#basalt fic

[basalting]

day three of @jasontoddweek2025 - monster - supernatural AU - league of assassins

Jason has always known he was different.

jason todd & catherine todd - changeling!jason - 1092 words

It wasn’t-

Jason always knew he was different. Knew it in how sometimes if he’s really mad, or really sad, things look… different. Knew it in how Daddy would flinch when he saw him sometimes, in how no matter how late he wandered the streets, none of the gangsters ever messed with him. Sometimes they’d try, and then Jason would look at them and they’d run away.

For a while the only one who never flinched, who never ran away, who would look at Jason and smile even when he felt too big and too strange and too different was Mama.

Once he asked her, after none of the kids at the park wanted to play with him, what he was. And Mama, had smiled at him and kissed his cheek and said, “You’re my baby, that’s what you are.”

But it hadn’t been enough, or maybe he got more different as he got older, or something. Cause not long after that Mama started using. Started running though dealers the way Jason ran through books.

Once, when Jason was trying to make her eat while high, she had grabbed his face, pupils huge in her eyes, and whispered, “Forest child, doesn’t it hurt? To be surrounded by cold iron?”

And then she laughed and laughed and laughed until Jason left her and her food and curled up to sleep in the closet.

Things got worse and harder and different after Mama died. Daddy was back in prison and none of the gangsters would mess with him but none of the street kids would let him stay with them either. The different was too different. It made people flinch, made them nervous. So Jason kept to himself, sold tires and scrap and whatever looked kinda pawn-able for food and second-hand clothes and socks.

And then Batman found him. And if Batman noticed the different he didn’t react, or maybe Batman was already so different that he didn’t notice Jason’s different.

But maybe he did.

So Jason kept his different inside, didn’t let it out the way he used to with Mama. Or only sometimes, once Bruce made him Robin.

Jason hid his different, and the way he was too big and too small and too much and too different. Only let it out when in fights or alone in his room. Because Bruce and Alfred and Dick and Babs; they didn’t flinch when they looked at him. He would do anything to make sure they didn’t stop looking at him like they wanted him around.

But Jason got older, and he got more different, and he didn’t stop hiding how different he was.

And then Dick was off planet and Babs was busy and Bruce- Bruce benched him. Bruce took Robin away from him, and- and Robin was- Robin was life! Robin was flying and fighting and helping and Robin was the only time Jason could be different without anyone noticing and getting hurt! Or scared!

He tried to keep it down, tried to keep the different tucked in tight to his bones. But he was so different and it was so hard and- And he wanted someone who wouldn’t care if he was different.

He wanted Mama.

———

Jason knew it was stupid to go back to the shitty apartment building they’d lived in. There wasn’t any way that it wasn’t being rented out to someone else. There wouldn’t be anything of the life he’d lived with Catherine here, but he couldn’t help but hope.

“Jason? Jason Todd?”

It was Mrs Walker, who used to push her kids behind her when she saw him but would also knock and leave leftovers for him to find on their door step. Scared of him but, kind. She smiled sadly, not quite looking at him. She gave him what she’d saved, Mrs Walker at least hadn’t changed. Still scared of him, still kind.

Tucked safely in his room, Jason slowly went through the box. Most of it was junk, old report cards and paperwork, not anything anyone still alive needed. A family photo, a tiny Jason cradled in Catherine’s lap with Willis standing behind her. And- And his birth certificate.

His birth certificate that did not say Catherine Todd was his mother.

———

Jason wasn’t stupid, he knew that blood wasn’t everything. Before the drugs Mama had been his Mama, had loved him even when he was different.

But.

But he couldn’t help but hope, couldn’t help but want this new mother. This blood mother to love him. To look at him, different and all, and not flinch. To love him anyway.

So he went, to Israel. To Lebanon. To Ethiopia.

Sheila Haywood didn’t flinch, she’d been surprised but she’d smiled. Told him about Willis, explained why she hadn’t been around.

Maybe. Maybe she was safe, to be different around.

———

And then the Joker.

———

Jason gasps awake, gags on blood and bile.

It figures, he thinks, the one time I want someone to flinch. They don’t.

“You’re awake.”

It’s Mom, Sheila. Tied to a support pillar, cheek and swollen and bruised. Her eyes look strange.

“I’ll-“ He swallowed thickly, “I’ll get you out Mom.”

“There’s a bomb.” She said it casually, like she didn’t care. Jason dragged his hurting, bleeding body towards her. Reached out broken hands to untie her.

“Don’t touch me!”

Her voice was sharp and mean.

“M-Mom-“

“I am not, your mother. You are a foul little monster. A disgusting creature that- that steals real children and then pretends to be them. This? This suffering and death? It’s what you are. What you bring. And what you deserve.”

Jason flinched, tried to swallow back the tears, couldn’t.

“P-Please- just let me-“

“I woke up and I knew,” Sheila’s eyes were cold and cruel, Jason didn’t want to hear what she was going to say. She said it anyway. “I knew you weren’t my son! Something happened, something took my son away and left me you. I couldn’t.”

Sheila shook her head, eyes haunted, “I couldn’t even look at you, not without seeing all the ways you weren’t my Jason, so I left you with Willis. And I never found my Jason again.”

Tick. Tock. Went the bomb.

“But at least,” Sheila sighed.

Tick. Tock.

“I’ll finally,”

Tick.

“See him again.”

Tock.

[kaleidoscope1967eyes]

Iego Visual Inspiration - Meru

OC Fic Lore Taglist: (let me know if you want to be added/removed)

@canon-can-fight-me

@aldhanii

@alexlifesonofficial

@dailydragon08

@coffeeorsomething-irl

@masterlukessaber

@rogue-kenobi

[peacestew]

62 Degrees North

written by MeropeMerope Isak/Even | Rating: E A Faroes Island AU

*************************************

Summary: I'm squinting against the sun for most of the day, taking in the island, taking in Isak, in these oblique little chiaroscuro glimpses: a flock of hunting fulmars, darkly silhouetted against the pale sky, darting up the cliff face with blade-like speed. Isak's weathered boots scraping over the uneven basalt stone, finding footholds, as he clambers up the final stretch to the peak of Kolturshamar ahead of me.

He has the low sun at his back when he turns to me. His face is mostly in shadow but the sweep of his cheek, the curls peeking out underneath his beanie, are burnished gold by the light.

The rough wind scrapes across the ridge and snatches his words away. I can just about make out his laugh. Then he burrows against me and speaks right into my ear. "Do you want to hear a tragic story?"

Read the completed fic on AO3 here with art by @peacestew ✨

[bitethedevil]

Taming the Wolf (Raphael x Tav): Chapter 1

Tags and Warnings for this fic: Plus-Size!Tav, Druid!Tav, Tiefling!Tav, Dark!Raphael, Breeding Kink, Mind-control, Non-Con and Dub-Con Elements, Sex Pollen, Master/Pet Dynamic, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

A link to read this fic on AO3 (kudos or comments make the author very happy <3)

Next Chapter >>

Fic Summary: Tav tried to avoid fulfilling her contract to Raphael by leaving the Crown of Karsus on the bottom of the Chionthar, leaving her contract unfulfilled by a technicality. Although, no situation is so bad that the new Archdevil of the First can't find a way to profit off it. All the other archdevils of the Hells have their own lineages of tieflings on the Material Plane and Raphael is not going to feel left out...

AN: I'm working on learning how to write smut, so I made this. That's essentially what this fic is: depraved smut. I also noticed that there aren't a lot of plus-sized Tav fics when it comes to Raphael (please recommend them to me if you have found any), so Raph is into bigger girls in this one. There is no smut in this first chapter since I am setting the scene first, but remember to mind the tags in future chapters. There might be additions to them as we go along with this fic.

Tav was padding through the forest, sniffing the ground in her wolf form. She had gotten the scent of a rabbit. She was following its trail with her nose, and the scent was getting stronger. She was getting close. Her mouth started watering.

She slowed her pace and lowered her body closer to the ground when she saw it. Just a few feet ahead of her, she saw the fat little creature sitting on its hindlegs, sniffing the air. She moved closer with calculated steps. It turned its head towards her. She pounced on it…

…And missed it. Yet again. The little creature sped through the forest floor before she could even sink her teeth into it. Her hunting skills had needed training ever since she got rid of the tadpole. She felt like a novice again after having spent so much time in her real form during her adventure.

She huffed and lowered her nose to the ground yet again to see if she could find her next meal somewhere else. That is when she saw flames rise around her. She instinctively walked backwards to avoid them. They quickly lowered again, and she saw that she was somewhere entirely else.

The smell of sulfur reached her nose immediately and it made her blood run cold. So did her new surroundings. She was in a gigantic hall that seemed big enough for a small army to comfortably march through. The tall walls were made of dark basalt. She fixed her orange eyes at the shapes she saw on the walls. She looked at the charred bodies hanging from them.

She smelled him in the air before she heard him: sulfur, musk, palmarosa, and pepper.

“Yes, Zariel had a bit of a flair for dramatics.”

She turned back into her human form. Her white fur turned into her grey skin, her fluffy tail turned into her long spaded one, and she felt the familiar weight of her curved horns on her head again. She stumbled slightly as she turned around to face him. She had not walked on two legs for days.

“Raphael,” she greeted and coughed, trying to find her voice again.

His body was turned towards the wall she had been looking at. His head turned towards her. He was dressed fancier than she had ever seen him. His usual red and blue outfit had been exchanged for a black suit with red and gold accents.

He looked her up and down with the hint of an amused smile on his lips. She no doubt looked a mess. Her thick dark curls had not seen a brush for weeks. Her grey skin was caked with dirt and old blood from the few kills she had managed to make while she had been in Wildshape.

“You are no less feral than the last time I saw you, I see,” he said. “Perhaps a bath is in order before we speak. A certain degree of decorum is expected when one speaks to an Archdevil.”

That made her cough even worse as she choked on her own spit.

“A what?” she choked out and looked him up and down.

“An Archdevil,” he repeated. “Avernus is mine after you left the Crown of Karsus to me.”

They had promised the Crown of Karsus to Raphael, but they had left it at the bottom of the Chionthar instead. The pieces of the it were scattered across the bottom of the river, and they had naively hoped that was enough to keep it from doing more harm.

“Went for a swim, did you?” she asked. “Congratulations, I suppose. We had hoped that it would stay put.”

“Did you now?” he asked and turned to face her. “That would mean that our agreement was broken and that your soul is mine.”

“You interrupted my hunt,” she sighed. “Can we get to why I am here anytime soon?”

“Certainly…” he said with a dangerous smile. “Instead of skinning you and making you into a new fur rug for my throne room, and making your fine friends join the charred corpses on the wall for trying to snub me of what I was owed, I will graciously ignore this lazy little mistake. If, of course, you accept my terms.”

She sniffed and scowled at him.

“I don’t owe you anything, devil,” she said and crossed her arms over her chest. “You got your crown in the end, didn’t you?”

“Indeed, but not brought to me by you as agreed upon,” he said and smiled at her. “I find myself…unsatisfied and wanting more. Fortunately, I have use for you and I am legally in my full right to hold you accountable for this.”

“I couldn’t give less of a shit about devil laws.”

“Language,” he chided. “You will when I hurt you and the ones you hold dear. It is a simple deal, really. You will stay here with me in Avernus for an unspecified amount of time, and in return you will live a life of luxury while you do.”

She laughed and then gestured to the state she was in.

“Do I look like I care about living in luxury?” she asked. “What do you want me here for?”

His lips tugged up in a smirk and he glanced over her body.

“You’ll find out.”

She rolled her eyes.

“And if I refuse?” she asked.

“I can use the Crown to make you say yes, though I would prefer not to,” he said casually. “It would be more satisfying to avoid it.”

She narrowed her eyes at that.

“No, you can’t,” she said. “The contract stated that you could not use the Crown of Karsus to dominate mortals. I’m not immortal.”

Raphael chuckled at that.

“Had you taken the time to properly read it through, as I suggested you should, you would know that there are exceptions,” he explained. “Those who are of Infernal bloodlines are one of those exceptions. You are a tiefling, my dear.”

Fuck. She knew that he was not lying. She scowled at him. She would never have dreamed of signing if she knew that was in the contract. Tieflings somehow always got the short end of the stick. He smiled at her like the cat that got the cream, drinking up the furious expression on her face.

“So…” he said with a smile as he walked closer. “Will you be a good pup and roll over or must I tighten your leash?”

She sneered at him and her eyes darkened.

“I’m not a dog,” she said. “And should you for a second be under the false impression that you are the master of me, then I will tear you apart.”

He chuckled and ignored your threat.

“Oh, that’s right. You believe yourself a wolf, isn’t that so?” he said. “Where is your pack then, wolf? While you scour the forests for food all on your own, because you have run out of funds to feed yourself. It has only been months since you became the hero of Baldur’s Gate, and you are already right back where you started. Without possessions, without friends, without dignity, while you live like a beast rather than a person.”

“It’s a choice,” she grumbled. “And none of your business besides.”

It was, though it would be a lie to say that it had not also been a necessity. She never had much since she left her circle all those years ago. It was easier, cheaper, and freer to live in the woods.

It was also lonely. She knew she could have reached out to her old companions after their adventure, but she never did. She did not want to trouble them, and it felt safer to be alone. It had been so easy to fall into old habits.

“Here you can be so much more,” he purred. “I see potential for something great behind that beast you parade as.”

She did not answer. Raphael smiled widely and put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed.

“Do not force me to make you submit,” he said before completely changing into a lighter mood. “Now! I will have my servants prepare a bath for you. You reek. After, we will dine together. I suspect you must be hungry, since I interrupted your hunt for dinner.”

She was very uncomfortable as the servants insisted on washing her in the bath. She had tried to insist that she could wash herself, but the two tiefling women were not having it after they saw the state of her. The bath smelled of some sort of lavender oil mixed with something else. The smell was too strong and perfume-like for her liking.

When they brought out the shaving kit, it finally made her protest. She wrapped her arms around herself and stared at them as one of the servant ladies tried to pry her arm up.

“No,” Tav said stubbornly.

The woman pursed her lips and sighed.

“Please, my lady,” the woman said. “We have been ordered to.”

“No.”

The two women looked at each other as if trying to figure out what to do. They looked nervous as they did so. Tav figured that there might be consequences for them if they did not heed Raphael’s orders. She sighed in annoyance.

“Why does he want me shaved?” she asked.

“We do not know, my lady,” the other woman said. “Please. We will be careful not to nick you.”

Tav sneered and reluctantly let her arms be raised above her head so they could shave her armpits. She had grown quite hairy during her time in the woods. She preferred it that way and she could not guess why Raphael would care about it. She was not happy.

She was even less happy when there came a knock on the door. Both of the women paused their movements. One of them got up to place a screen in front of the tub. Tav looked at the both of them with a confused expression. The one of them that did not get up smiled sweetly at her.

“The physician,” she explained. “Come in!”

“The what?” Tav asked.

She heard someone enter the room.

“Good evening, my lady,” a male voice said from behind the screen. “Apologies for interrupting your bath. I need only ask you a few questions.”

Tav blinked and scrunched up her face.

“Why?” she asked. “I’m not sick or anything. What do I need to see a physician for?”

“His Grace has requested it, my lady.”

Her eyes were about to roll out of her skull when she heard Raphael be referred to as ‘His Grace’.

“Get on with it then,” she grumbled quietly.

“Do you have any allergies that you are aware of?” he asked.

“No.”

She heard a quill running over parchment as he was noting it down on the other side of the screen.

“How much do you weigh?”

“No idea. I’ve always been a bit on the heavy side.”

“Do you have any medical conditions that you know of?”

“No.”

“Has anyone in your family had any medical conditions that you know of?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Have you ever been pregnant?”

Tav raised an eyebrow at that question.

“No?” she answered.

“Have any of the women in your family had trouble conceiving?”

The questions were taking an odd turn.

“Not that I know of,” she said. “Why?”

“I am not allowed to tell you,” the physician explained and then continued his questions. “When did you last bleed?”

She huffed at that answer.

“Recently,” she said.

“How recently? Days? Weeks?”

“A bit over a week perhaps,” she answered. “Are you sure you can’t tell me? What is going on?”

“I cannot tell you,” he repeated while he was scribbling down something. “That will be all for now. I will visit you tomorrow to check your weight and height.”

She heard him get up from his chair to leave.

“Alright?” she said with a sigh and looked at the ladies on either side of her with confusion. The both of them avoided her questioning gaze.

The servants dried her off, and with some resistance from her, they got her in a dress. It was a dark blue silk dress that was supposed to ‘compliment the yellow of her eyes and the grey of her skin’. Tav thought she just looked stupid. The dress was too tight around her waist, making her hips look even wider than they already were.

When they were done with their little game of dress-up, she studied herself in the mirror with a scowl on her face. She looked ridiculous. Her body was on full display in the dress. It was not that she had ever had a problem with showing off her plumpness, but she just also had never felt the reason to pull attention to it like this. The form of her stomach was on display, and it made her feel naked.  

She was ushered through the fortress and into a large room with a table in the middle. Raphael sat at the end of it drinking wine. The table was filled with all kinds of food and drink. Raphael devoured her form with his eyes before gesturing for her to sit down beside him. She kept standing. She wanted answers first.

“What is the meaning of all of this?” she asked with narrowed eyes.

“I had imagined that you were hungry,” Raphael said and took a sip of his wine.

“You know what I mean…and I am,” she said. “But I am more starved for answers than food currently. Why am I here?”

“All will soon be revealed,” he said and gestured to the chair again. “Sit down.”

“No,” she said stubbornly.

“Sit,” Raphael said more harshly this time. “And eat. I have questions for you.”

“No,” she repeated.

Raphael waved his hand and she found herself sitting down against her will.

“Good girl,” he said as if to a dog and smiled even wider.

It pissed her off even more. A low groan of frustration escaped her, that would have been a growl if she had been in her preferred form. She thought about getting up again just to spite him but there would be no use in it. She decided to eat instead.

“Tell me about where you come from,” Raphael said and swirled the contents of his glass.

“North,” she said and pulled apart a piece of chicken with her hands.

“I had gathered,” Raphael said with a tight disgusted smile at the way she was eating. “I am more curious where your ancestry comes from.”

“North,” she repeated and shoved a piece of chicken in her mouth. “Are you asking about my tiefling ancestors?”

“Indeed,” he said.

“Don’t know,” she answered. “I just know that it’s far back and that we are Asmodeus tieflings. None of my parents are tieflings. It had skipped two generations before it appeared in me.”

“Fascinating,” he said. “One would not have guessed Asmodeus tiefling from your appearance. That grey skin of yours would have suggested Zariel.”

“My dad was a drow.”

“A bit of a mutt then,” he said with a chuckle. “That’s perfect for what I need you for.”

“A mutt? Your dog metaphors are hilarious, though they are already getting a bit old, don’t you think? Besides, it’s rich of you to call anyone a mutt when you are a cambion yourself,” she huffed. “What do you need me for?”

Her comment annoyed him, and she could see it in his eyes, though he apparently chose to ignore it.

“Oh, but the dog metaphors are so fitting for what I intend to use you for,” he said with a cruel smile. “Why else would one be keen to get their hands on a prized bitch with interesting bloodlines like yours? To breed pups, of course.”

She almost choked on the piece of chicken she was eating.

“Excuse me?”

“All the other notable archdevils have spread their lineages across your realm,” he explained. “We all have to start somewhere, of course. I cannot think of anything more poetic than the woman who helped me win my crown to be the start of my own lineage of tieflings. I am feeling rather generous so I will only demand five children out of you, and then you are free to go.”

She was dumbstruck for a moment as the information sunk in. Then she became furious.

“You would have me be a broodmare for your children?” she asked harshly. “And risk my life in the process? Are you insane?”

“If you refuse, I can have you killed for certain instead,” he said. “Or worse, I can force you.”

Her eyes glowed for a moment as she was about to lose control of her temper and transform. She dug her claws into the arms of the chair she was sitting in as she tried to calm herself before she did something stupid.

“Tieflings and cambions can produce more cambions,” she hissed. “In case you have never picked up a biology book. A swift death would be kinder than dying while trying to birth a cambion.”

“The chances are rather slim. Especially with a diluted Infernal bloodline like yours,” he explained. “Besides, I will have physicians and midwives to tend to your every need for the same reason. Does the child grow bigger than a tiefling would, we will kill it. You are too useful to me alive for me to let you die in childbirth.”

“I am not even considering this!” she yelled. “You are out of your mind.”

“Though you will consider it, because the consequences of refusing me will be much worse,” he said calmly. “I promise you, that if you simply come peacefully, no harm will come to you. I will be generous with you. I will only take you when the chances for conception are the highest. The rest of the time you will be left to yourself, free to do whatever you please.”

“Take me?” she growled. “Archdevil or not, I will tear you apart if you as much as touch me!”

Raphael sighed when he saw her eyes starting to glow in anger again, but continued explaining:

“You will have your own chambers, of course. You will be well taken care of, and the only thing you will have to worry about is your pregnancy and the birth. You will not even have to see the children after they are born either, if that is what you wish.”

She hammered her fist down onto the table and got up. She was looking at him like a woman with murder on her mind.

“Send me back,” she hissed at him. “Now.”

“No,” Raphael replied calmly with an unimpressed expression on his face.

“Send. Me. Back.”

“I wonder if you are hard of hearing or simply thick-headed,” he said and narrowed his eyes at her. “Have I not made it abundantly clear what your options are?”

“I won’t do it,” she said. “You can’t make me. Infernal law states that deals cannot be made if the other party is under duress or if the deal is signed because of death threats. That much I do know.”

Raphael chuckled.

“I am not asking you to sign a thing, my dear,” he said in a dark tone. “I already have a contract with your signature on it. Those laws are in place for those who have not yet signed. I already own you. I am in my full right to do whatever I please with you. Had you simply handed me the Crown then it would have been a different story, but you did not.”

Her realizing her predicament was the last straw. She lost her temper and in the blink of an eye she found herself in her wolf form. She had pushed away the table and the chair during her transformation. She snarled and locked her eyes on him. Then she remembers pouncing on him, though never landing before she heard a snap, and everything went black.

She woke up in a bed that she had hoped would be her own before she opened her eyes. When she did open them, she learned to her disappointment that it had not all been an odd fever dream. She was in a bedroom that was five times larger than the one she had at her home on the outskirts of Baldur’s Gate.

The bedchamber was lavishly decorated. There was a bathtub in the corner, a desk with a chair and some writing utensils on it, a large wardrobe, and a fireplace with two armchairs in front of it. She was not impressed. Lavish as it was, it did not fool her: this was a cell.

She sat up on the bed and when she moved, she felt something around her neck. Her hand went to it and found a collar around it. She touched all the way around it to find an opening or a clasp, but there were none. She pulled on it, but it did not give. She instinctively knew that it had some magical purpose, but she was not yet sure what it was.

She got off the bed to find a mirror. She found one on the desk and she saw that there was some kind of inscription on the collar. Her eyes narrowed at the Infernal letters that adorned the black collar in a golden script. Her Infernal was rusty but she did manage to put together what it said:

‘Property of the Archdevil of the First.’

She was fuming. She tugged at the collar in anger once again, still with no luck. Her eyes fell on a piece of parchment on the table. Her eyes scanned over the words, and it only managed to further stir the flames of her temper:

‘If you are to act like a beast, you will be treated as one. You are invited to dine with me tonight. I expect you to be on your best behavior or you may find yourself waking up in a cage the next time you bare your teeth at me, dog. - R”

Her breathing had quickened into furious puffs of air. Her hands clenched into fists. She would tear this room apart. She would tear him apart and paint the walls with his blood. She would devour him. She felt the familiar feeling of her druidic magic spreading through her veins.

Though something was different. The magic would not take as it usually did.

She stayed in that middle-stage of transformation. Her face fell at the realization. She tried again to turn into her wolf form, but the magic still would not take. It did not envelop her in its cold embrace of the earth clinging to her skin and changed her form like it usually did. The feeling stayed under her skin, going nowhere.

“No…” she whispered to herself. “No, no, no…”

That was the purpose of the collar. To keep her in her own form. She panicked. She paced around the room. She was missing something, but what? He had not taken her magic from her, or she would not be able to even enter transformation. The collar simply stopped the final step.

She tried turning into an owlbear instead. No luck. She tried panther, deep rothe, bear, sabre-toothed tiger, badger…No luck. Then she wondered if it could possibly have something to do with the size.

She finally tried something smaller: a cat. She finally felt the magic envelop her skin and change her form. She felt herself grow smaller and she was then standing in her furry little form on the floor. She felt some relief that it had worked and hoped for a second that she might be able to slip out of the collar, but the size of it had simply adjusted to her form. She let out a frustrated hiss.

It was something that not all of her forms had been taken from her, but she could hardly tear Raphael apart in the form of a cat. She tried the last couple of forms there were left. She could do a dire raven as well, but that was not particularly helpful either. She could not exactly fly away from the Hells. She hated feeling so helpless.

Later, the same servants from the day before came to dress her and usher her to where Raphael was. He was smiling widely at her when she entered, and his eyes went to admire the collar on her neck. She wanted nothing more than to throw an Ice Knife at his smug face, but she decided to keep the peace for now. She needed her powers back in full again.

She kept quiet as she sat down beside him, which only seemed to amuse him. She had nothing nice to say to him. She began eating with her hands as she always did.

“Ah-ah,” Raphael chided. “Fork and knife, dear.”

Her eye twitched but she kept quiet as she reluctantly dropped the food in her hands. She wiped her fingers in a napkin before grabbing the fork and knife. Her movements were clumsy when she tried to cut her meat. It had been a long time since she last had been forced to use utensils.

“Good girl,” Raphael praised in that degrading way of his. “You are quieter today. I take that you have figured out what that collar around your neck does?”

She continued ignoring him.

“I will take that as a yes then,” he said and then changed the subject. “The physician says that your fertility will be at its peak soon, so you can expect a visit from me in only a few days.”

“And you ask me to mind my table manners,” she said in a cold tone. “Don’t make me lose my appetite.”

“Oh, my apologies, dear,” he said. “I did not realize you were of such a delicate disposition. I simply mean to say that if you behave until then, I might be inclined to loosen my grip on your leash, so to speak.”

She gritted her teeth in annoyance and tried to reel back her temper.

“Will I be rid of this gods-awful collar?”

“No,” he answered. “I like it on you. It suits you. Though, I can allow you to change into whatever form you would like as long as you are on your best behavior.”

“’Allow me’…” she repeated and laughed bitterly under her breath. “Is this it then? I’m your little puppet now that you can do whatever you want to? I think I’d rather choose death if that offer is still on the table, actually.”

“Essentially, yes, you are,” he answered coldly. “And do not continue to make me repeat myself, Tav. It will not just be your death if you decide to go against me and even if it was, whatever I will put you through here will be nothing compared to the torments I will put you through after you are dead, and I get my hands on your soul. For your soul is still on the line, since you by technicality did not fulfill your contract. A technicality that I will only overlook if you do as I tell you.”

She shook her head and went quiet. She felt so hopeless. She wanted to laugh and cry and scream at the same time. She leaned back in her chair. She had barely eaten anything, but her appetite was gone.

“Can I go now?” she asked. “I am not hungry after all, it seems.”

“As you wish,” he said. “But first…”

He snapped his fingers and a vial of dark liquid appeared on the table. He took it and held it out to her.

“I will watch you drink this before you do,” he said while his orange eyes bore into hers. “A servant will bring it to you tomorrow and every day after that. They are under orders to force it down your throat if you refuse.”

She looked from him to the vial with disdain.

“Am I allowed to ask His Grace what this is?” she asked.

Raphael smiled slightly and his eyes narrowed at her.

“That cheek will get you nowhere,” he warned. “It’s a vial containing numerous things to ready your body for its purpose. I am not trying to poison you. I am trying to help you. Spare you even.”

“Spare me?” she asked bitterly.

“If I disgust you as much as you pretend, would you not find it helpful that we only have to attempt to get you with child a handful of times before we see results, instead of waiting for months?”

She looked at him and then at the vial. She sighed softly and took it from his hands. She took off the cork and smelled its contents. It had a smell that was all too sweet like fruit that was just past its ripeness. She looked at him again.

“There would be little sense in poisoning you,” he reassured her. “Now drink.”

She looked at the vial once more before downing its contents.

[nosferatini]

Reversed Veil of Worlds: A Little History

I’ve had the tremendous pleasure of working with @daneecastle on the background for this fic, drawn from their inspiration and their Reversed Veil of Worlds comic, which you can catch up on HERE!

Summary:

In the aftermath of what was taken from him, the Supreme Archangel has charged himself with the protection humanity, and that means putting a stop to the war between Heaven and Hell—for good. Neither angel nor demon is safe from the flaming sword, with one exception: Muriel.

After permanently separating themselves from Heaven and Hell, Aziraphale and Muriel carry on their crusade in the midst of crippling identity crises. Aziraphale, plagued by the handling of his grief, and Muriel challenged by the limited knowledge of sporadically returning memories, both find that their demons may be the very key to navigating their inner conflict.

Of course, Aziraphale's demon has been asleep for 75 years.

Chapter 1 (excerpt):

“Tell me a History, little wings…”

The voice crept eerily into half woken ears; like wind licking at the mouth of a cave. The slightness of it teased Muriel’s brown eyes open to the surrounding pitch of darkness, leaving them unsure if the whisper had come from a dream.

The words carried an air of familiarity. Senses took flight from the chasms of their mind: a taste, a scent… a feeling ; a tall silhouette in a curtain of clouds that fell like waterfalls from the archways of Old Heaven. Sensations as lucid as a memory and as elusive as a dream. And Muriel knew about dreams, if only for those daylit versions that came without slumber or appeal—visions that haunted their waking hours like ghosts reticent to reveal themselves. Muriel considered the words themselves:

Little wings?

It was a nickname. But its identity was lost in the disintegrating fragments of their subconscious; sand slipping through the helpless clutches of ethereal fingers. The dream was already hardening around the edges, reconstituting reality around them. The smell of sulphur, the murmur of bubbling lava flow, and the chafe of basalt on their hands and face, which caught at their cardigan when they tried to rise. A knife-edged threat of pain hindered the movement, and Muriel slumped back onto the igneous surface, trying to forget the gash left by Hellhound claws in their leg.

They bit their lip, held their breath, and rose to sit upon the rock. The action caused the sounds of respiration to recommence. Which was odd, because Muriel still had their breath tucked behind their teeth.

Muriel ceased all movement and listened…

The inhalations gained in magnitude, drawing in heaves great enough to create a vacuum behind their shoulders, while each exhale coursed ripples of warm air between the feathers of their exposed wings. The rasps of breath picked up as Muriel began to turn their head, like a giant hyperventilating at the sight of a mouse.

Yet there was no giant behind them. Even in the darkness, Muriel could sense the walls of this chamber were too small. A rivulet of leaking magma on the ground nearby gave the tiniest hint of light. That, and the blue glow from the eyes that were now staring back at them.

Listen to the 🎧PODFIC VERSION🎧 (feat. music by the very talented @paperclipninja !)

Continue Reading on AO3

Check out Danee's Socials

Special thanks to my betas 77ckk, @fishey-me and @the-literal-kj along with all the support from @goodomensafterdark and @whickberstreetwriters !

[kendrene]

For your mini fic: Ava and Beatrice, things you said in the grass and under the stars

Beatrice leaves Europe all-together, after.

She tries not to. Lingers for a while. Drifts from city to city, country to country, but the sun shines too brightly over Venice's canals and Paris - which Ava had said they should visit together after the war - well, Paris is a haunting.

An ocean later, another landmass crossing, Beatrice hits the West Coast, slowly working her way north where pliant sand gives way to a jagged coastline. Basalt cliffs against which the waves rage. Incessant. Hungry. The sea a low roar in her ears, never too far. Persevering even when she wanders inland, past jasper-studded beaches, and into the woods beyond.

The forests themselves are old, teeming with life both new and rotting. Fog never quite lifts off of the trees, a layer of it, gossamer-thin, persevering even on hotter days.

Beatrice settles down, and grief settles alongside her, the one companion she can tolerate in newfound solitude. It's a worn blanket. A beloved jacket she cannot bear to leave the house without. She grows new habits, easy when all of her days look the same.

She spends a lot of time hiking, getting a feel for the land. Brings books down to the beach to read; in the sun when she can, under a piece of tarpaulin hastily erected in between two trees if it rains.

It nearly always does.

Sometimes Beatrice reads aloud. Imagines it is Ava she is reading to, all the stories and facts about the cosmos Ava didn't have the chance to discover for herself. She reads until her throat is dry and sore. Reads until her voice is drenched in loss, and her heart bleeds for all the things she's lost.

Reads until daylight gives way to the first smattering of stars and the words on the page are blurred by lack of light, perhaps by tears, into a smudge.

The air is wet and salty, whips like the edge of a sharp knife against the soft skin of her cheek. Beatrice packs her book, rolls up the tarpaulin. Picks the now familiar way back in total dark.

She stumbles. Trips over something yielding. Something that snags at her ankles and brings her down to her knees, a rock catching the heel of the hand she throws out to steady herself, cutting open her palm.

It's debris, Beatrice thinks. A large piece of wood. Maybe seaweed.

It is not.

It's a body.

It's Ava. And she's not breathing.

"No. No. No.' Beatrice has prayed, she has begged for Ava to come back but not like this. Not to lose her right away again. "You can't die, please." A sob rips from her, unchecked, even as she turns her over. "I can't lose you again." Beatrice will not think of her as a corpse.

Ava's skin, her lips tinged blue by the frigid waters of the ocean and not divinium. Beatrice's mouth seeking. Ava's tasting of saltwater and the abyssal things that cannot stand to be brought into the light. Ocean waves crashing around them and over. The tide coming in - a bitter, a cold a cruel baptism. Her hands red with the cold and hurting flat to Ava's chest, pushing, pushing while her mind falls into mechanical routines.

"Breathe, goddammit." Bea's own lungs burning, alight with the effort of wrangling life back into another being. "Please Ava don't go."

"Not...going." A cough. Water sputtering down Ava's chin. Her own hand rises weakly, slick around the curve of Beatrice's cheek. Light, molten gold, shearing through the night to wash over them both. "Not going anywhere." Ava's other hand grips Beatrice by a shoulder, tugs her down to sprawl rather inelegantly over her chest. She's not exactly warm, but she's not cold anymore. The Halo brightens to a shine that makes a mockery of dawn. "I'm home."

[chromatic-lamina]

Writing Patterns

Rules: list the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern!

What way to waste a bit of time on an otherwise busy day! Tagged by @purplehairedwonder

Tagging @afterdeck-ace , @gendervapor14 , @gali-la @ensignsenna @cal-cium-the-nerd @escapaldi and anyone (I mean it) else who'd like to play/try! If you haven't got 10 posted fics, then aim for 4 or 5 or however many you do have posted.

tadpoles in a clawfoot tub

One Piece | G | Gen | 1.9 K | Pre-Marineford, Garp and Roger and then Garp and Ace parallels

Rayleigh didn't know why he bothered.

valuta

One Piece | G | Gen |2 K | Cora & Doffy, Cora & Sengoku, Cora & Law, Law & Sengoku | the story behind Law's coin collection (or one of them)

"Your grandmother's and hers before that."

Riding Along on my Pushbike, Honey (You Look so Pretty)

One Piece | T | Gen | 3.3 K | Aokiji and Law | post Luffy Pirate King AU, Aokiji, Law and Bleat the goat go for a cycle along a frozen river

The mountain streams were filled with smooth basalt like the one Law carried in his pocket. 

Taxi

One Piece | M | AceLaw but not all chapters | 17.6K | AU Law's a taxi driver and picks up a myriad of customers*

Older fic which I reuploaded the 3rd chapter to. I'll open with that, cos the first chapter opening's a bit confronting

Solid advice applied wrongly. Law was good at it.

Forty-Two Superior Teeth

One Piece | T | Law and core hearts | 2.6K | Law and the core Hearts dream on Swallow Island

One thing Bepo had was a super thick skin, and just as well, 'cos those boots were steel-capped. 

Bioluminescent Hearts*

(spoilers chapter 1081)

One Piece | T | Law, Hearts, Blackbeard, Saul | 5.7K | Law and the Hearts all manage to escape well from BB.

Last on first off, the helmsman was a position usually held by the lowest rank, the newest recruit. 

Heart Pirates Week 2023: Jean Bart: Scars

One Piece | T | Law, Hearts, fiiclets | 1.8K total| title says it all

The wooden deck of the Polar Tang wasn't that practical.

MarcoLaw OP Rare Pair Month Drabbles and Ficlets

One Piece | T | MarLaw, Marco and Law Ficlets | 1.8K total| there was only one bed

Law couldn't contain himself to one bed.

Something Old, Something New

One Piece | T | Zoro, | about 500 words| Zoro reflects on rainy days

One eye closed still had depth.

Bepo’s Drabble and One Shot Collection

One Piece | T | Hearts, Ikkaku, Hakugan, Law, Bepo| about 800 words| , chapter 15. Slice of life aboard the Tang

The thing about the huge, huge, huge beanbag that Hakugan had lugged on board when he'd joined them (packed to the softly- moulding-brim with snow geese feathers collected from friends and family), was that it was very white, and so was Bepo.

Sun Path Ozoni

One Piece | T | Hearts and Law| 1275 words| The Hearts debate whose New Year tradition is best, and enjoy a summer celebration.

"Nah man, you gotta use the soy broth."

Patterns: I am writing a lot of Hearts stuff (some due to zines), and also am not writing as much as I used to (busy, and have only got so much to say!). Anyhoo: my openings are relatively short, bar the last one. I don't open with dialogue as much as I thought I did. A touch of description is common, or an internal observation. General observations seem to be popular too.

[windflowerofskellige]

Suddenly Vernon beamed at her. “Look outside,” he said softly, cradling her hand between his. Peering through the window of the carriage, Cirilla gasped. They were just drawing across the ridge, and beyond she could see white road winding across the hills. Sharp black basalt cliffs formed the background, overgrown and dotted with flowering bushes and trees. Where the capital had been grey and stormy when they departed, spring had already come to these hills. The burst of red and violet bushes in front of the black cliffs were marvelous, and the fragrance of them even made it past the windows of the carriage. “It’s beautiful…” Strong, warm hands squeezed hers. “The garden districts usually have an early spring, because the mountains shield them from the rough sea winds,” Vernon said.

HEY MARINA, CIRCUS IS IN SESSION! Thanks for following directions and coming to my side blog now I must ask, where is this set? I'm so confused, is this supposed to be Nilfgaard the city? Where am I right now Marina? Write your fic I guess I don't care I post Temerian and Redanian content for fun. Do you wanna hear about Radovid? Do you wanna hear about Foltest? Do you want to hear about my OCs? I can give you Jadwiga of Kaedwen, Queen of Temeria. Here you go!

Perhaps an Arabella? I fixed her face model for her mod so when I get Redkit working on my PC I think I'm going to see if outfit modding is any easier.

Maybe you'd like an Arabella hugging Roche because thats like a mentor type of scenario going on after her dad's death?

How may I perform for you in this circus session?

[ao3feed-brucewayne]

respice finem

by basalting After a deal gone bad Sheila dies next to the body of the kid she hadn't wanted. Then she wakes up. - A time loop fic Words: 9511, Chapters: 1/3, Language: English Fandoms: Batman - All Media Types Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: Gen Characters: Sheila Haywood, Jason Todd, Joker (DCU), Bruce Wayne Relationships: Sheila Haywood & Jason Todd Additional Tags: Time Loop, Blood and Violence, Canon Compliant, technically, Comic Arc: "A Death in the Family" in Batman (1940) #426-429, Character Study, Canonical Character Death, lots of minor ocs - Freeform, &lt;- please ask me about my ocs, Bad Parent Sheila Haywood, Bittersweet via https://ift.tt/RyFZ1Y2

[fountainpenguin]

"I learned quickly that perseverance stood between a cat and her new best friend- (Me!)" (x)

---

New Dog's Life chapter today! ~ 3rd Life series fan-season

Chapter 14 - “Kindle (Pearl, Impulse)”

❤️ Read on AO3

💛 Start from Chapter 1

💚 More Pixels Imperfect fics

---

Pearl's barely begun playing Session 2 when Scott calls her back to the portal hub. See, she's on the buddy program list, and there's a new refugee in New Star Station who's a little... Well. Different. His name is Rhetoric, and in the eyes of the game, he doesn't exist.

While Pearl sorts that out, Impulse mines the ore to craft a clock...

(First 1,000 words under the cut)

PearlescentMoon - Bat

Quarry: Etho

Hunter: Unknown

Allegiance: Lush Cave Alliance

💚  💛  ❤️

Pearl is on-server for what feels like eight minutes and eleven seconds before Scott logs onto Dog's Life, pleads for her, Ren, and Martyn to log out, and jumps off again. Pearl relays this information to Tango, who turns his head. He, uh… He doesn't push away from the thin ring of basalt that stands between them and a drop to certain splashy lava death. He's leaning over it pretty far. And that's fine! To each their own, y'know?

Still kinda stresses me out, though. Since ghasts can die from their own fireballs, I'm not sure they're fireproof… so I'm glad I'm not the one carrying those hybrid traits right now.

A ripple passes down Tango's white-tipped tail, though his expression is curious, not annoyed. Several ghast tendrils lie long and coiled around him. A few of them ripple too, and Pearl is grateful for the new mod she put (with Grian's blessing) that spells the word Ghast above his head. Finally, Tango does flip around, though he braces his elbows on the wall. "Well, I mean… He must need you for something pretty serious if he's pulling you away this early. C'mon, though… It's only been a couple seconds for him since you came on, right?"

That is weird… Pearl glances over the rim of the basalt drop. One relatively small ghast bobs below. It's one of the little ones translucent enough to show its massive beating heart. "I guess so? I've not actually taken the time to experiment with the way it works. It's so confusing living in Simmers' Quarter-"

"Oh, yeah… Yeah, they play around with time a lot over there, don't they? That'll really mess you up. Some of your neighbors pop back the next day zoned out of their minds like they've been gone for years, right?"

Pearl chuckles. Sort of. It's mostly drowned in the distant, warbled mews of ghasts and the crackle of the lava. The Nether air is thick with smoke. The oxygen is thick here. She really needs a drink. At least this should be a quick visit… She doesn't plan to stay here with Tango half as long as she did with Martyn back in Double Life. But if they get carried away… Cleo and Jimmy will understand. Probably. At least they have each other.

Actually, given Cleo's track record, maybe I do want to be careful.

She checks the comm again. You know, there's something pathetic and cruel about all this. The irony is omnipresent and its laughs tickle at her ears. Scott certainly wanted nothing to do with her in Double Life, even though they got along well the season before. They thrived, actually, back in Last Life. He won the season and Pearl made it to the final four. They faced each other in the finals of Double Life with snow up to their ankles, Scott clutching Cleo's limp body in his arms and Pearl holding a panting wolf by the collar, fingers wedged beneath the leather strap.

How fitting, y'know… all the snow. Wind whistled, swishing snowflakes through the air. Few words were exchanged. Mostly staring eyes and heaving chests. Puffing breaths, visible in the air. Wolves growled, Scott bent his head over Cleo's unmoving form, and splintered sparks curled down both their cheeks. It always ends like this, in Grian's games. They always start of fun and full of life, then tear her to her core.

She loves the rush. She really does.

Double Life ended in a burst of TNT, set off at Scott's own hand. And maybe they didn't get along, and maybe it had its miserable and lonely moments (especially where roleplay and Between interactions blurred into bitter avoidance, like he didn't want to see her at all).

Two seasons later, here he is… come crawling back to coax her from the dark. What's she to do with that information? Scott probably wouldn't taste his own medicine even if she poured it in a sugar spoon and shoved it straight down his throat. He'd cough it up and squirm and spit it right back in her face.

Well, maybe I could do a little better at inviting him out in Between… Without regular Empires interaction, she sort of fell off the map where Scott's concerned. Maybe she likes it that way.

And maybe I don't.

It's… difficult (hanging out with Scott) because it's easy (for Tango and Jimmy to get along; for Martyn and Cleo to have clear lines of disinterest in the sand; for Etho and Joel to tumble twinkle-eyed into mischief even after all this time). This feeling swishing inside her soul isn't even jealousy. Seriously, that is not the issue. Muddlement might be the better word. Confusion and muddlement.

And it's not hard because of Double Life, exactly, because roleplay isn't supposed to cut this deep. It's difficult for reasons undefinable. It's difficult because it doesn't have to be. Scott never meant to, but he made the rejection hurt a lot more, y'know? To do this so soon after he came out to her about the whole 'allay' thing and pressed forward, practically pleading for an extension of their queerplatonic relationship to cross from Last Life into Between. He was coming off a break-up with Jimmy. He probably wasn't in his best frame of mind, and the emotions of Last Life were still tangled and raw for both of them.

She did turn him down, though. You know, that's what really stinks. Why does she feel so much guilt about it, even after all this time? She really handled that information overload as best as she possibly could. She didn't do it over comm. She didn't drag it out. It was all in private, too, though maybe she could've waited for him to put his jacket on again. And she looked him in the eyes (most the time), and saw two little hearts break inside his pupils like shattered snow globes dumping liquid to the floor.

"I'm sorry, Scott… I'm not really interested…"

[Full chapter on AO3 - Link at top]

[ladyhoneydee]

30 Day Song(fic) Challenge: Day 4

The prompt today for my Song(fic) Challenge was "song you listened to most recently". I must admit I did a little fudging on this--I simply couldn't come up with something for the song I'd most recently listened to ("Standing Next to You" by Jungkook, for those curious), so I opened up a playlist made for me by a beloved irl friend and fellow zelink writer, Gourdkin. What played was the instrumental piece "Elk (Acoustic)" by TTNG, and the trumpets set to peaceful guitar took me immediately to the mental image of...a goron in a forest. Of course, there's only one iconic goron consistently found in a forest in the LoZ series to my knowledge: Gorko!

Written in Stone

Game: Skyward Sword, very early on in the game

Pairing: None

Word Count: 847

Keywords: character study, peaceful

“Goddess, if you want to send down one of your sky people to teach me, I would appreciate it!” he calls up to the heavens. The angle strains his neck, and he tips his chin back down with a rumbled laugh. He’ll never meet such a person, of course, but it sure is nice to dream. 

Read the fic on Ao3, or under the cut!

You might think the woods are no place for a goron, and you might be right. But Gorko had never been great at listening to public opinion. His ears had always been tuned to the voices of those long past, after all. Even though, as he’d once heard from his Papa Stone before setting off, that archaeology and myth were no fields for a goron—lava fields were. He’d just let the words roll right off the plating of his back, and left them there on the igneous ground between them.

Gorko has been outside the Sealed Grounds for the greater part of two weeks now. His most recent pilgrimage—back from Lanayru, the mines of which being the other location he can’t stay away from—is set with supplies of felsite and basalt from home for three more moons, and then he’ll need to move on. But for now, he finds himself back at the temple. 

During the mornings, like any archaeologist worth his rock salt, Gorko gets to work at studying the temple. Over the years, he’s very carefully tested the stone from which it’s built (he has a very refined, built-in palette for such a thing, after all) and gone on field trips to the overgrown open-air mine two leagues away that the stone was quarried from. He’s detailed blueprints of the structure’s exterior and endless sketches of the carvings etched into it. A few times, the old woman who lives alone there has allowed him inside the temple, and he very respectfully recorded every observation he could. He’s hopeful that she’ll grant him entry this time, too.

In the afternoons, Gorko indulges in racing down the huge pit in the temple grounds, gleefully gathering speed along the downward spiral. He’s gotten his overall time down to a mere two minutes, without cutting any corners by dropping a level. It’s quite impressive, if he says so himself.

At night, he camps out below the stars, chowing down into a rock roast or tossing back handfuls of gravel, and he imagines the joy of someday having an apprentice he can share all his research with. 

This morning, Gorko has switched tracks a little, so to speak. Rather than the temple or its grounds, he’s investigating the bird statue outside its eastern border. He’s always found it intriguing—a landmark for people coming up or down from the sky? How would people up in the clouds notice such a little marker? They’d have better luck aiming for the big honking temple just a few dozen paces to the west, surely! It’s a shame the whole thing has long been papered over with lichens and mosses, and the runes on its surface weathered by the Faron region’s annual rainy seasons, or else maybe it would have more information for him. All Gorko’s been able to find about the bird statues, to date, comes from dusty scrolls and tomes.

After pacing circles around the statue, recording every detail in his sketchbook—it’s the same as any other sprinkled across the land, down to the purple shade of the old paint, but he’s nothing if not thorough—Gorko pauses in the center of the clearing to study it from a greater distance.

He’s always been fond of the birds featured on each of the statues. All the same variety, no matter the region a particular statue might be found in. He’s never seen a bird quite like them, even among the waterbirds near Lake Floria and the waterways between regions, and he wonders what importance they must have held to those long-ago civilizations. On his most homesick of days, when he misses the sulfur scent of the mountain and the taste of his Papa Stone’s obsidi-bites, it’s a comfort to see the big-billed bird in the desert vistas of Lanayru or the tucked-away temple hidden in the depths of Faron.

Great goddess, he wishes he were able to swim, and not just sink like a rock! Someday he’ll make it across the water and through that tantalizing koi-mouth entryway, instead of just sketching its contours from the shade of a nearby tree. Maybe he should ask the kikwis and the Water Dragon for permission to cut down some trees to build a bridge, one of these days. But he digresses. 

Gorko shifts his weight to one leg and rubs his chin thoughtfully, as the sun creeps higher overhead. Once again, a morning spent coming up with more new questions than answers. But then, that’s the whole reason he’s here. And there, and everywhere, and not just sitting at home in the same dusty mine all day. To learn, and learn, and learn.

But sometimes, it would be nice to get some answers…

“Goddess, if you want to send down one of your sky people to teach me, I would appreciate it!” he calls up to the heavens. The angle strains his neck, and he tips his chin back down with a rumbled laugh. He’ll never meet such a person, of course, but it sure is nice to dream. 

In the distance, a bone horn blows. 

[basalting]

a good fuckin' day

i tried so hard to have no angst in this but... alas

day two of @jasontoddweek2025 - joker - chronic pain - fear toxin

Jason is sleeping when it happens. OR, Jason Todd on the day the Joker dies.

jason todd & babs gordon, jason todd & bruce wayne - character death (obviously) - 3064 words

Jason is still sleeping when it happens.

Barely two hours after he collapsed into bed, still in his boots and jacket, a piercing alarm from the discarded helmet jolted him awake. Snarling curses and stumbling out of bed, Jason jammed an ear piece in, he and Babs had an agreement. She only ever contacted him if she had info on people fucking around in his territory or if there was an actually serious ‘all hands on deck’ type emergency, on pain of Jason destroying every bat bug he knew was planted and going to ground for at least 6 months.

After finally finishing rooting out a arms smuggling deal that included assholes trying to slip in faulty weapons guaranteed to explode and some idiot trying their hand at being the next Scarecrow, if this was anything less than the fucking apocalypse, Jason might have to break the duffel bag out again.

“Fuckin’ what?!”

“You haven’t heard yet?” Barbie’s voice was unfiltered for once, she sounded… Exhilarated? Shocked? There was some repressed emotion in the barely there tremble in her voice. Jason went still, mind racing. There hadn’t been any whispers of the big movers doing anything. When he’d finally dragged his weary ass home, Gotham had been at as much equilibrium as it ever had.

“Heard what O?”

Babs was quiet for a moment, Jason’s shoulders were starting to ache from how tense he was. “Jay… I need you to know that what I’m about to tell you is true, my Dad and B are already on the scene and they’ve confirmed it’s real. Okay?”

Oh fuck, Jason thought, Dick’s dead.

That had to be it, there was no other reason for Babs to ring the alarm. For B and the commish to be confirming T.O.D. Dickhead was dead.

His hands were shaking, his breathing kept even only by force of habit. Fuck. Dick was supposed to be coming to ‘Lian’s-giving.’ That stupid fuck-ass holiday Roy threw every year for Lian’s not-birthday that the old Titans and the Outlaws were all dragged into. Dick promised to teach her to juggle this year. Now he was dead.

Faintly he heard Babs talking, her voice getting louder and more urgent. He didn’t know if he could listen to it, if he could handle hearing how Dick had died. Didn’t know if he could handle not knowing.

“Jason!”

“Fuck!”

Babs’ voice was suddenly a roar in his ear, volume remotely increased so that it set his head ringing.

“Sorry,” Babs said, at a less ear piercing level, “you went dead silent on me Jay. Did you hear me?”

“Yeah…” Jason sighed, scrubbing his hand over his face and leaning back against the table. “So… How’d it happen?”

“They’ll need to do an autopsy,” Just the word made Jason’s skin crawl, “but it’s looking like a ischaemic stroke. There’s no wounds on the body. Well,” There was bitter amusement in Babs voice, “no fresh wounds.”

“Jesus…” A stroke. A fucking stroke is what got Dick? Not any of this cape life bullshit? Unless the stroke is because of all the head trauma that hard-headed ass has- had gone through.

“If you wanted to go see, maybe go piss on the body for me, I’ll send you the location.”

”What the fuck did you just say?” Jason snarled, “You think I’m gonna fucking piss on Dick’s body? You think I’m that much of a fucking bastard? You can go fuck yourself Barbara you fucking sanctimonious fu-“

Barbara’s sounded baffled as she, once again, overrode his volume - partially deafening him, “Who said anything about Dick?”

“What?”

“What?”

There was a beat of silence before Barbara slowly asked, “Jason… Why do you think I want you to… piss on Dick?”

“He’s dead isn’t he.” Jason said flatly, staring at the gloomy sky through his shitty cracked window. “That’s why you used the emergency line.”

“Oh Jay,” Barbara said with a soft laugh, “Dick’s fine. I told B to update him and he’s been blowing up my phone. He’s doing shots in San Fran’ right now to celebrate.”

“Oh…” The relief almost made his head spin, Dick was still alive to be an annoying (and annoyingly helpful) shithead. Still alive to teach Lian how to juggle and to scream a little sense into B’s dense fucking skull and to fuck around at the edge of Red Hood’s territory on quiet nights until they ended up in a game of city-wide tag.

“Then what the fuck Barbie? Who’s fuckin’ dead??”

“The Joker!” Babs burst out, delighted and vindicated and shaking with relief. "That's what I was trying to tell you!"

Jason fully collapsed, legs giving out from under him. It didn’t seem real, couldn’t be real. Finally, after years of torment and a mountain of bodies and so much fucking pain. The Joker… dead?

“You’re sure?” He asked urgently, hand coming up to cup his ear, as if it might disappear before Babs could talk, “You’re really sure? He’s dead? And it’s him? Not a fucking clone or a- fuck a body double or- or- a shitty cosplayer? Or-“

“It’s him Jason.” Her voice was soft, throwing him back to his Robin days, to one of the serial killer cases they’d worked, to Batgirl gently pulling out of a room soaked in old blood and stinking of rot. (Cass and Steph carried her mantle well, but Babs would always be Jason’s Batgirl.) “I’ve got CCTV of his cell leading back to when B dropped him off after his last break out. I’ve scrubbed through all of it, there’s nothing missing. Dad’s already sent off for a DNA test and B’s got his own samples to check. But yeah Jay, it’s really him.”

Tears, hot as blood, carved burning lines down his cheeks. He inhaled shakily, “Can you- Can you send it to me? The footage. I need to- I need to see.”

“Of course Jay.” A beat of quiet, “Do you want to see him? To go check yourself? Dad’s holding people off until B clears out, we can get you in to see him before he’s taken to the morgue.”

Jason was tired, he fucking stunk to be honest, he needed a shower and a meal and about sixteen beers and a nap, in no particular order.

But he needed to see. It wouldn’t be real, until he saw.

“Yeah… You want me to pick you up? I’ll brace him so you can run him over.”

Babs laughed, too loud with relief, “Nah, I’ll go once he’s at the morgue. I want to make sure the coroners report is done before I let Harley know.”

Jason’s smile was wide and tear stained and bloodthirsty, at the thought of Harley finding out the Joker was dead. For real, not coming back, was exhilarating. He’d never like Harley, knew she was a victim of the Joker’s as well, but part of him would always wonder if she would’ve laughed at the Joker killing him if she’d still be with him at the time. But he knew she helped Babs out. Occasionally moonlighted as one of Babs’ Birds of Prey, and - from one Joker survivor to another - he wouldn’t begrudge her this joy.

“I’ll head to Arkham then. See ya later O.”

No time for a shower, Jason dropped the ear piece on the table as he hauled himself over to the sink to wash his face. Bruce would just have to deal with him, stinking and lightly bloodstained and all.

—————

Arkham was a rotten shithole, as always. The Bridge was closed off, cop cars blocking the entrance, but when Red Hood rolled up an officer muttered into her radio, waited a moment then motioned to one of the cars.

“Hey Hood,” Her voice was the harsh rasp of someone who smoked a lot, tired eyes squinting at his helmet above where his eyes were, “Give the bastard a kick in the nuts for me would ya?”

Hood nodded, riding between the cars as soon as the gap widened. Arkham’s gates were open, unsurprisingly, the floodlights on bright even against the gloomy morning and, more surprisingly, RR’s bike was parked by the entrance. Hood skidded to a stop, spraying some of the gravel over RR’s bike as he parked.

“Seriously?” The doors to Arkam swung open and Red Robin stomped out, a matte black bag almost invisible under his cape. “You can’t not be an asshole for one fucking day?”

“I never take a day off.” Hood responded, voice scrambler disguising his smirk from everyone except RR himself. “Is that-?”

“Yes.” RR said business-like, brushing the larger pieces of gravel off his seat and making a face at the dust. “Batman is still with the commissioner but he asked me to do a pick up so we can start analyzing the evidence as soon as possible.”

Translation: B’s a paranoid fuck and if this isn’t the real Joker he wants to know as quickly as possible. If it wasn’t the Joker, somehow. Then B would want to start investigating who might be helping the Joker fake his death and go to ground. Not that Jason could blame him, he fully intended to take his own samples. Just to make sure.

“Surprised he could even reach out,” Hood said quietly, ducking in close to muffle his words from the asylum workers and cops milling about, “Thought you kept your shit on DND when you’re at your boyfriends.”

“I was already awake,” RR muttered back, fussing with the bag as he settled on his bike.

“Oh my,” Hood grinned, “gettin’ it early Red? So was it your wake up call? Or his?”

RR’s face didn’t twitch but Hood saw those ears turning red. “Goodbye Hood.”

Hood cackled as he watched RR race out the gates and down the bridge, before shouldering his way through the doors. A shrink tried to stop him as he stalked through the halls, but Red Hood simply ignored them. Babs directions were pulled up on his HUD and even the rabbits warren that was Arkham wouldn’t keep him distracted.

The Joker had been hidden away in the isolation cells of the high security (HA!) patient ward, it was eerily quiet when Hood finally approached the open door. Commissioner Gordon looked like shit, exhausted and coffee-stained, his tie mostly undone and a fresh cigarette clenched between his teeth. He nodded at Hood when he stepped into the cell.

“Any other bats or birds I should expect this morning?” He said it with the tired amusement of someone who didn’t expect an answer.

“No.” B slowly lifted his head, still crouched over the body that looked like it had fallen off the bed. “Red Hood is the only one coming to Arkham.” A pause. “There will probably be break ins at the morgue.”

“Fuck me.” Gordon sighed. B and Hood shrugged at him, the Joker had a lot of enemies and a lot of people who’d love to take a swing at his corpse.

Hood crouched next to Batman, snapping on the gloves Batman silently offered him. The body was almost skeletally thin, greasy hair a sickly green and the bright orange Arkham jumpsuit made the pale skin almost ghostly. Hood grabbed a fistful of hair and tilted the head towards him.

The body was stiff, rigor mortis keeping the neck tight and inflexible, Batman braced a hand on the body’s shoulder - helping move it without adding more damage. The Joker’s unpainted face grinned back at him. Hood almost jolted back, almost expected the Joker to pop his eyes fully open and laugh in his face. Batman shifted, pressing his knee into Hood’s thigh.

The helmet captured the sound of his shaky breath before it could be heard. He nodded slightly at Batman, letting him brace the Joker’s body while Hood pulled out a small samples kit.

“Seriously?” Gordon groaned, “Is there going to be any fucking blood left for my coroner once you’re all done with him? I thought you were trying to prevent the vampire accusations Batman.”

B grunted, tapping a gloved hand to the puncture wound he’d taken his sample from. “The average male adult body has 5.7 litres of blood, I highly doubt your coroner will notice a few vials of blood missing.”

Hood side-eyed Batman through his helmet, somehow he thought Batman had taken more than a couple vials of blood on his own. The blood was thick and dark in the vial, already coagulating in the veins. Hood tucked his (single) vial into the kit, bagging some hairs he carelessly ripped out of the scalp and swapping the inside of the clowns mouth before he nodded for Batman to let go. Batman lowered the body gently, more to preserve the scene than out of respect for the body.

“Y’done then?” Gordon asked, ashing his cigarette into the small toilet in the cell.

Hood started to nod as he and Batman rose to their feet when he paused, grinned, and then said, “Well, O did have a request for me.”

B went still at his tone, and Gordon frowned at him. Gordon knew who Oracle was, even if everyone politely pretended he didn’t, “What’d she want?”

“She asked me to piss on the clowns corpse so-“ Hood hooked his hand in the waistband of his jeans, Gordon jolted cursing before Batman sighed and put a hand on his elbow.

“Please don’t tamper with the crime scene Red Hood.”

“Fine.” Hood send turning on his heel, more than ready to be out of this cell, out of Arkham as a whole. Dick had the right idea, he’d set the samples analyzing and then get spectacularly wasted. “Later Commish, B.”

Without looking back, without stopping, Hood left the Joker’s corpse in it’s pathetic cell.

——————

Jason made it out of Arkham, into the city proper and most of the way home before his hands started shaking too hard for him to stay straight on his bike. His chest was tight, dizzy as if he couldn’t breath properly. He dumped his bike in one of the hidden cache’s he wasn’t supposed to know about and hunkered down on the roof of a nearby building. Below him Gotham was alive with people, cars honking and people chattering and it was a dizzying, frenetic mess that he couldn’t quite focus on.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Why was he freaking out??

Shouldn’t there be less shit to freak out about? The clown was dead. Why was he still freaking out?

There was a soft scuff on the ground.

“Hood.”

Batman folded himself down, crouching well out of Jason’s reach. Or- No, crouching so Jason/was out of his reach, with his freaky long ass gibbon arms. Jason pressed harder against the air conditioning unit against his back, the firm pressure forcing him into the here and now.

“Jay-lad…”

Batman flicked the opaque lens away from his cowl, tired and worried blue eyes tracked over him. “You’re alright lad.” Bruce said quietly, “You’re safe.”

“I don’t- I don’t get why,” Jason gasped out, clawing at his helmet and dropping it at his side. The sweat from wearing a full cover helmet and the sweat from this- this fucking panic attack made him feel kind of like he was drowning with it on. “I was fine! So why-“

“It’s alright,” Bruce soothed, his eyes cold and gentle. Bruce was always easiest to understand when you looked at his eyes. Privately Jason thought that was why he developed the opaque lens, why Brucie Wayne was defined by his lazy half lidded gaze. “You don’t-“ Bruce hesitated a bit, eyes pinching at the corners. “You don’t have to be fine, Jason. It’s okay if you aren’t. I-“ Bruce inhaled, set his shoulders.

“I’m not fine.”

Despite himself, Jason barked out a laugh. “That’s obvious old man.”

Bruce huffed a laugh, “Guess I walked into that one. No Jason, I mean I’m not fine about the Joker. Being dead.” Bruce’s fists clenched, “I’ve thought he was dead before, been sure of it. I hope all the samples prove it’s him. I hope he’s really truly dead. But I’ve bet on the Joker being gone before and I don’t know if I can ever trust that he’s truly gone. And that’s okay.”

Bruce shuffled closer, inch by inch, until he could hold Jason’s hands. So gently that the rough textured material of his gauntlets didn’t hurt at all. “It’s okay if you can’t believe it yet Jason. Or ever.”

Jason sighed, tipped forward until his forehead thunked onto the hard line of the Batsuit. Breathed.

“Yeah.” He said eventually, “It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get ya, right old man?”

Bruce huffed again, “That’s right Jay-lad.” He lifted a hand up, gently stroked it through Jason’s hair. On any other day Jason wouldn’t of allowed it, would’ve already snapped at B and run off.

But today the Joker was dead.

Today he could let his- his dad comfort him.

They stayed together, in the bubble of quiet on the roof, until Jason’s hands stopped shaking. Until breathing felt less like a fight.

“I should go.” Jason muttered finally, leaning out of Bruce’s hold to pick up his helmet. “Need to go shower ‘n’ shit.”

“Well,” Bruce said, “I didn’t want to say anything lad, but you are smelling a little ripe.”

Jason paused, then lunged. Bruce rolled away from the wild grab, pulling out his grapple. “Come back here mother fucker! You want ripe, I’ll fucking show you ripe you old fuck!”

Bruce leapt off the roof, grappling away. Towards the batmobile and off to return to the manor.

And Jason turned away, leaping off the roof towards home. Towards his bed and his shower and the six-pack of beer in his fridge.

Before his feet Gotham pulsed with life, the story must of broken because he could hear people gasping. Snippets of conversation. All saying the same thing.

’He’s dead-’

’The Joker’s dead!’

’Found dead in Arkham-‘

’-good riddance-‘

’about fucking time!’

’-today’s gonna be a good fuckin’ day.’

Jason laughed, arched into his next swing. The Joker is dead, he thought. It was a good fuckin’ day.

[spitzyyyy]

i wrote the ending to get back at myself for not giving gabbro a much needed hug after the prev fic

caldera is my funny little fellah! a little creachur, if you will. they're one of my alt "hatchlings", since my main is basalt, and the other one is called malachite and i have nothing i have written with them that is ready to be posted

[crystal-verse]

A snippet of beckoned by sunlight and freedom (obscured by visions and mystery), the planned fic that'll span ARR as experienced by Mehka and K'pheli.

A'mehka'ahma was not familiar with ships or the salty sea. Both things were rare in Gelmorra -- as would be expected, considering Gelmorra was an underground city. There were rivers that ran through the tunnels and hollowed-out caves, and a few small pools that were large enough to swim in, but no proper lakes, and certainly no sea.

Standing on the deck of that great ship, as it sailed through the ocean waters, she couldn't say that she disliked it. A'mehka'ahma had shed her old identity upon rising aboveground, leaving those caves to follow that call from the gods (that wanderlust in her blood, that need to see what was out there) -- she wore her new name, Mehka Awandah, like a tightly-fitting shirt or bracelet, and hoped that she could keep Gelmorra hidden. As was always the hope -- as was always the danger. As far as she knew, Limsa Lominsa had little knowledge of Gelmorra, not nearly as much a risk as going to Gridania would have been (and Mehka did worry for her cousin, Sae'pheli'ehva), but one should always be safe rather than sorry.

Mehka (and that was her name now, here -- she had to think of herself as Mehka) was lucky that her clothes, while a bit odd, didn't draw more than a passing eye. Mehka Awandah was a Miqo'te from the middle of the Twelveswood, seeking glory and adventure by leaving her clan and traveling to Limsa Lominsa. She was experienced moderately in the lance, as her clan had used for hunting, and in daggers, which were used for smaller prey or skinning hunts. She had taken up the axe in hopes it would serve her in coming times. She had little coin, basic knowledge of Eorzea's geography and politics, and wanted to see what the world was like.

A'mehka'ahma would keep hidden any mention of Gelmorra -- of its silkmoths the size of an antelope, raised and bred for silk and meat; of its large caverns with stone reaching high above, buildings and small shrines and little walls made from stone mined from the cavern around them, quicklime and basalt and dolomite; of the aether-filled light-crystals, glowing enough for the people to see. Of the way her people crept aboveground, through the stone passageways and through the darkness, to see the stars on hallowed days and to see the sun on others, or those reckless enough to go aboveground just to feel the breeze. Of the way the plants all glow that soft blue-purple, bioluminescence grown into them. Of the way Gelmorra, its Duskwights who had lived amidst the underground dusk and quiet rivers and threat of Gridania's elementals, thrived in its secrecy, lived despite everything, taught their people the history and common knowledge of aboveground, the culture of the different city-states of Eorzea and of Gyr Albania and of Ilsabard, that should they go aboveground they would have covers made, an aboveground identity with enough knowledge that they would not be found out.

It is why A'mehka'ahma and Mehka Awandah are one and the same, really. The same person, just a different past worn -- names worn like a cloak or a pretty outfit, to keep one's past told to only those who were trusted. Knowing of Eorzea and Gyr Albania and Ilsabard.

(There are a great many Garleans living in Gelmorra, just as there are a great many Miqo'te and Elezen. Some of these Garleans are born Duskwights, proudly claiming that word that Gridania had painted on those who'd chosen to stay underground all those centuries ago. Some of these Garleans are imperial defectors, looking for somewhere safe, and taken down to Gelmorra by the Duskwights. Some of the Elezen, too, and the Miqo'te -- most of the aboveground Duskwights aren't aware of Gelmorra, so 'tis up to the belowground Duskwights to find them, to offer them that home again, where the Wildwoods will not blame them for simply being born to a legacy of loyalty.)

Regardless of all this -- her name is Mehka. Mehka Awandah. Adventurer seeking glory and adventure in Limsa Lominsa. She stands on the deck of that ship, as it leaves its harbor in Thanalan, and turns her face up to the sky -- lets the sea breeze surround her, blow her hair in one direction and then the other, lets the waves rock her from side to side.

"Not used to the sea breeze, eh?" Comments one of the other people on this ship -- a Roegadyn, with a blue tint to his skin and long lavender hair. The book strapped by his hip suggests she's a woman of magic. "Yer a Keeper of the Moon, I see."

"How could you tell?" Mehka asks, words entirely sincere. She knows that she does not particularly look like a Seeker of the Sun or a Keeper of the Moon -- by her height she is Gelmorran, as tall as any Elezen or Garlean (taller, even, than some of her female Elezen friends), Her pupils are rounded as opposed to the slit pupils of her mother, but she's got the shorter fangs more common to Seekers of the sun, rather than the longer fangs one would expect from a Keeper of the Moon. (And, as well -- she's not been smiling that wide from the sea breeze, has she?)

The Roegadyn woman just chortles, and slaps Mehka's back. "Ye've confirmed it jus' now, lass!"

Ah. Or that.

"I hope ye don' think I'm bein' rude." The woman continues. "I know plenty'a Keepers who'd tan my hide for callin' 'em a Seeker just based off their looks. But ye seemed a new adventurer, and I made a lucky guess about ye not bein' the type to take offense if I guessed wrong." She stretches one arm, then motions for Mehka to follow her. "It's gettin' late. We'd best be goin' below deck to rest."

The woman's got a good point -- it is getting quite dark, now that Mehka bothers to pay attention to the light of the sky. Nowhere near as dark as would be troublesome for her -- she is Gelmorran born and raised, after all, and all Gelmorran-born are used to low light levels -- but dark enough that one might want to think about sleeping. "My thanks," she tells the woman, and gives a small smile. "I'm Mehka Awandah. Might I have your name?"

The woman grins back at her. "Solkwyda Aerbremwyn, Limsa Lominsa born and raised!" She pulls the book from her hip, and after a brief second with a flare of aether a creature appears -- small, thin, and foxlike, colored blue save for the red crystal on its head, with a three-forked tail. "An' this 'ere's my Carbuncle!"

Carbuncle, now named, sneezes, and jumps on top of the also newly-named Solkwyda's shoulders.

Mehka smiles in what she hopes is a polite manner. "'Tis good to meet you, then." The conversation cuts off from there -- Mehka and Solkwyda parting ways as they descend belowdeck. Mehka stops by the galley for a quick bite of dinner, and then heads to the sleeping quarters aboard the ship. Her own room is small, but decently furnished -- a bed, a dresser bolted to the floor for one to store their things in -- and Mehka lays down with a sigh, glad to be off her feet even if the rocking of the ship is a bit unsettling now that she's on her back, surrounded by wood and steel.

She rolls over, and closes her eyes. Tomorrow she'll arrive at Limsa Lominsa -- and then her life as an adventurer will begin, and she can finally work towards the explanation for that strange calling she'd felt those few months ago.

[thesebattlescarsarebeautiful]

Suddenly Vernon beamed at her. “Look outside,” he said softly, cradling her hand between his. Peering through the window of the carriage, Cirilla gasped. They were just drawing across the ridge, and beyond she could see white road winding across the hills. Sharp black basalt cliffs formed the background, overgrown and dotted with flowering bushes and trees. Where the capital had been grey and stormy when they departed, spring had already come to these hills. The burst of red and violet bushes in front of the black cliffs were marvelous, and the fragrance of them even made it past the windows of the carriage. “It’s beautiful…” Strong, warm hands squeezed hers. “The garden districts usually have an early spring, because the mountains shield them from the rough sea winds,” Vernon said.

Marina, please, Im begging on my hands and knees take it to the witcher sideblog. @windflowerofskellige I know you know it exists. Why are you sending me fic snippets? WHERE IS THIS SET? I NEED YOU TO GO TO THE SIDEBLOG I DON'T CARE ABOUT THE SHIP WHERE IS THIS TAKING PLACE THAT AINT VIZIMA.

[laurelsofhighever]

Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins Characters/pairings: Alistair x Cousland Chapter: 14/? Chapter Rating: T Chapter warnings: None Fic Summary: The story of the Fifth Blight, in a world where Alistair was raised to royalty instead of joining the Grey Wardens.

--

Underneath the glare of the midsummer afternoon, the ground baked. The high angle of the sun had chased away any relieving shadows to sulk in the very lee of the curtain wall, and the glittering basalt stones of Castle Cousland was a bastion against the assault. Emerging from the cool interior of the armoury to the gravel of the lists, Alistair squinted against the lance of white heat, the sweat already beading along his spine beneath the layers of his practice armour as he searched for the formidable, unbending form of Ser Canavan, the teyrn’s arms master.

As he approached closer, he found the eagle-sharpness of her one-eyed gaze directed not at him but at a second figure already in the arena. In the four years since Teyrn Bryce had ordered for him to be taught combat, he had often received individual tutelage, but never a lesson with only one other participant; the squires always made a group, learning to be part of a melee or a shield wall, and were generally herded together like a flock of sheep when not seeing to the needs of the knights they served. Whatever stranger stood before him now looked too slight to be Gilmore, and too tall for Eadric, though their padding and helmet left little to be discerned beyond that. They had to be sweltering.

The pair of them broke off their murmured conversation when they spotted him, and while the stranger retreated to the weapons rack to pick out a sword and shield, Canavan turned with a nod of approval for his appearance.

“On time,” she grunted. “Good. You’re not training today.”

“But I –”

“His Lordship wants to know how much teaching has sunk into that skull of yours,” she interrupted. “So we’re going to find out.”

“Uh…” Alistair passed a wary glance to the stranger. The practice swords on the rack were carved from polished whitebeam, but though they lacked the true deadliness of steel they could deal some interesting bruises. “Are the questions multiple-choice?”

Read the rest on AO3!