, as one or two went missing in a grand attempt to bring life back to the shell of mortality, well more often than not, no one noticed.

With some more of his... riotous... neighboras, he was surprised the Inforcers even cared.

Yet he longed for home on those rainy nights, as a sailor on shore soon longs for the sea. As he sat in his furnished gable, he thought about his original laboratory in his true home.

His thoughts carried him away while the rain pattered against the pane of his window.

Plink. Plink. Plink.

---

That night, in his lab, it had been raining as well. Nephalia rain was like no other; the percipitation came in almost a mist. That night it would swallow the rural stretch of land like an eager shroud.

At the time, Mort had no care or displeasure from the rain. It was yet to hold memories. But there was a soft sound amongst the silent mist. A faint rattle and click, then the long screech like a small animal in pain. The attic window.

It was so quiet that the necromancer would have never heard it if he was not prepared for it.

With a glove strapped hand, he reached for the double-pole knife switch and gave the mighty lever a pull.

The barn-turned-laboratory came to life with light and sound. Metal tubes and bizzare devices threw crazy arcs of electric jolts across the room. The ciling danced with flickering lights. And there they were, a shadowy figure pushed up against the wall, shocked both literally and figurativly by the turn of events.

"I saw you lurking at my window previously," Mort said, matter-of-factly. "Hiding would do you know good now."

The shadowy form descended from above. It did not merely fall, but came down with an agile grace that was inhuman.

The form was now bathed in the flickers of electric blue light.

He stood tall, just under a head more than Mortimer, and stood with wide shoulders on an athletic frame. The figure was as pale as fresh moonlight, but that was no trick of the illumination as two creepimg fangs betrayed his true nature.

"You speak..." the vampire said, stepping around the empty table at the center of the room. "You speak as if you are not afraid."

"In the notion of honesty, I am not. You may kill me, ot not. I may vanquish you or not. These are... absolutes."

Mortimer moved in a mirrored move of the interloper around the table, playing the game of cat and mouse.

The vampire let out a hearty laugh that chilled Mortimer's blood. "You are either very brave or very foolish. Let us find out which."

With a burst of inhuman speed, the monster was upon Mortimer. A strong hand, each nail long and sharp like feral claws, fastoned around his throat.

Mort let out a gasp, but could not draw the breath back. The vampire stepped forward, and all Mort could hear was his own heartbeat and all he could see were those teeth.

If the monster was breathing, he could not feel it despite their proximity. Mort then did something that perhaps saved his life.

Fingers loosened around his throat, and he fell to the earthen ground of the laboratory. The vampire looked at him, bit the playful smile was barely an upturned smirk now.

For in that quick moment, Mortimer had turned his neck and whispered his resignment. He knew some part of him must be afraid, but he had done his best to suppress it. Appareently he had found success.

The vampire leaned over him and whispered, "You are a curious specimen indeed, little necromancer. I shall be sure to haunt you again."

Again with inhuman speed the shadowy figure launched himself up, jumping from percarious platforms up to the attic window.

Mortimer, rubbing his bruised throat, looked up at the engress that the vampire had begun to open.

"Next time, human, you will not catch me by surprise. Or my name is not Lord Dumonte." His hearty, blood-chilling laugh rang out but was soon masked by a bolt of lightning outside, outstaging the faux-impersonations of its glory shining light in the lab.

Once the piercing light had faded, Mortomer noticed the pane was empty. The vampire was gone.

---

Two years later, Mortimer was perched on a chair he had put near the attic window and looked out at the rainy plains from his vantage point. He was not in his normal vestiments of laboratory gear, but was instead stretched back in a fine silken shirt and dress slacks.

He was obviously uncomfortable, but tried to supress it and hoped it didn't show. Across from him was Lord Dumone, who was furiously working with oil paints on a canvas.

"This is ridiculous", Mortimer said for not the first time that night.

"Hush," scolded the vampire. "You promised me a parting gift."

"Yes, but perhaps it did not cross my mind that it would take this many nights-"

"Hush. And your fidgeting again."

Mortimer grumbled and looked out the window again. He knew it was not Dumone he was upset with, nor the time for the painting. He was upset that he would soon depart.

A well earned source had warned him of a Cathar raid upon the area in search of the local necromancer whose work had recently been found.

Mortimer knew that he could not be here when the lab was discovered. It would set his work behind years, but that was not what caused him turmoil either.

He was caught off guard as two pale arms draped over his shoulders and rested on his chest. He felt the strong muscles of Dumone against his own frame and felt his weight gently press against him.

"Will you come back?"

"Of course. Will... will you be here."

"Of course."

The Lord's arms were cold, as they always were, but Mortimer felt a warmth in them. Thhat meeting two years ago had changed his life in a way he could not have expected.

Dumone had come back, and had surprised him. Not by his presence, but by his meaning. He was tricky like that.

He had appeared at that very same window, but had in tow a bottle of wine and a set of fresh glasses. Apparently the scrawny, gangly scientist had capured his attention. I mean, who would not be afraid of him.

Mort had resisted at first, but the lord had disarmed him with inqueries of his work. The vampire had dealings with other necro-alchemists before and held his own in the conversation. This had impressed Mortimer enough that one meetong had become two. One thing had lead to another and siddenly two yesrs had passed.

Mortimer rose from the chair and felt Dumone's lips against his. He felt as if he was no longer in control, as he moved his arms around the vampire's waist.

With his hesd tilting up, Dumone broke the kiss. As he began to speak, Mort lay his head against the lord's chest.

"Look here when you return. You will surely find me."

Mortimer nodded, and soon he was alone. The cold winds reached him through the open window. But the necromancer was already frozen by the void left in his lover's wake.

---

There is no good measurement of time when traveling as Walkers do. The whole multiverse spins and churns unbeknownst of their actions, no matter how furious or grand.

When Mortimer found his way home, he knew so much time had passed that there was no telling him what could be waiting for him at his home.

As he arrived at the old barn, he was delighted to see it still standing. To his amazement, despite his time out travelling to distant lands, his home had been untouched.

He ran through the door and shouted out, "Domone! Dumone, I have returned, and I have such great stories to tell you."

But nothing stirred. The barn was as still as a corpse.

'Perhaps he is out now and shall return', Mort thought. It was no secret that the lord had to satiate his gruesome thirsts.

As he made his way up the stairs to the attic, he had repeated that fabrication enough times to believe it. When Mort saw what lay in the center of the attic, his hope dropped.

In the center of the room was an oil painting, but not the one of homself that had been made in this very room. Instead, the leering, vampiric face of Lord Domone peered forward in his fine dress clothes.

On the back of the painting was written, "Eternally yours,

A. D."

In his mind, Mort knew he would wait days for Dumone to return. And in his mind he knew it didn't matter. The lord had said Mort would find him there, and by the way of omission, the vampire had not lied.

But that portrait would all that would be left.

Mort would hang it before he left, and he would visit it often, until it burnt down eith the lab a few years later.

---

There, back on Tin Street, Mortimer looked out the window. The clouds poured down rain and memories, memories of the portrait in the attic. But in that small shop the only noise heard were tears being shed and landing on the floor of the gable.

Plink. Plink. Plink.

[seductivebeaut]

#FeedingDemons With @FeralTormentor

Frankie Loveridge, SeductiveBeaut: {My hands pinned above my head, each blow to my face blurred my vision. This 20 stone man that had me pinned beneath him was kicking my ass, fighting with everything I had, squirming, trying to attempt to shake him off.. how the hell had this happened. I must admit I'd been drowning for a while. My focus off, the darker side of me becoming less satisfied with each hit I did. I could feel the downward spiral taking hold. The next blow that struck was harder than the others combined, or at least that's how it felt as his knuckles bounced off my swelling cheek. But luckily for me the heavy swing threw him off balance, his hand stupidly releasing my wrists to stop himself from falling but it gave me just enough time to slip my hand in my boot, gripping the blade. I think this was the fight or flight moment.. but the second he gave me that opportunity that dark side took a firm hold. Within the blink of an eye I had sliced his throat, his blood spurting over my face just before he collapsed on top of me. 8 days had past since my run in with the big guy. The swelling had gone down and only a yellow bruise remained. My split lip was almost healed too. Finally spotting the car from my position on top of the fire station, I lined up my sight as it pulled up outside the town hall. With a feather light touch, I settle my finger on the trigger. The door opens and my target steps out.. taking in a deep breath, I take my aim, releasing it slowly as I gently squeeze the trigger. This was my second hit of the day and I couldn't stop the satisfied smile that claimed my lips as I watched the target hit the floor. I quickly started to pack away and get on the road, I had another hit in the next town over. 25 days in and all the hits kinda blurred into one.. takedown after takedown. I was averaging around 8 kills a week, and I wanted more.. Viv had set up a steady stream of hits to me. This guy that stood in front of me screamed and begged as I brutally shoved my thumbs into his eyes. Feeling them give under the pressure. Pulling them out wiping the goo on my jeans before I reach for my gun and shoot him between the eyes.. or not anymore.. As his body hit the floor the silence that remained was deafening. I stood over his now lifeless body for a moment.. wondering how long this could go on for.. if i was honest.. I was nowhere near ready to stop.} Stefan Salvatore, FeralTormentor: [If there was one thing I had learned over the expanse of my lifetime then it's that Mystic Falls -- is too small, especially when the flip has been switched. Far too many pesky humans sticking their nose in other people's business, eager to reconnect me with humanity. Buzzkill the lot of them. With my latest dance with the devil, I left town. I'd feed the hunger within me, my demons were inevitable. The only thing there was to do was to give into them. For months I drifted from to town, taking what I wanted, who I wanted. Killing on nothing but a whim. What did I care for the human condition? They were born screaming and I would ensure they would die screaming too. Covering my tracks at times, only to prevent someone from my past tracking my movements. The past was done with, I had no use for any of them anymore. Nights were spent in a blood and liquor induced haze. If the victim drank just the right amount then I'd have the pleasure of tasting it myself while I mercilessly fed. Nobo kills were so artfully pre-planned, I was a hunter, enslaved to my unwavering desire for blood. Drawing the pad of a thumb across my blood stained lower lip, gathering up the last droplets to savour the thrill of my latest kill. Booted feet shuffled silently across the floor, leaving the girls remains in the alley, she had torn just like paper, for some poor soul to find when dawn broke. Each step became more purposeful, there was a name to add to a wall. No sense in hunting any longer, even the stragglers would be fucks up in bed by now. The silence of the night broken by the sound of a struggle, lips pulling back to reveal a sly grin. It seemed there was still fun to be had. Scaling the fire escape of the nearest building, I followed the sound of the struggle, what better way to view a fight than from higher ground. The night sky was clear, leaving the stars overhead visible to all, such a clear night brought a chill to the air, not that such a thing bothered myself. Open palms pressed against the roofs edge, an emerald gaze falling to the blonde bellow, battling a guy who’s stature easily towered over her own. Nasal passengers filled with the scent of blood, his or hers? I didn't know. I didn't care, my only interest here laid at the feet of the victor. Blood filled with adrenaline… Hmm, now that always went down nicely. As the two man war raged on below it was becoming difficult not to appreciate the brutality of the blonde. It spoke to the darkness I held within. A darkness that until now had thrived alone. Thumbs removed the man's ability to see before a single shot rang out, sending him straight to hell. If I was to act on my hunger then now would be the time. Feet however refused to move, to kill such a dark beauty would be a crime, especially when there was fun to be had. Company was something I had lacked for a long time, not yet ready to introduce myself, I tailed the blonde first from the roof and then from the shadows below. I wanted to see just how dark she was willing to go] Frankie Loveridge, SeductiveBeaut: {I finally move, reaching to grab the collar of my latest victim's shirt. I drag his body a few yards and an odd feel creeps in. Releasing his collar. I allow my gaze to scan my surrounding briefly. My bottom lip juts out as I shrug a single shoulder.} You're losing it Frankie. {Securing my grip in this guy's clothing once again I drag the dead weight to my Truck. I'd put the Aston Martin in storage in Ohio I think. It was not practical so I got something that fit a little better. Dropping the tailgate and pulling back the cover. I fight with a bag of muscle and bone until he is in position. Shutting it all back up I jump in the truck and head to the little cabin I intended to crash at, it was literally 15 minutes away. Grabbing a dusty glass off the side I pour myself a large whiskey. Tilting the glass and it's contents down my throat in a couple of gulps. I set the glass on the sable top and hissed, shaking my head as the burn warmed me. Walking towards the door, I pick up a set of overalls and a hacksaw before heading out to the truck. I pause on the dilapidated porch and slide each leg into the overalls and push my arms through the sleeves. Taking the 3 steps off the porch I open the back of the truck and drag the guy off watching as his body slumps against the ground. With the same process, I drag him out back to a tin shack of a garage. After an hour this guy was limbless and I was beat, all I needed to do now was toss the parts onto a fire and then I could pass out before another day of hits. But first the fire. I rub my forehead with the back of my hand and head out, It shouldn't take too long seen as I was smack bang in the middle of small woodlands.} Stefan Salvatore, FeralTormentor: [Seeing the blonde drag the lifeless corpse along behind her was entertaining, clearly she cared for the clean up. Why else go to all that effort. As her svelte physique turned back I stepped further into the shadows where no human vision would ever pick up upon my presence. The tricky part came when she made a beeline for a truck, my own mode of transport a few blocks away, parked outside the place I had claimed as my latest place of residence. A darkened gaze swept out, weighing up my options, finally settling on one of the run down vehicles beside the curb. It would have to do. I waited until the truck and the mysterious blonde was nothing but tail lights before stepping out of the shadows and proceeding to break into the car. The task in itself was simple enough and hot wiring the engine had become child's play for me a long time ago. Tailing the blonde at a safe distance, if she saw me now then the plan I was beginning to build up in my mind would never see it's why to fruition. Pulling the car into one of the hedges at the side of the road I stepped out, deciding it was better to go the rest of the way on foot. Booted feet met the ground silently, shoulders hunched forward while attempting to make myself as inconspicuous as I possibly could. Thick brows rose in mild surprise as I drew up to an old cabin, I wouldn't have pegged the woman as the cabin type] What other secrets are you hiding? [Mumbling to myself. I'd reached the cabin just in time to see the woman drag the body around back. Jogging forward to catch up I found an old building around back. Unable to slip inside without making myself known there was little else for me to do, other than settle outside and listen to what was happening within. Being no stranger to the removal of limbs, although my victims tended to still be alive at this point, it didn't take me long to piece together exactly what was going on. Lips lifted into a sly smile, arms rising to fold at my chest following the approach of footsteps. The door swung outwards, hiding my broad frame from sight. The scent of blood once again making nasal passages its home] Tsk, who's been naughty. [Tone low and husky as the blonde moved past without noticing me. Hikes a brow, my head canting to one side while I await her reaction. My hearing focused in upon her heartbeat. The last thing she would be expecting would be company and mine was sure to be unwelcomed] Frankie Loveridge, SeductiveBeaut: {I made a b-line for the outskirts of the woodland. Only to freeze in place as the low tone meets my ears. My hand slowly moves behind me as I force myself turn towards the voice.} You have no Idea. {My gaze scanning the dark surroundings. A small stream of light that just made out the outline of the figure, I could make out it was a guy, his broad shoulders, prominent in the silhouette the crack of light cast over him. Pulling a small concealed blade from holster attached to my belt, taking a small step towards them.} If you're here to kill me, let's get this over with, I'm a busy girl you know. {My tone was firm and confident, not give away how I really felt, but internally I was thrown off guard, this was a safe house, how on earth did they find it for starters.} Stefan Salvatore, FeralTormentor: [Listening to the way in which her heartbeat picked up, undoubtedly pounding against her rib cage, she’d been running on pure adrenaline for hours now and the effects were wearing off] Oh I have an idea. More of an idea than you realize. [Leisurely footsteps brought me out from the shadows and into what little light the night sky had to offer. It wouldn't be enough for her to see my features clearly but it would be enough to afford her a better picture than the one she had] You intending to gut me Blondie? [Tongues tip, grazing across a lower lip, arms hang in loosely at my sides] Where's the fun in that? Not to mention.. [The sentence trailing off as I took the final step forward, a large hand gripping at the wrist of the hand that held the impressive blade, before she had a chance to react I pulled against her arm forcing her forward until the blade slid into my gut like butter, a small wince my only reaction. For months now I had drunk nothing but human blood, building up not only my strength but my tolerance for pain] ..I'm a lot harder to kill than your friend in there. [Hand released her wrist and returned to my side, while a gaze shifted momentarily to the shack behind me] So, what's it gonna be? Fun or messy? Frankie Loveridge, SeductiveBeaut: {As he spoke he stepped forward and I was on full alert. I almost relaxed when he said about an idea but in my line of work that could mean anything. I stood tall and pushed my shoulders back defensively as he drew closer.} What kind of idea? {With a tilt of my head my curiosity is peaked as my gaze roams over his muscular frame before returning to meet his own.} If you give me a reason too, I won't hesitate. {The confusion was real, was this guy gonna hire me.. kill me.. torture was an option to.} Wait fun? {The second he took that step closer my grip tightens around the hilt, but just as quickly his large hand grasped my wrist. I was about to fight back but he pulled my arm that held the blade, the muscle sliced as he drives it into his torso. I stumble forward and my hand reaches out, gripping his arm to steady myself. Glancing down at the blade then back up at him.} Vampire. I should have known. {His hand move from my wrist, i waste no time in pulling the blade from his torso, my other hand falls from his shoulder. I take a step back and wipe the blood from my blade on my thigh, staining the overalls I had on. I allow a small silence to follow before finally breaking it.} Can't it be both? {My lips curl into a sadistic smile.} I mean it's not fun if you don't get a little messy right? {Turning my back on the stranger, I head towards the woodland to grab the firewood, to finish the job i had started and burn that body.} Stefan Salvatore, FeralTormentor: [Dark pulsating veins webbed out beneath lower lids as incisors lengthen and sharpened, allowing the girl before me to get a look at the monster that lurked just beneath the surface. The self inflicted wound at my abdomen already healed] Mhmm, you really should have. [I hid my mild surprise beneath a toothy grin, it would appear the blonde was more versed in the supernatural than I first would have expected and the chances were if she knew of vampires then she would also know of vervain. Oh well, it all still worked in my favour, there was always more fun to be had when compulsion wasn't at play. Tipping my head forth in an agreeable nod at the last statement, girl had more fire in her than she showed. A trait I could easily show appreciation for, but maybe not just yet... Arms brought once more to cross at my chest, backing up once more into the shadows, blondie had a job to do and I wasn't the type for manual labour, not when I could slip inside the shack to appreciate the handy work of one so young. The game would continue upon her return..] Frankie Loveridge, SeductiveBeaut: {It had taken an hour to gather enough wood to build a fire big enough to burn the body, but it was worth it. Although, the whole time I wondered what idea this vampire had, I saw him continue to lurk the whole time. I mean what did he want with a twisted girl like me.. I’m sue if he wanted me dead, he’d have attempted it or succeeded by now. Heading back inside the shack I stuff the body parts into a sack, dragging it from the shed to just in front of the fire. Once the bonfire was lit and the flames lapped the wood, hungrily and one by one, I threw the mangled chunks of my last victim into the centre of it. The warm, amber glow consuming my concentration. Finally snapping myself from my daze, not quite sure where he had gotten to at this point. So I spoke hoping those keen senses he possessed worked in my favour.} So, idea, huh? I’ll grab the whiskey, and you can tell me more. {Turning on my heel I head back into the cabin for a brief moment to fetch two glasses and a bottle and head back outside to the fire, taking a seat on one of the old tires strewn about the area.} Stefan Salvatore, FeralTormentor: [A hooded gaze followed the retreating figure of the blonde with mild interest, knowing the task she was about to take care of and having little desire to help. Booted feet met the earth below silently, leaving what little light the sky overhead allowed to duck inside the shack. Nasal passages once again assaulted by the stench of blood, the place was filled with it. The interior resembling that of a one man massacre, this woman's style was something to not only be appreciated but also moulded into something greater. With someone such as myself at her side who knew what she could become. A forefinger traced the smooth cut at the neck, neater than any pieces I tended to leave behind. Then again I didn't tend to deal in power tools. Snorting to myself at the image such an idea conjured within the depths of my mind. I had no idea how long I had been appreciating her handy work when the silence was broken by approaching steps and laboured breath. No matter, I simply became one with the shadows of the night again. Leaving the blood soaked shack without her even noticing. Curious as to my location, that was a given, yet if I wanted to watch this mysterious woman who walked a dangerous path then it was best to do so from afar. In truth people such as us tended to work better alone.. at least for a little while. Eyes trailed upon her every move, almost robotic. Her soft features, now lit by the soft glow of the bonfire, were void of emotion. Lips twitched at the mention of liquor. Woman was smart, smart enough to realise I wasn't done with her just yet. Approaching the fire, only once she had disappeared inside the cabin, perching upon one of the upended logs] What would you like to know? [An emerald gaze cast briefly in her direction before returning to the lapping flames once more] Frankie Loveridge SeductiveBeaut {My gaze lost on the flames for a moment, my mind raced with the past few hours. I knew I felt, saw someone earlier, before I met him. I set the bottle firmly between my knees and twist the cap off, my other hand balancing both glasses, placing the cap between my teeth and gripping the bottle securely I fill our glasses.. The whole process repeated as I secure the lid back on the bottle before handing this guy one. I pondered his question as I swirl the liquor around the bottom of the glass before glancing over at him} Everything, I mean.. You must want something from me, I’m alive.. {Glancing down at the glass.} So, I figure you want me alive for a reason. You just watched me pop some guys eyes in and then chop and burn the bastard body. {Finally bringing the glass to parted lips I knock back the liquor.} So.. something tells me, you’re either as twisted as I am, or you just like being all creepy lurker around blondes. {A small twitch of amusement briefly curled my my lips. Blowing out a slow breath as I feel the heat of the whiskey Warm my chest} Why don’t you tell me everything. {There was nothing in my features, no fear, no curiosity. I felt numb, like I had for months now, but there was a twinge that pulled at my insides and that was there is a small chance this guy was similar to me, in some sense. Plus, something told me that this could actually turn out to be an adventure, but I wasn’t going to get ahead of myself. I mean, when did that ever happen. Reaching for the bottle once again, I refill my glass, and offer him another.} I’m Frankie by the way.