#bludgeon you with a hammer if you start turning

[mirrorhouse]

"First sign of change, and I'll have to stop that pretty little heart of yours. I am open to suggestions— knives, poison, strangulation, whatever you prefer." "Try it and I'll spill your guts." "Don't be so pig-headed. I'm being practical."

[castillon02]

“Make them clean their own guns,” Nguyen said, leaning her considerable bulk over Q’s desk. She was just starting her shift. “Or at least wear gloves.” 

Q kept plunging a bore brush soaked with cleaning fluid into the barrel of 007’s Walther PPK. His eyes burned with fatigue. “I’ll take it under advisement.” 

When he finished, he left with gun oil on his fingers, fingers that had traced over the gun’s every crevice, every curve and angle, every metal and electric anatomical fold. 

—

“Why not tell us to clean our own guns?” 006 asked. 

“I'm a control freak,” Q said. “Which is also why I know that yours is in the middle of the Atlantic and not in need of cleaning at all.” 

This was a lie. 006 had reported the gun lost at sea but had actually smuggled it back into his own flat, where it was currently residing in what Q suspected was his bedroom and knew for certain was the room that also had a backup earwig that Q had personally assembled, a Ka-Bar that Q had archaically sharpened on a whetstone, and one of the decoy keychains and keys (Alaska) that Q kept on his desk so that agents had something harmless to swipe. Probably there were other things that 006 also had in his nest, but they would be things that Q hadn’t touched and could only theorize about. 

Q was bad at lying. 

006 visibly recognized this, realized that Q was lying in his favor, and couldn’t stop his eyes from widening. “Right,” he said. 

Q smiled. Fixed him with a specific knowing look. You don’t ask, I don’t ask. “If it hadn’t sunk into the fathoms below, I would recommend a new hammer spring. Sometimes these things get a bit fussy when you use a gun as a bludgeon. That’s part of why I do in-person maintenance.” 

Part of the reason; not the whole reason. 

006 muttered a Russian curse. “Thank you, Q.” 

“Happy to help.” 

---

001 brought his guns back clean, but with a new part in them each time; a replacement firing pin, hammer, ejector rod, bullets. 

Q always asked about the replacement. He did it before disassembling the gun, like a magic trick.

001 always grinned like a mischievous schoolboy. “I’ll get you next time,” he would say, wagging a finger at him. Perhaps you’re more fallible than you believe. 

“It’s good that you’re optimistic,” Q would reply loftily. No mistakes. I see your gun. I see your tricks. I see you. 

—

004 never cleaned her gun and always brought it back. Hers was a semi-automatic of Theseus, parts replaced naturally when there was wear and tear. 

“Same as always?” she asked when she picked up her kit. 

“Same as always,” Q confirmed. 

—

When Q was a child, he asked, “Mum, why do you always shout about your car keys in the morning? And why does Peter never know where his pencils are?” 

She frowned into the mirror and finished applying her lipstick. “Sometimes people lose things, dear.” 

“How?” Q asked, boggled. 

She looked at him with squinched eyes; that meant she was thinking hard. “Well,” she said slowly, “we forget where we put them, or someone puts them somewhere we don’t expect.” 

Q squinched his own eyes too. What could she be thinking so hard about?  

Mum smiled. “Tell you what, we’ll see if I can give you a demonstration after school, all right?”  

Mum didn’t turn on the telly right away after dinner like she usually did. Instead, she sat down next to him on the sofa. “Sweetheart, you know how you asked about when I lose my keys? Does that ever happen to you?” She was trying to be casual about it, but if it were really unimportant then she would have asked during a commercial. 

“One time I pretended it did,” he told her, “because I was curious to see what it was like. So one day while you were doing the shopping I put one of my books on top of the telly and stomped around in the other room going ‘Where the hell is my story book?’ in a loud voice like you do with your keys. It was a little fun, but not much.” 

“It’s not fun to lose things. Do you know,” she asked, “where your story book is now?” 

“Yes, of course,” he said. His story book was immense and well-thumbed, so heavy that it made him grunt whenever he had to lift it, but he had already read through all of it at least four times. It had hard edges and corners that were beginning to bend; chocolate fingerprints littered the pages at the beginning because his hands had still been sticky from birthday cake when he first opened it—he can put his fingers on them now and see how much he’s grown. There’s a stain of pomegranate juice at the beginning of the Persephone story from the pomegranate that his mother had bought before they read it together; a special treat, expensive, but “you have to know what a pomegranate is before you read it,” she’d said, “otherwise you’ll wonder why they’re eating the seeds.”    

“And where is it?” his mum asked. She had to know that Q knew, because why wouldn’t he know? 

He answered anyway. She ‘humored’ Q a lot, she sometimes told him, so he could humor her this time. “In the vegetable drawer,” he said. “You came home for lunch and moved it there. But that’s a silly place for things that aren’t vegetables, isn’t it?” 

His mum closed her eyes and sighed, long and deep the way she did every so often when Q asked too many questions that she couldn’t answer. “You’re right,” she said after a moment. “I’m lucky to have a son who knows that. But most people can’t keep track of their things as well as you can, so let’s not talk about it too much and make them envious, all right?” 

That was something he knew how to do. He had already had a few talks about not stirring the other kids up with how smart he was. Plus he could tell from the tightness in her voice, like when she talked to her boss’s boss or Q’s headmaster, that she was nervous. “Sure, Mum,” he said. “I won’t.”   

So he never mentioned it again. 

He also never lost his keys, or his rucksack, or his socks, or anything else he touched and touched often. He might as well try to lose his own foot.     

—

“You know, we can clean our own guns,” 002 said, dropping her pistol onto Q’s desk. “In fact, you’ll find I did.” 

Q smiled. “That will make it much quicker when I do it, then.” 

002 pursed her lips and blew a pink bubble with her gum, which Q Branch had also issued her. “And where do you want this?” She took the sticky wad out of her mouth and held it out to him. “Gonna chew it for me?” 

Q held out a petri dish. “We have better chemical analyzers than my tongue, I’m happy to say. We do want to see about the wear and tear on the product.” He met her eyes. “Reliability is important in our field.”  

002’s performatively petulant glare softened. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and next time you’ll make it into plastique instead of a tracker.” One corner of her mouth quirked up.

The sticks of gum were actually one of Q’s least favorite gadgets; like most gum, it was sensitive to heat, so he couldn’t hold it for long without destroying its structural integrity. Couldn’t sense what he usually sensed. But if it put a smile on 002’s face as well as being useful to her, he’d keep issuing it.   

—

“A gun and a radio,” Q said. He waved his hand at the corner of his desk where he’d perched the usual equipment case. “Earwig will be distributed at your landing site. Unless things go terribly wrong, the local team should be able to support you for this one.” 

Bond took the case. “Anything else?”     

Q looked up; he’d been double-checking Bond’s mission brief and wondering how much structural damage the Managua team could make excuses for. “Cufflinks.” He pulled a small box out of his desk drawer and opened it. Inside lay a pair of cufflinks, copies of ones that Bond already owned and wore frequently. “They have little folding knives in them.” He demonstrated how the outside half could be pulled apart to reach the blade in the middle. 

The corners of Bond’s eyes were all happy wrinkles. “Am I expected to need tiny knives?” 

“No,” Q admitted. “But you brought the Walther back last time and I thought you could use some positive reinforcement. May I?” He removed the old cufflinks and put the new ones on, his fingertips brushing against the warm skin of 007’s wrists as he did. “Good luck in the field, 007,” he said after he closed the last French cuff. “As always, try to bring the equipment back in one piece.”   

“As always,” Bond echoed, his eyes meeting Q’s before he left. 

The cufflinks weren’t just positive reinforcement, of course. They were a connection; this meant that it was even odds that Bond would destroy them. (Paradoxically, Bond had the best equipment survival rate when that equipment self-destructed; he wore the latest exploding watch for three months and four missions before he had to use it.) 

Q didn’t touch the other 00s, who stayed near their equipment, more or less, and who deserved their privacy, deserved not to have their footsteps tracked through the crevices of Q’s brain. In fact, he didn't touch anyone. Not if he could help it.

With Bond, Q made excuses for the tiniest bit of extra assurance, the mental tip-toe of 00 feet sneaking across the globe. 

—

“Make Hutchinson do it,” Nguyen said, back again. “He loves guns; he’d be thrilled to do maintenance on company time.” 

Q met her eyes. “I take personal responsibility for the equipment of our most senior agents. They deserve that level of consistency.” He changed out the cleaning swatch he was using. 

“How consistent will you be if you burn out because you never leave this place? Guns, radios, earpieces--you can delegate. Our work is important, but...” 

“I’m almost done,” Q said, implacable. 

Nguyen sighed. “Sleep well, Quartermaster.” She showed herself out.             

Q dried, oiled, and reassembled the gun. He would make sure to catch up with Doctor Who and a few blockbusters so he could convince Nguyen that he sometimes made an effort to think about things that weren’t work or work-related. They could collaborate on blueprints for a sonic screwdriver. It would be fine. 

He would even give the same advice if he were in her position. She couldn’t know that Hutchinson doing as simple a thing as cleaning a Double-Oh’s gun until it shone would be detrimental to the delicate safety net that Q had been building since he had arrived at Six.  

Q touched everything his agents went out with, enough that he could still sense 007's old Walther in Macau, 001's discarded ejector rod in Tunis, 004's stack of worn-out gun parts secreted in a tea tin hidden behind a book on his shelf because he liked the thrum of them all together like that, and there was always the risk, at work, that they'd be disposed of.

He never lost things that were truly his. Guns, radios, earwigs, cufflinks.

He hadn’t lost an agent yet either.

[kojoty]

When I was ten, I had an imaginary friend. He lived on pork and beans and played the viola. People would look at us and hear sad music, turn away. That’s pretty much how it was, what it was like, for most of 1977. A viola is slightly larger than a violin. It makes a deeper sound. The cello and the double-bass: larger and deeper still. All, like Pinocchio, have hollow wooden bodies, though Pinocchio has more strings and is hollow only metaphorically. Guitars have strings. Harps also. If a harp lay down and fell asleep and you bludgeoned its dreams with felted hammers, then you would have a piano. If you were wearing a tuxedo, you would have a grand piano. If you knocked a clock to the floor and left it there, on its back, staring at the ceiling, spinning slowly to its own sad music, then you would have a record player. Or a carrousel, if you had horses, or luggage. A table turns into a barricade, a vase into a broken vase. The lazy Susan becomes the place where the lazy Susan used to be. Pinocchio wants to be a real boy. The real boy wants to be a robot. The dream of becoming. By 1699, although there were no pianos, some composers were already anticipating their arrival. Sheet music from the time shows notes too high or low to play on the harpsichord. By 1837, with some refinement of the pedals, a player could sustain the notes even after their hands had moved away. By the time I was eleven, I stopped being sad and started to be afraid.

Piano Lesson, Richard Siken

A patron of mine came up to me and gave this to me this morning. I had had a lovely conversation with her about Siken last week, and mentioned enjoying what I've read of his, and so this morning, she said she had remembered seeing a short story that reminded her of me in an old New Yorker article, so she pulled the short story out of the New Yorker and brought it in for me to read. How sweet. And a little funny to be cold-read like this!

[mlmxreader]

Line of Duty | John Price x m!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ Could you do one with prompts 5 and 11, with Price and a male reader?? ❞

: ̗̀➛ So much can happen when on the frontlines, but certain things are more unbearable to cope with than others.

: ̗̀➛ swearing, major character death, angst, death/injury, depiction of dead bodies, smoking

↳ @mockerycrow @seigwaidau

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

Nothing was alive anymore. When the flood rushed through, it took most of the dead trees with it, and killed off the smaller saplings; their bodies littered the battlefield, bits of broken limbs scattered amongst the mud and the clay.

Bushes, once adorned with berries and bright green leaves, were left pulled and ripped apart across the mess; their small thorns charred and crumbled to ash upon the most delicate of touches.

No snakes slithered amongst the dead leaves, and no birds sang from the trees; not even the bravest of larks would have dared to sing as he flew past.

Not even the sun dared to shine anymore, hidden behind clouds that wept so terribly upon looking at the state of the land; in the shadow of the war, Price’s skin did not look the same.

Grey and pale, his blue eyes were dull and dark. He didn’t look the same. His lips were carved into a frown as he sat on a wet rock, the water up to his ankles as he lit a cigarette and hung his head.

He seemed to age a decade in that moment; no longer the forty year old Captain you had fallen in love with, still hopeful and who still had dreams - no.

His dreams had been set alight and burned in front of him, his hope had been strapped down and bludgeoned with a hammer. He seemed heavy, like there was something on his shoulders.

A burden not meant to be carried by anyone else but himself; he hunched over so that his neck wouldn’t hurt so much, staring at the murky olive water as he swallowed thickly and sighed.

You were cautious and slow as you sat beside him, resting your head on his shoulder as your hand sought his; his skin was cold, sending a shiver down your spine and making you frown as you looked at his knuckles.

They were raw, but he didn’t seem to care. He didn’t even move to run his thumb across your knuckles like he usually did; just sitting there, his gaze a thousand yards away as he kept it trained on the water he was hardly paying attention to.

You tore your gaze from him, looking up at the slanted and knocked over tree nearby; Gaz’s boot hung from one of the shattered limbs, the bottom half of his leg slowly slipping out of it.

The rest of him was nowhere to be seen.

You shuddered, quickly averting your gaze. Clearing your throat as you did your best not to think about it; to think about how, at least, Gaz’s death had been quick… you couldn’t say the same for Ghost, though.

You could still hear yourself screaming at Price to save him, to get him the fuck out of there the second that the canal started to be unlocked; you could still hear Ghost’s choking as the blood filled his mouth and turned to a thick foam.

You squeezed your eyes tightly shut, trying not to think about how desperate Price had sounded when he had tried to save Ghost.

“Let him go! You fucking cunts! Let him go!”

But they didn’t. They let him choke on a mix of his own vomit and blood. Left him there as his eyes burned from their sockets and his limbs cracked and contorted close to his body; his arms pulled up almost like a dead cockroach.

It took him so long to die, you hated it. You hated how you couldn’t save him, a pit in your stomach as you felt it churn and knot itself; you didn’t even notice you were crying, until you felt Price gently wipe away the tears before pulling you flush into his side as he shook his head. 

“Control yourself, buddy boy,” he whispered, kissing your temple as he loudly sniffled. “They wouldn’t… wouldn’t want us to be upset.”

You leaned into him, clinging onto the back of his jacket as you wept against his shoulder. “It’s all my fault, John… I thought… I wanted…”

“I know,” Price murmured, shaking his head. “But it ain’t your fault… it’s not your fault, and it ain’t mine.”

But you could hear the dishonesty in his voice; he didn’t mean a fucking word of it.

q`1Price didn’t blame you for Ghost and Gaz dying, you knew that, but he almost certainly blamed himself; he was their Captain, he should have known better.

He should never have sent them in, knowing that the risk was too high… knowing that he would always feel their blood on his hands. Thick and sticky, gloopy and gooey as it dripped between his fingers and ran down his forearms.

Price huffed, pulling you closer as he thanked everyone he could that one of his men had survived - that at the very least the man going to be his husband had survived.

Even though he knew that neither of you would ever be the same; you had lost your best friend. You had lost a man that was like a brother to you; someone you adored and loved, even if you did take the piss out of him constantly.

You still loved him, you had spent your entire life by his side; from the cradle… to his grave. You had never left his side. Price knew better than to assume that you would be alright when you were extracted by Laswell in the morning.

When he looked at what was left of the body after the flood, he swallowed thickly, and did his best not to weep; his men meant enough to him as it was - Ghost and Gaz were family to him - but he knew that it was his own fault.

He knew that he had killed them, he had taken your best friend from you and he could never look at you without thinking about it again; he had killed your best friend.

He had murdered them.

“If you want to take a break from active duty,” he said quietly. “I’ll sign it off for you.”

[thorne1435]

Ever since I started learning Hunting Horn I've started to empathize with those people who complain about Longsword mains in MHW

Like, you'll respond to an SOS flare and think "I could genuinely be a massive help to this guy! Let me get the healing horn out!" and then you spend the next 20 to 30 minutes eating shit and tripping over some dumbfuck LS who can't figure out how the spirit slash combo works.

I was playing Hammer the other day and I fired a flare for myself to make the Deviljho grind more tolerable and there was a fucking Longsword who named himself--I kid you not--"Bad Ass Motherfucker" who wouldn't touch the tail with a 10-foot-pole and hazmat suit. Mans was terrified of tail cuts. True, clinical phobia.

And this is something that really pisses me off, too, because not only do I just love tail cuts in general, but also I was a longsword main. I know how to play your weapon better than you!

Please, turn your slicing weapon in to the armory so we can donate it to someone who needs it. This is a hammer. It's fast and you can hit the head with it. Go forth.

Better yet? Here's Sword and Shield! It's the fastest weapon in the game! It does bludgeoning and slicing, so you can justify your position no matter where you are! Please. Use it instead.

Fuck.

[cagemasterfantasy]

Cleric (War Domain)

Cleric Spells

Cleric level 1: Divine Favor and Shield Of Faith

Cleric level 3: Magic Weapon and Spiritual Weapon

Cleric level 5: Crusader's Mantle and Spirit Guardians

Cleric level 7: Freedom of Movement and Stoneskin

Cleric level 9: Flame Strike and Hold Monster

Bonus Proficiencies: At 1st level you gain proficiency with martial weapons and heavy armor.

War Priest: From 1st lever your god delivers bolts of inspiration to you while you are engaged in battle. When you use the Attack action you can make 1 weapon attack as a bonus action. You can use this feature a number of times equal to your Wisdom modifier (a minimum of once). You regain all expended uses when you finish a long rest.

Channel Divinity: Guided Strike: Starting at 2nd level you can use your Channel Divinity to strike with supernatural accuracy. When you make an attack roll you can use your Channel Divinity to gain a +10 bonus to the roll. You make this choice after you see the roll but before the DM says whether the attack hits or misses.

Channel Divinity: War God's Blessing: At 6th level when a creature within 30 feet of you makes an attack roll you can use your reaction to grant that creature a +10 bonus to the roll using your Channel Divinity. You make this after you see the roll but before the DM says whether the attack hits or misses.

Divine Strike: At 8th level you gain the ability to infuse your weapon strikes with divine energy. Once on each of your turns when you hit a creature with a weapon attack you can cause the attack to deal an extra 1d8 damage of the same type dealt by the weapon to the target. When you reach 14th level the extra damage increases to 2d8.

Avatar of Battle: At 17th level you gain resistance to bludgeoning piercing and slashing damage from nonmagical attacks.

Gods in this domain their alignment and their symbol:

Bane LE Upright black right hand thumb and fingers together, Tempus N Upright flaming sword, Torm LG White right gauntlet, Tyr (Dnd Tyr not Viking Tyr) LG Balanced scales resting on a warhammer, Erythnul CE Blood drop, Heironeous LG Lightning bolt, Hextor LE Six arrows facing downward in a fan, Kord CG 4 spears and 4 maces radiating out from a central point, Trithereon CG Triskelion, Ulaa LG Mountain with a circle at its heart, Paladine LG Silver triangle, Kiri-Jolith LG Bison's horns, Sargonnas LE Stylized red Condor, Dol Arrah LG rising sun, Dol Dorn CG Longsword crossed over a shield, The Fury NE Winged Wyrm with woman's head and upper body, The Mockery NE 5 blood splattered tools, The SIlver Flame, LG Flame drawn on silver or molded from silver, The spirits of the past CG varies, Bahamut LG Dragon's head in profile, Grolantor CE Wooden club, Gruumsh CE Unblinking eye, Hruggrek CE Morningstar, Kurtulmak LE Gnome skull, Maglubiyet LE Bloody axe, Surtur (DND Surtur not Viking Surtur) Flaming sword, Thrym (DND Thrym not viking Thrym) CE White double bladed axe, Morrigon CE 2 crossed spears, Nuada N Silver hand on black background, Ares CE Spear, Athena LG Owl, Hercules CG Lion's head, Nike LN Winged woman, Bast CG Cat, Odin NG Watching blue eye, Heimdall LG Curling musical horn, Sif CG Upraised sword, Surtur (Viking Surtur) LE Flaming sword, Thor CG Hammer, Thrym (Viking Thrym) CE White double bladed axe, Tyr (Viking Tyr) LN Sword.

Source: Players Handbook

[the-darkness-does-not-bargain]

Transfigurations 10:1-3

Okay, here we are: the Val Royeaux chapter.  Ava gets a horse and a very interesting invitation.  There will be one or two individual scenes following this, introducing some new companions, and then there will be a very fun chapter before we dive into In Hushed Whispers, so stay tuned.  Link!

You arrive back in Haven to a flurry of activity.  Soldiers and civilians flit to and fro with purposeful strides, and the town overall feels much more crowded than you left it.  People still stop and look when your group passes by, but they’re too busy to gawk, quickly resuming whatever they were doing before.

While you were gone, someone, presumably Dora, had taken the initiative to set up a large training yard just outside the town walls.  Soldiers spar, strike at straw-stuffed dummies, and run through forms with their weapons under the watchful eyes of instructors.  The blacksmith forge is a-flutter as well.  Harritt the smith barks at his assistants as they hammer away at half-formed blades and rivet together each ring in a chainmail vest.  Lilith breaks off from you here, intent on giving over her shield for repairs after all the bashing and bludgeoning it did.

Inside the gates, Camila and Solas take their leave, Camila to bully the stingy merchant Sergitt into selling her discounted arrows, and Solas to go… wherever it is he goes.  You, Beatrice, and Mary walk together up the hill toward the Chantry.  Mary lightly bumps your shoulder when she leaves, claiming she needs to speak with Threnn, the quartermaster, and saying she’ll see you at dinner.

So it’s just you and Beatrice by the time you reach the Chantry doors, and you are surprised to find Mother Superion standing outside them, speaking in quiet tones to a spritely, hooded man dressed like a scout.  She dismisses him when she sees you, standing imperiously with her cane as you approach.

“Welcome back,” she greets.  “I trust you encountered no trouble on your return journey.”

You shrug, but Beatrice is more forthcoming.  “Nothing unusual, Mother.  It seems that neutralizing the two most violent factions has already helped promote stability.”  Neutralizing is a hell of a word.  It makes it sound clean.  But you have to swallow hard and push away the memory of hazel eyes by digging your nails into your palm.   “Trade is picking up again, and the Inquisition is inspiring confidence among the refugees to start rebuilding their communities.”

Mother Superion nods.  “The refugees are not the only ones feeling inspired,” she tells you, her lips twitching upward.  “As I’m sure you have seen, more volunteers are flocking to us by the day.  It is a trickle quickly becoming a flood.  Mother Giselle arrived a few days ago as well, singing your praises.”  You flush pink at this, still quite unsure what to do with such information.  “She has provided us with critical intelligence for reaching out to the Grand Clerics.  It is good that you are here now so we can discuss next steps.  Come.”  She turns abruptly and beckons you to follow her into the Chantry.

Unlike before when you were racing to keep up with her, now she keeps pace with you, and she glances down at your left hand.  “Does it trouble you?  Your Mark?”

You glance at it yourself.  When it’s inert, it’s almost invisible, just a thin, pale line stretching across your palm.  Harmless, if one doesn’t know better.  “It doesn’t really hurt now, if that’s what you mean.  I just wish I knew what it was.  Or how I got it.”

“We will find out.  What matters now is that it is stable, as is the Breach.  You’ve given us time to catch our breath, and before you left, Solas speculated that a second attempt might succeed.”  Her lips thin.  “Provided that the Mark has more power.”

“More power?” Beatrice asks.

Mother Superion nods.  “The same level of power used to open the Breach in the first place.”

“That would be extremely dangerous!” She protests, in the same manner she had protested your plan with.  “That kind of power could spell an even greater disaster!”

“Peace, Beatrice,” the Mother chastises, loudly tapping her cane on the stone floor.  The younger girl holds back whatever additional objections she has, but you can tell by the movement of her jaw that she’s gritting her teeth.

“Okay,” you cut in before the tension rises further.  You touch Beatrice’s elbow the way you’ve seen her do to the others, and you feel her relax ever so slightly as you address Mother Superion.  “Clearly, you guys have something in mind.  What’s the plan?”

“That is what we’ve been working on while you were away,” she says, pushing open the door to the war room.  Dora is waiting inside, along with a beautiful and fancily-dressed woman you’ve never met.

“You know Dora, of course,” Superion says.  She indicates the fancy woman with a small, secretive sort of grin.  “But this is Josephine Montilyet.  She has agreed to be our ambassador and chief diplomat.”

The woman, Josephine, smiles prettily at you, the kind of smile that must charm the stockings off most people she meets.  “I have heard much.  A pleasure to meet you at last.”  Her accent is strong and interesting, one you’ve never heard before.

Your cheeks turn pink under her gaze.  “Um, it’s nice to meet you too.”  Pull yourself together, loser.  “So, Mother Superion says you guys have a plan?”

“The makings of one,” Superion clarifies.  “The Mark needs more power.  In order to get it, we must seek outside help, and our options are limited.  However, one open avenue is to approach the rebel mages for help.”

Dora steps forward.  “Respectfully, I still disagree.  The Templars could serve just as well.”

Mother Superion shakes her head.  “We need magical power, Commander.  Enough magic poured into the Mark—”

“Could destroy us all,” Dora cuts across, echoing Beatrice’s concerns.  “Templars could suppress the Breach, weaken it so—”

“Pure speculation.”

Dora sighs, frustrated.  “I was a Templar.  I know what they’re capable of.”  This admission sends a shiver of cold through you.  She was a Templar?  You knew she was a tough warrior obviously, but knowing that she was one of them?  To think you considered trusting her… You take a hard step back from the war table, ignoring a questioning look from Beatrice.  You’ll never show your back to her again.

“Unfortunately, neither side will speak to us yet,” Josephine inserts before an argument can begin.  “The Chantry’s denouncement is an inescapable black mark on our credibility.  Mother Giselle’s endorsement and the news of your actions in the Hinterlands help, but only so much.  Some are calling you, an apostate, the ‘Herald of Andraste’, and that frightens the Chantry.”

“I never asked or wanted anyone to call me that,” you assert hotly.

“I understand,” Josephine says, her pretty accent lending a calming quality to her words.  “But that is the situation.  The remaining clerics have declared it blasphemy, and we heretics for harboring you.”

Mother Superion sighs.  “I suspect it was Francesco’s doing, at least in part.”

Josephine nods with a knowing expression.  Is she aware of their history too?  It certainly seems like she’s known the Mother for some time.  “It limits our options.  Approaching either the mages or Templars for help is currently out of the question.”

You groan in heated frustration.  “Just how am I the Herald of Andraste anyway?  What the fuck does that even mean?”

“Ava, language,” Superion chastises you.  “People saw what you did at the Temple.  They have also heard about the woman seen in the Rift when you first appeared.  They believe it was Andraste.  Even if we tried to stop that view from spreading—”

“Which you have not,” you grumble, crossing your arms.  She fixes you in place with a stern look.

“The point is, everyone is talking about you.”

“But they’re wrong,” you insist.  “I’m not a herald of anything, certainly not Andraste.”

“Ava…” Beatrice tries to interrupt you with that familiar, uncomfortable expression on her face, but Dora speaks before she can.

“I’m sure the Chantry would agree.”  She crosses her arms over her chest, and while it isn’t done with intentional menace, it feels menacing all the same.

Mother Superion rubs the bridge of her nose.  “People see you as a sign of hope, Ava, something they desperately need.”  Again, as if beckoned, your Friend peeks out at the Mother through your eyes, assessing something about her.

“And to others, you are a symbol of everything that has gone wrong,” Josephine comments grimly.

“Will the Chantry attack us?”

Dora snorts.  “With what?  They have only words at their disposal.”

Josephine frowns.  “And yet, they may bury us with them.”

Speaking of words, there’s a sharp knock on the door.  An Inquisition scout peeks in, looking between you all.  “‘Pologies,” he says in a thick Fereldan accent.  “But there’s some trouble brewing outside, Herald, my ladies.”

“What kind of trouble?”  Mother Superion asks.

“A mage and one of the ex-Templars are about to go for each other’s throats.  They’re arguing about the Conclave by the sound of it.  Gathering a crowd too.”

You freeze.  There are Templars here, in Haven?

“Maker’s breath,” Dora curses, moving quickly around the table and storming out of the room in the direction of the Chantry’s doors.  Mother Superion and Josephine follow quickly behind, leaving you and Beatrice alone.  She moves toward the door, lightly tugging on your sleeve, but you don’t budge.

“Ava, come on.”  When you still don’t move, she turns back.  “What’s wrong?”

“There are Templars here?” You ask, grateful when your voice doesn’t crack.

“Ex-Templars,” she corrects, her brow furrowing.  “A handful of them, survivors of the Conclave.  They swore themselves to the Inquisition after we rescued them.”  You can hear the large doors opening and the sound of loud voices.  Beatrice’s head whips back in that direction, and she wraps her fingers around your wrist.  “Come on now.  Let’s see what’s going on.”

When she tugs you this time, you go, but unease swirls and rolls in your stomach.  You catch up with the others and take in the scene outside the Chantry.  As the scout described, a mage and a Templar stand snarling and pointing in each other’s faces, watched by a growing crowd of onlookers.

“Your kind killed the Most Holy!” The Templar bellows, spittle flying from his lips.  There’s a slur to his words that makes him sound drunk.  That's all you need, a drunk Templar looking for a fight.

“Lies,” the mage spits back harshly.  “Your kind let her die.”

“Shut your mouth, mage!”  The drunk goes to pull out a sword, and every muscle in your body tenses.

But Dora shuts it down before the blade can leave it scabbard.  She jumps between the two men and forces space between them.  The drunk Templar exclaims in surprise.  “Knight-captain!”

“That is not my title,” Dora barks, pointing sharply at the man.  “We are not Templars any longer.”  She looks from him to the mage.  “We are all part of the Inquisition now.”

“And what does that mean, exactly?”  A gruff, snooty voice asks.  Sure enough, you all look to see Duretti standing on the edge of the crowd, with hands tucked behind his back, watching the scene unfold.

Dora huffs.  “Back already, Chancellor?  Haven’t you done enough?”

“I certainly think you have, Francesco,” Mother Superion asserts derisively.

Duretti’s mouth twists in anger, but he doesn’t respond to that.  Instead, he says to Dora, “I merely wish to know, Commander, about how your Inquisition and its ‘Herald’ will restore order as you’ve promised.”

“Of course you do,” Dora grumbles, before addressing the crowd.  “Back to your duties, all of you!”  Once the gawkers disperses, she looks at Duretti again.  “Your attempts to discredit and undermine the Inquisition work directly against that goal, Chancellor.  It’s as if you believe a broken Chantry with no Divine will be able to close the Breach with thoughts and prayers.”

“The broken state of the Chantry is exactly why we must wait for the new Divine to unite the faithful and address these problems.  A lawfully chosen Divine, not a rebel Inquisition and its so-called ‘Herald of Andraste’.”

Anger and frustration overwhelms your prior unease, and you stalk up to the man.  “Listen buddy,” you growl.  “I don’t believe I’m Andraste’s Herald any more than you do, so stop acting like I do.”

He spares you a second of consideration, but no more.  “That laudable humility won’t stop the Inquisition from using the misconception whenever it suits them.”

“But the Breach is the real threat here,” Dora insists.  “And even a unanimously elected Divine will not have the power necessary to stop it.  Whatever you want to believe, Chancellor, that is the truth.”

Duretti doesn’t offer further rebuttal because Mother Superion denies him the chance.  “Enough, Francesco.  You should save your breath.  Ava will meet the Grand Clerics in Val Royeaux, and regardless of their decision, the Inquisition will carry on.  Snide words and contrariness will not sunder this cause.  Go, before the guards have to escort you.”

Duretti harrumphs indignantly, but does take his leave, storming away across the snow.  Mother Superion watches him go and sighs again, something she seems to do frequently.  “Inside now,” she commands the lot of you.  “Before any more interruptions can spring up.”

Back in the war room, you address what she said to him.  “You still think I should go to the clerics in person?”

She nods.  “Mother Giselle is not wrong.  Right now, the Chantry’s one great strength is its unity of opinion.  Strike that down, and they have nothing.  We have already sent word requesting a gathering.”

You shift your weight anxiously.  “I think walking into that pit of vipers will end worse for me than for them.”

Josephine smirks.  “They are not vipers just because they like to hiss.”

“Puffed up cats would be a more accurate comparison,” Mother Superion concurs, sharing the ambassador’s smirk.  “But I will not discount the potential danger.  There are always risks.  That is why I will be going with you.”

“Really?”

The Mother actually smiles at you, a small thing, but momentous.  “They may call me a heretic and blasphemer if they wish, but they will have to say it to my face.  We will see how fearsome they are then.”

To Val Royeaux it is, then.  Word of the clerics’ agreement reaches you the following evening, and travel plans are quickly made.  This time, you don’t travel with everyone.  Solas and Mary both elect to stay behind.  Solas makes the case that he would have nothing of special value to offer in such a circumstance, whereas his status as both an apostate and an elf could do more harm than good.  Mary simply says that she doesn’t deal with “weird Chantry shit” as a personal policy, a liberty that does not extend to you.  So, that leaves you, Beatrice, Camila, Lilith, and Mother Superion packing up to leave before you’ve even spent a full 72 hours back in Haven.

Unlike your long hike to the Hinterlands, you now have horses.  And unlike the hike to the Hinterlands where you never had to think about it, you are now faced with the harsh reality that you don’t know how the fuck to ride one.

“It’s not terribly difficult,” Beatrice tries to reassure you.  “We won’t be going faster than a trot at any given time.”

“I think anything faster than a funeral march is going to put me in the dirt,” you tell her, panic-stricken, as you stare at the line of horses outside the stable.  She just laughs at you.  “Beatriiiicceee,” you whine, stomping your foot like a kid.

“I’ll ride next to you,” she says, but her eyes are totally still making fun of you.  “And if you start to fall off, I’ll just lasso you up and pull you straight again.”

“You think you’re real funny, don’t you?”

“Around you, Ava?  Definitely.”

True to her word though, she does ride along next to you, and she even lends you a hand climbing up onto your horse, a monstrous giant that Dennet calls “average size”.  Its name, apparently, is Mud Pie, due to the large, irregular patches of deep brown in its otherwise pristine white coat.  So that’s great.  Beatrice’s horse, incidentally, is pure black and carries the much more respectable name of Drakon.  It goes without saying that she hoists herself onto his back with significantly more grace than you.

“Are you some kind of secret horse whisperer?” You ask, in an effort to take your mind off the movement of the beast beneath you.  Your knuckles are white on the edge of the saddle, and you make absolutely no effort to control or affect the horse’s movement as it carries you out of Haven behind Lilith and Mother Superion.

“Hardly.”  Beatrice smiles brightly, clearly at ease.  “I simply have more experience.  Not that much, granted.  After I entered the Circle in Montsimmard, there wasn’t much opportunity for riding.  But I learned how as a child.”

“And you weren’t terrified?”

She laughs.  “Of course I was, at first.  But as with everything, I started with the basics and learned from there.  Lesson number one,” she says, leaning over and gently unwrapping your death grip on the saddle.  “Is to relax.  Horses are intelligent creatures.  They can sense nervousness and uncertainty in their rider.  Straighten your spine and sit back in the saddle.  Hold the reins firmly but not tightly.”  She demonstrates a motion with her own hands, pulling her reins this way and that.  “You direct the horse’s movement like this.  This way for right, and this way for left.  If you need him to stop, you pull back with both hands.  It’s simple.”  So she claims.

You do start to relax, slowly, as Haven slips out of view and the snowy expanse of the Frostbacks stretches out before you.  It helps that your party keeps a walking pace for now.  The horse (Mud Pie, you remind yourself begrudgingly) seems content to just follow the other horses in whatever direction they go.

Lilith and Mother Superion are eminently comfortable astride their own mounts.  They maintain the lead all the way through the first day, as they are also evidently familiar with the route to Val Royeaux.  Indeed, the only person in your group who doesn’t seem like they were born on top of a horse is Camila, though even she sits more comfortably than you.  She brings up the rear of your band with Jenny, her white and gray-speckled mare.  As before, she helps the long hours of travel go faster with her singing.  You’re getting to be a big fan of Andraste’s Mabari, and the Ballad of Nuggins makes you laugh, and in no time you’re past the Frostbacks and descending into Orlais proper.

You sigh in relief when it becomes warm enough on the second day to shed your heavy furs and change into something breathable again.  One of Harritt’s assistants stayed up late cleaning your armor to a polished sheen, but wearing it again so soon makes you intractably queasy, so much so that you strip down to just your pauldrons, bracers, and greaves over your clothes.  The others take a similar approach, wearing just the basics.  Even Lilith sheds her extraneous armor pieces, wearing just her vambraces, greaves, pauldrons, and chestplate.  The Mage-Templar war hasn’t touched Orlais to nearly the same extent as Ferelden, and you are not harassed along the road to the capitol.

When the gates first come into view, they stun you.  They are tall, ornate to the extreme,  and gilded from lock to hinge.  Brightly colored buildings and domes stand visible beyond them, draped in banners of red and blue and glittering in the sunlight.  A long bridge made of white stone extends from the entrance across the Waking Sea, dusted with flower petals and leaves blown off the landside trees.  Ships and small boats glide across the shimmering water to your right, and the city’s docks visibly bustle with activity.

“People actually live here?” You ask incredulously.  You know they do, obviously, but the city’s pristine image makes it feel like something out of a painting, something unreal.

“Over 100,000,” Mother Superion tells you.  “The city extends much further than this view would imply, including large sections well-hidden behind its walls.”

“Like what?”

“Like the poor quarters, and the alienage,” she says matter-of-factly, while your hands tighten on Mud Pie’s reins.  You suppose you should have guessed that.  You know what alienages are, conceptually: designated areas within a city for its elven residents to live.  You know from half-remembered whispers in the Circle that they generally aren’t nice places to live, but you’ve never visited one to know.  You’ve never seen a city like this (or any city) before, either.  Your mother’s decision to hide you away at home had been absolute.

You dismount your horses at a large stable bracketing the road on both sides.  You manage, through unparalleled dexterity, not to fall on your ass as you roll off of Mud Pie, who only chuffs at your efforts with an unmistakably bored expression.  “Yeah whatever, buddy,” you grumble at him while you try to remember how to walk.  The others, of course, have no such difficulties, and you have to limp to keep up with them as they head toward the bridge.  

The sun is still bright this early into the fall, and most of the leaves haven’t changed, so the landscape is a blur of green and blue that captivates you.  The golden gates shine so luminously that you have to shade your eyes, and heat radiates off the abundance of white stone to make you sweat in your leathers.  It’s uncomfortable, but novel.  You’ve never seen a place like this before, and despite the anxiety you’ve been stewing in since leaving Haven, you can’t help a fluttery feeling of excitement for another new experience you never dreamed of having before.

The excitement tempers when you register the atmosphere of the place.  It is not dour, but solemn and distinctly somber.  The streets are quiet and almost empty, and there are many black curtains and banners hanging alongside the reds and blues.  You reach out and trace the seam of one that hangs low from a darkened window.

“The city still mourns,” Mother Superion comments, watching you.  “Justinia’s death has shaken it to its core.  I have not seen it so quiet since it was closed at the start of the civil war.”

“The civil war?” You ask.  Did you mishear her?  How many wars can there be at one time?

She nods with a dark expression.  “The war between Empress Celene and Duke Gaspard.  They battle for the throne, and have sent their armies to bloody each other in the plains at the heart of Orlais.”

“Even now?  With the Breach threatening everything?”

“Even now,” she confirms grimly.  “It is not enough merely to threaten the world’s end to silence these conflicts.  The Breach will have to swallow the ground under their feet before they give it more than a passing thought.”

“You sound like you know.”

“I do,” she tells you.  “It’s only been a decade since the Blight.  Loghain Mac Tir’s name is still a curse in Ferelden.  The belligerents may be different now, but men’s hearts do not change.  I have seen all of this before.”

You contemplate that silently for a long moment.  “How are you so sure we can help, then?”

Unexpectedly, she grins.  “Because while the wickedness of mortals does not change, neither does our goodness.  Wars, rulers, and empires come and go like the seasons, but as long as good people choose, again and again, to stand against darkness, the world will heal and march on.  This too, I have seen before.”

You keep moving through the silent city, passing closed shops and cafes that must burst with life on any other day, and eventually turn down a long street lined with marble statues.  The statues all depict a man in various positions holding his head in one hand.  Each statue also has a plaque underneath it, and you stop to read one as you pass.  Carefully carved and gilded text reads: “Maferath, lamenting his betrayal of Andraste.”  And scrawled underneath in much more chaotic handwriting: “Maferath, walking into a low door frame.”  You can’t help your loud snort of laughter or the disapproving looks it draws from the others.

Beyond the statues, just outside of a large square of some sort, an Inquisition scout waits in the shade.  She is hooded like the one you saw Mother Superion talk to in Haven.  Go figure, then, that the Mother is not surprised by her presence, skipping introductions and jumping straight into questioning.

“Report,” she commands the scout.

“The Chantry Mothers await you, Nightingale, Lady Herald,” the scout says, nodding deferentially to Superion and then to you.  “But so do a great many Templars.”

You all share looks of surprise.  “There are Templars here?” Superion asks.

The scout nods.  “People seem to think the Templars will protect them from… well, from the Inquisition!”

“They wish to protect the people from us?” Beatrice repeats, stunned.

You scowl, anger swirling in your gut.  “Protect them from me, more like.  From the lying demon they think I am.”

“But surely, they can’t believe such a thing!”

You wave in the direction of the square beyond, feeling downright contemptuous.  “Why not?  They would be right in line with the Chantry.”

“No, something’s not right about that,” Lilith cuts in, shaking her head.  “Lord Seeker Lucius would not come to the Chantry’s aid after everything that’s happened.  They must be here for something else.”  She looks at Mother Superion.  “This could be our chance to speak with him and form an alliance.”  She sounds hopeful, even confident.  “The people will see the Inquisition and loyal Templars as a united front.”

To the Void with that, you think.  Lilith is delusional if she believes you or any sensible person would ally with the Templars.  Something also nags at the back of your mind, something that feels like sadness.  It’s your Friend’s sadness, you realize, and it’s directed at Lilith.  Why? You ask Her, but only receive more of the feeling in response.

“Perhaps,” Mother Superion concedes, but there is doubt in every letter of the word.  To the hooded scout, she says, “Return to Haven.  Someone will need to inform them if we are…” Her lips twist as though reacting to a bad taste.  “Delayed.”

“Yes, Nightingale,” the scout chirps obediently.  She puts her fist over her heart, bows first to Mother Superion, and then to you.  “Good luck, my Lady Herald.  I pray for your success.”

Please don’t, you nearly say, biting your tongue until she’s gone.

“Let’s go,” Mother Superion says to you all.  “Let us see how the game pieces have aligned themselves.”

The square is large and, contrary to its terminology, round.  A small but ostentatious tower sits in its center, surrounded by 4 pedestals topped with large, glittering lions.  Vaguely, you remember that lions are the special animal or whatever for the imperial family, so go figure that they’d fucking line the streets with them.  Shops and fancy apartments mark out the borders of the square, and already you can see faces peering down at you from open windows.

You discover that everyone here is masked.  Men and women both cover their faces to some extent, though not enough to prevent anyone from identifying them if they went without.  Some cover only their eyes or one half of their face, and each mask shines in a variety of colors.  The overall effect is somewhere between comedic and unsettling.  Comedic because wearing such ineffectual masks is so stupid that the jokes write themselves.  Unsettling because the masks accentuate rather than conceal the shock, fear, and intrigue on their owners’ faces as you walk by.

Mother Superion ushers you past the creepy onlookers and toward a large stage at the back of the square.  A woman in Chantry garb stands on it, with other clerics at her back, and several Templars are positioned around it, ostensibly as guards like the scout suggested.  But something doesn’t feel right, which, when discussing Templars, is really saying something.  There’s a coldness in their faces that you know well, but it isn’t directed at you, as they haven’t seen you yet.  They stand tall and stiff, scanning the crowd, giving the impression that they’re waiting for something, and when they finally do see you, their expressions do not change.

“Hold steady,” Mother Superion advises you quietly, as the rest of the crowd catches on.  “That is Revered Mother Hevarra.  She is known for her theatrics, and I believe the show is about to begin.”

The woman on the stage, Hevarra, regards you with arrogance, superiority, and just a hint of fear.  She waits for you to get within a few yards of the stage before speaking.  “Good people of Val Royeaux,” she addresses the crowd.  “Together, we mourn our Divine.  Her naive and beautiful heart silenced by treachery!”  In your peripheral vision, you see Mother Superion’s hands tighten around her cane.  “You wonder what will become of her murderer.  Well, wonder no more!” The woman says, before pointing directly at you.  “Behold, the so-called Herald of Andraste!  Claiming to rise where our beloved Justinia fell.  We say that this is a false prophet!  The Maker would send no mage in our time of need!”  Again, you see Beatrice stiffen in distress, her hands tightening into fists.

The swirling in your gut becomes a whirlpool.  Before the woman can continue her diatribe, you stalk up to the foot of the stage, uncaring of the Templars or the hand Superion puts on your arm to hold you back.  “Oh, shut up!” You yell, eliciting gasps from the crowd.  “You have some balls to stand up there acting high and mighty when all you do is spit self-serving lies.  You agreed to meet with us and this is what you do?  There’s a fucking hole in the sky and demons everywhere, and you’re talking shit about the only people trying to stop it!”  You turn to look at the crowd, who collectively take a step back.  “So what if I’m a mage?  So what if I’m not chosen by the Maker?  Huh?  When the demons come knocking on your door, are you going to debate theology with them?  Will you take satisfaction in sticking by your bullshit biases as they rip you apart?  Or are you gonna get off your asses and help us fix this mess?”

“It’s true!” Mother Superion says, changing her mind and coming to stand at your side.  “The Inquisition seeks only to end this madness before it is too late!”

Heavy, marching footsteps interrupt before either of you can say anything else.  The Templar guards abruptly turn and walk away, heading toward a mass of armored bodies now approaching the stage.  “It is already too late!”  Hevarra says as the horde grows closer.  “The Templars have returned to the Chantry!  They will face this Inquisition and the people will be safe once more!”

The Templars are led by a man in Seeker armor with a hard face and graying hair.  He and another step onto the stage, and at his nod, the second man walks up to Hevarra and punches her square in the face.  She falls to the floor with a cry and the crowd gasps in shock.  You merely blink, your brain taking a second longer to register what just happened.  When it does, you look up at the gray-haired Seeker.

“Bold entrance,” you tell him.  “But who exactly are you trying to impress?”

He sneers down at you.  “Not you, assuredly.”

You cross your arms as a familiar urge wells up inside you: the urge to be a little shit to a Templar.  “Good to hear, because I’m not impressed.  You didn’t even hit her yourself, you just told your one-punch chump to do it.”

His lip curls into a snarl before he turns wordlessly on his heel and starts to march off the stage, leaving the Chantry mother lying there in a heap.  You watch him step down, your body tensed in case he tries to start anything, but it’s for nothing.  Instead, he just keeps walking, until Lilith rushes past you to catch up to him.

“Lord Seeker Lucius,” she says, somewhat breathlessly.  “It is imperative that we speak with—”

“You will not address me,” he spits without looking at her.

She stops in her tracks.  “Lord Seeker?”

Lucius spares her only a glance.  “Creating a heretical movement, raising up a puppet as Andraste’s prophet.  You should be ashamed, Lilith.”  He spits her name like a curse, and she recoils as if struck.  He then looks past her to the crowd, the Chantry clerics, and you.  “You should all be ashamed!  The Templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the mages!  You are the ones who failed.  You who would leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear!  There will be no return.  I will make this Order a force that stands against the void.  We will excise the disease of mages from this world without you!”  He turns to his knights.  “Templars!  Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection!  We march!”

With that, he leaves, the knights falling into formation behind him.  Lilith stands in his wake like a statue, speechless.  You don't know what's going through her head, but you now keenly understand your Friend’s sadness.  Lilith carried a lot of hope with her before coming here, and you just watched this Lucius guy destroy it with one punch.  The deeper irony is not lost on you either.  The knight-captain had been a fool.  If he had only followed orders, he would have gotten exactly what he wanted.  Lilith slew him for deserting, for choosing to fight on his own, only to find out now that the Lord Seeker intends to wage the same war.

You approach her slowly and carefully, coming up next to her where she can see you in her periphery.  Startling her, you think, would be a very bad idea right now.  “Lilith?”  Her hands clench into fists, her gaze lingering on the Lord Seeker’s back as he gets further and further away.

“What is this?” You hear her whisper.  “Has he gone mad?”

And oof, you are so not the right person to be having this conversation.  You gulp to clear your throat before speaking again.  “Do you… know him well?”

She exhales roughly.  “He became our leader after Lord Seeker Lambert’s death.  He’s a good man, he would never… I don’t understand this.”

“Could he calm down enough to talk?”  The question alone puts a bitter taste in your mouth, but truth be told you aren’t asking it seriously.  You ask because you have the increasing sense, punctuated by your Friend’s melancholy, that Lilith may be starting to spiral, and that won’t be good for anyone.

“I… I don’t know,” she admits.

“We’ll find another way.”  It’s all you can think of, but it’s apparently the wrong thing to say, because she flinches, turns on her heel, and storms away, out of the square and back toward the city gates without a word or a glance backward.  You look to your other companions, who seem almost as surprised as you.  Only Mother Superion looks unfazed.  She says something quietly to Camila and pats her shoulder.  Camila smiles gratefully, and then takes off in the same direction.

“I don’t know what I said,” you tell the remaining two helplessly.

Superion sighs.  “I suspect there was nothing you could have said.  We will leave her be for now.  Camila will look after her.”  Her sharp eyes then turn back to the stage.  “We are not finished here just yet.”  You and Beatrice share a look as she leads you both back toward the platform, where Mother Hevarra is struggling to sit up, clutching her face and being doted on by two of the other clerics.  Hevarra’s eyes latch onto Superion.

“This victory must please you greatly, Sister Suzanne,” she hisses, but the words don’t hit the same.  She looks, and sounds, utterly defeated.

Mother Superion shakes her head solemnly.  “We came here only wishing to speak with you and the other Grand Clerics, Hevarra.  I’m afraid that this is your doing, not ours.”

Hevarra scoffs quietly.  “And you had no part in forcing our hand?  You know exactly what you do, you always have.  And now we have been shown up by our own Templars, in front of everyone.  And my fellow clerics have scattered to the wind, along with their convictions.”  She looks at you, and her eyes, cloud gray, hold on yours.  “Just tell me one thing, then.  If you do not believe you are the Maker’s chosen, then what are you?”

Fate’s bitch, you think darkly.  That’s been the story of your life thus far.  “A victim of circumstance,” you rephrase.  “Trying to make the best of things.”

She considers this.  “That is… more comforting than you might imagine.”  She gingerly probes the darkening bruise on her face and winces.  “I suppose it is out of our hands now.  We shall all see what the Maker plans in the days to come.”

“What do you believe about me, really?” You ask, curiosity getting the better of you.

She is silent for a moment, and mournful.  “Our Divine, Her Holiness, is dead.  I have seen evidence for everything except what would comfort me.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

She sighs.  “For you to be true, a great many things must be false.  And if you are false, a great many things must have failed.  I fear your existence will bring chaos, whatever your intentions.”

“Chaos was already here,” you tell her frankly.  “Things aren’t suddenly bad now because of the Breach, or the war.”

“That may be, but I fear what more may come if we are unable to restore normality, return to the way things were before.”

“The way things were before was awful,” you say fiercely.  “Disgusting.  Broken.  There’s no going back to that.”

Mother Superion nods.  “Your words have merit, Ava.  The old way has clearly failed us.  It has created the very situation we find ourselves in now.  It must change, and we must change with it.”

“Are we capable of that?” Hevarra asks.  “After falling so far?”

“Trust in the Maker,” Superion tells her.  “As Her Holiness did when she penned the Writ.”  There is grief in her voice, heavy and thick, but her words don’t falter.

“The one who repents, who has faith, Unshaken by the darkness of the world, she shall know true peace.”  You turn to look at Beatrice in surprise.  She stands with head bowed and one hand over her heart.  A position of prayer.  Seeing it makes your heart hurt, but you don’t know why.

“Well said, Beatrice,” Mother Superion compliments.  To Hevarra, she continues, “Justinia’s faith is the foundation of the Inquisition.  She believed we could find a better way.”

Hevarra shuts her eyes tiredly.  “I hope against hope that she was right.”

The conversation ends on a whimper rather than a bang.  The other clerics help Hevarra to her feet and escort her away, the crowd begins to disperse, and the three of you are left standing alone in the square.

“I cannot say this turned out the way I would have liked,” Mother Superion said.  You snort softly at the obvious understatement.  “But it is good that we came here.  We have learned a great deal from this encounter.”

“Like what?” You ask, brow furrowing.

“About who our true enemies are, for one thing,” she says, before giving you a speculative look that makes you twitch.  “And about ourselves.  While I would have perhaps said it differently, your address to the people was inspired, Ava.  Your passion and sincerity were plain for all to see.”

You blush and scratch at your neck.  “I was just angry.  That’s nothing special.”

“Perhaps, but anger turned to righteous purpose is often the first building block of change.  It is something to be tempered, not suppressed.  You did well.”

In your periphery, you see Beatrice smile at you, warm and encouraging.  Your face heats even more.  Shit, are you sweating again?  “Th-thank you.”

Mother Superion nods briskly.  “You’re welcome.  Now, our business here is concluded.  We should find our wayward duo and return to Haven.”

As you leave the square and make your way past the Maferath statues, a man steps out of the shade to greet you.  “My ladies, if I may have but a moment of your time?”  He smiles warmly at the three of you with his hands clasped behind his back.  He is middle-aged, with light brown skin and thinning, curly hair.  He wears gray robes accented with silver and a sapphire brooch pinned to his chest.

Superion regards him suspiciously.  “A moment, perhaps, but no more, sir.”

“That is all I require.  Thank you, Mother Superion.”  She frowns, visibly unsettled by him knowing her title.  He keeps smiling, turning from her to address you.  “My Lady, I am Enchanter Kristian, formerly of the White Spire, and I am here to extend to you an invitation from Grand Enchanter Jillian Salvius.”

“Jillian Salvius?” Beatrice repeats with a look of shock and unease.  She crosses her arms over her chest and regards him with a piercing stare, imposing as a lioness.  “What business does the leader of the rebellion have with us?”

“We heard that this gathering was taking place, and Jillian asked me to come and observe,” he tells her, unfazed.  “To see if the rumors were true, and to offer an earnest suggestion.”

You cross your arms, trying to mirror Beatrice’s stance.  “A suggestion for what?”

“If you are looking for assistance in stopping the Breach,” he says.  “Then you should perhaps seek it amongst your own kind.”

Your eyebrows shoot up.  “You want to help us stop the Breach?  Why now, when you wouldn’t speak to us before?”

“Before, we didn’t know what to make of you,” he states plainly.  “You emerged quite suddenly after all, freshly in the wake of the Conclave.  After such a shocking turn of events, it was difficult to know who we could trust.  Your arrival in the Hinterlands was especially troubling, but your extraordinary actions there have given us a fuller understanding of the situation.”

“So are you or are you not going to help us?” You ask, cutting past his wordiness to the best of your ability.  You’re sure this guy would get along splendidly with Solas, to the detriment of everyone around them.

“We are willing to discuss it with the Inquisition, at least.  An alliance could help us both,” he says.  “Consider this an invitation to Redcliffe: come meet with your fellow mages, and put aside any Chantry propaganda you may have heard.  Jillian is a formidable and admirable woman, and she understands the threat that the Breach poses.  I have no doubt that we can join our sides and discover the solution together.”  He bows briefly.  “But I have now said my piece.  I won’t ask for any further concession on your time.”  He straightens, and smiles at you again.  “Good day, my Lady Herald.  I hope to see you again soon.”

With that, he leaves, turning down a side street before disappearing out of sight.

“Well, this day gets more interesting by the minute,” Mother Superion says.  She graces you with a wry smirk.  “If there’s one great feat Val Royeaux can claim, it’s that life here is never boring.”

“I don’t trust him,” Beatrice says hotly, her arms still folded over her chest, knuckles white.  “How could he know about the gathering today?  Even if the Chantry had made a public announcement the moment they received our request, that news could not have reached Redcliffe soon enough for them to send an emissary.”

“Likely, he was already in the city, or at least nearby,” Mother Superion speculates calmly.  “Jillian is sure to have spies spread throughout Orlais.  It would be foolish not to, and she is no fool.”

“Do you know her?” You ask curiously.

She shakes her head.  “We have never met, but I know her by reputation.  She did not become Grand Enchanter through luck.”

“Even more reason not to trust her then,” Beatrice insists.  Your brow furrows, and you study her tight-lipped expression.  She’s really worked up about this.

Mother Superion notices too, and rests a hand on her shoulder.  “Calm, Beatrice.  I suggested nothing of the sort.”  Beatrice relaxes under her touch, but only begrudgingly.  “However, the offer is on the table now.  It’s our move, so to speak.  We will have much to discuss upon our return.  Let’s not tarry any longer.”

You find Lilith and Camila waiting at the stables with your horses.  Lilith doesn’t seem any happier, and Camila looks tense, but they don’t protest when told to saddle their horses for departure.  Mud Pie stands patiently while you scramble onto his back again, and you think that maybe you should have been born a horse.  They don’t seem to worry about holes in the sky, political alliances, or saving the world.  It must be nice.

[thomasthetankengine]

10, 11?

10.) if your story is titled, why did you choose that title?

my wip is titled "To Turn Sand Back To Stone" and i thought about it a bit too much. when time is compared to a physical object, sand and stone are very common among them. sands of time, for example, meaning the ever-flowing, ever-changing passage of time. written in stone, meaning that something being fixed and unchanging, even as time passes. so already, i wanted to have a title that included stone and sand somewhere in there, a little dichotomy between changing with time and staying the same despite time.

sand is also just a bunch of very very very little rocks, while stone is stone. a stone, through the process of erosion, or through someone that really wants to break a rock, will eventually become sand. sand, however, doesnt become stone as easily. i mean it does become stone eventually, but its like,,much more complicated than just being worn down or bludgeoned repeatedly with a hammer.

the story follows two opposing ideologies. the beliefs of papillon, that time should be altered according to how anyone sees fit, that it should flow ever-changingly, like sand. and the beliefs of galan, that time should never be altered, that no one should control how the world unfolds, that the passage of time be fixed, like stone. the story begins with papillons beliefs being held by the majority of people, with time travel and constant alterations to history being the norm, and it follows the rising opposition to that.

"To Turn Sand Back To Stone," in other words, "to make an ever-changing timeline fixed again" or "the difficult task of undoing the norm."

11.) give a general summary of the plot/world/characters.

After losing everything at the start of the Great Depression, a salesman by the name Cecil Martins commits suicide. He awakes at The End Of Time, in the headquarters of the Standard Time Timeline Management Agency, where he meets Papillon. Papillon introduces himself as the creator of time travel and the first man to achieve godhood, and he offers Cecil a position at the agency, promising power and control over time in exchange for his services. Cecil decides to join.

Though it's a difficult adjustment at first, Cecil eventually finds his place at the agency. He becomes complicit in the abuse of people from the past and turns his mind away from any moral objections to his own actions and the actions of his colleagues. But it's fine, no? His colleagues are like a family to him, and he had always wanted power and control, long before he was aware of the agency.

It's not fine.

On a mission, he meets a stranger. The stranger introduces himself as Galan, and that he's been watching Cecil for quite some time. Galan bluntly declares that time travel is an affront to the universe and must be eliminated by any means necessary, and that Cecil can either join him in this endeavor or be woefully unprepared for the True Timeline. Cecil declines and tells him that he's insane.

But Cecil's colleagues are slowly beginning to be drawn to Galan's ideas. Perhaps time shouldn't be altered in hindsight. Perhaps I don't need power. Perhaps this is wrong. And as they leave him and the agency to join this revolution, one by one, it becomes apparent that they've been hiding so much from him too.

---

OCverse Ask Game here!

[cleoenfaserum]

RICHARD SIKEN in poetry mode

Richard Siken, born February 15, 1967, is an American poet, painter, and filmmaker. He is the author of the collection Crush (Yale University Press, 2005), and War of the Foxes, was published by Copper Canyon Press in 2015. Richard Siken - Wikipedia

970-1 https://youtu.be/Y0gwY04s1WA

“Piano Lesson”

As read by the poet, Richard Siken

LISTEN AND / OR READ:

Read...

When I was ten, I had an imaginary friend. He lived on pork and beans and played the viola. People would look at us and hear sad music, turn away. That’s pretty much how it was, what it was like, for most of 1977. A viola is slightly larger than a violin. It makes a deeper sound. The cello and the double-bass: larger and deeper still. All, like Pinocchio, have hollow wooden bodies, though Pinocchio has more strings and is hollow only metaphorically. Guitars have strings. Harps also. If a harp lay down and fell asleep and you bludgeoned its dreams with felted hammers, then you would have a piano. If you were wearing a tuxedo, you would have a grand piano. If you knocked a clock to the floor and left it there, on its back, staring at the ceiling, spinning slowly to its own sad music, then you would have a record player. Or a carrousel, if you had horses, or luggage. A table turns into a barricade, a vase into a broken vase. The lazy Susan becomes the place where the lazy Susan used to be. Pinocchio wants to be a real boy. The real boy wants to be a robot. The dream of becoming. By 1699, although there were no pianos, some composers were already anticipating their arrival. Sheet music from the time shows notes too high or low to play on the harpsichord. By 1837, with some refinement of the pedals, a player could sustain the notes even after their hands had moved away. By the time I was eleven, I stopped being sad and started to be afraid.

Richard Siken's poem "PIANO LESSON" explores themes of imagination, transformation, and the complex emotions associated with growing up. Here's a brief analysis:

Imaginary Friend and Isolation: The speaker recalls having an imaginary friend who lived on a diet of pork and beans and played the viola. The imagery suggests a sense of loneliness or isolation, as people would hear sad music and turn away. The speaker's connection with the imaginary friend becomes a defining aspect of the speaker's childhood.

Musical Imagery and Symbolism: The poem uses musical instruments as symbols throughout. The viola, cello, double-bass, guitar, harp, and piano are all introduced, each with its unique characteristics. The progression from smaller to larger instruments may symbolize the speaker's evolving understanding of the world or the deepening of emotions.

Metaphorical Descriptions: The poem includes metaphorical descriptions, such as comparing a harp to a piano or a record player. These comparisons contribute to the dreamlike and imaginative atmosphere of the poem. The mention of Pinocchio adds another layer of symbolism, highlighting themes of transformation and the desire for authenticity.

Transformation and Dreams: The poem touches on the theme of transformation, as seen in the mention of Pinocchio wanting to become a real boy and a real boy wanting to become a robot. This exploration of identity and the dream of becoming suggests a complex relationship with self-discovery and personal growth.

Historical Context: The poem briefly delves into the history of pianos, mentioning their anticipation by composers in 1699 and the refinement of pedals by 1837. This historical context adds a layer of sophistication to the poem, connecting personal experiences with broader cultural and historical developments.

Shift in Emotions: The poem concludes with a significant shift in emotions. The speaker transitions from a nostalgic reflection on childhood and imagination to a more ominous tone, stating that by the age of eleven, they stopped being sad and started to be afraid. This shift suggests a turning point in the speaker's emotional journey, possibly related to the challenges and uncertainties of adolescence.

Overall, "PIANO LESSON" blends vivid imagery, musical symbolism, and personal reflection to create a multi-layered exploration of childhood, imagination, and the complexities of growing up.

[definitelynotgideon]

This is a Genya Shinazugawa x OC (Gideon Azulyss) MLM Fic 🏳️‍🌈

CW/ Strong Language but otherwise pretty clean/triggerless

Word Count: 1,036

The Demons We Face | Chapter 2, Bread

Gideon remained frozen in place, still clutching the fabric of his kimono as he watched the door nervously. What was that just now? 

He got dressed, still nervously watching for the door to slam open again for round two. 

Meanwhile, Genya Shinazugawa had paced angrily outside, rain be damned. He found an awning to stand under, around the back of the wisteria house. 

It wasn't fucking fair. He thought he'd be doing this mission solo, further proving his worth to move up the ranks. Instead, he was paired up with another slayer. Why didn't the master trust him to handle it? Hadn't he proven himself over and over again, and without fancy breathing styles no less? He worked hard to advance… 

He slumped against the house, arms crossed and eyes closed as he lightly knocked his head against the wall from the back.

Gideon was a slayer he knew about. He made it a point to know his competition for the Hashira rank. They'd never spoken, but Gideon had been in the butterfly mansion a handful of times while Genya was in, and he overheard the caterpillars talk about him plenty of times.

He sounded overrated. Everything he heard about him. And then to see him a handful of times just look sick or anxious while in recovery, he wondered if he was even the same fucking guy the little girls bragged up. Like…

Who in the hell just… fights demons, bludgeoning them with a hammer or swinging so hard and fast he could decapitate them- and no, he didn't give a shit if it was true he'd believe it when he saw it- and then just… Acts the way that he does? The girls were always talking about how much he hated the mansion and how they didn't really know why. Probably just an ungrateful bastard. 

Anyway, Genya was annoyed. He huffed a visible breath into the cool night air as the rain picked up around his bit of shelter. He should probably go back inside. A small part of him, a tiny part, felt bad for being so harsh towards the dork. Not like he felt the need to apologize but… if he had to share, he had to share. 

He walked through the rain, getting soaked in the process. He didn't really mind, he'd not settle in for bed right away so he'd have time to dry. 

Gideon, as promised, had settled into bed. He'd taken the furthest futon, the one that didn't have Genya's belongings nearby it. Hammer within reach, he turned to face away from the door and closed his eyes. 

Genya, this time around, entered the room cautiously. Eyeing Gideon's resting form, he carefully walked over to the writing desk in the room so that he could journal. He was about to start writing when he heard a very specific sound emit from his roommate…

His stomach had growled. Loudly. Gideon blushed and clutched his stomach, curling into a bit of a ball under his blankets. He would try to ignore it. 

Genya blinked a couple of times. He said he wasn't hungry before. Was he really trying to avoid me? Not that Genya had made it easy on him to join the meal… but still, if he was hungry why didn't he say something different to the hostess? 

His stomach would growl all night if he didn't have dinner. 

Rather than scold him verbally, Genya sort of defaulted to what he knew. He quietly exited the room, grabbing up some sweet bread from the kitchen area. He was quiet again as he re-entered. 

“...Are you awake?” 

Gideon shifted, taking a moment to respond, but after a moment he said “Yes.” 

Genya walked over to the side he was facing, crouching down and holding the bread out to him. He averted his eyes, almost looking bashful about doing such an act. “Here.”

Gideon smelled the bread before he saw it, peeking a jade eye open to view the offering. He emerged slightly from his cover cocoon, looking from the bread to Genya's face briefly. 

How kind of him…

“...Thank you.” He said simply, taking the bread from him and eating it gratefully. Genya didn't stick around, getting back to his feet and returning to his journal entry. 

Gideon turns over after finishing the bread to face where Genya is knelt. “...How do you know so much about me?” He asks. 

Genya turns to look at him, his stare less harsh than before but still intense. Gideon follows up:

“I just… feel bad. We've never met. I don't know your name but somehow you know mine.” 

Genya thinks for a moment. “...I spend a lot of time at the mansion. The caterpillars talk about you a lot. Not many other corps members fit your description…” he shrugged, looking back to his journal. 

“And… My name is Genya.”

Genya Shinazugawa. 

Gideon smiles, settling back into his futon. “Nice to meet you, Genya.” He says, getting comfortable and closing his eyes once more. 

Genya spares him one last glance to see that he's settled back in for sleep. He looks serene… silver hair in somewhat messy fashion resting over his fair face… 

And while Genya is still irked that he can't do this mission solo, at least Gideon doesn't seem to be a shitty ally. Not completely annoying, not too bad to look at. Plus if he really could fight efficiently with the hammer at his side… maybe their team up was designed with different methods of combat in mind. 

Genya closes his journal, softly chanting ‘Namu Amida Butsu’ under his breath before making his way over to his own futon.

He laid on his side, facing the now sleeping Gideon across the floor. He realized he was staring at him, watching his sleeping form rise and fall like a gentle tide, hearing his breaths long and full… once he realized it, he scolded himself, blushing slightly as he turned over to go to sleep. 

It was a mindless action… so why did it fluster him so much?

Genya fell asleep slowly, the soft image of Gideon's eyes looking up to him gratefully playing over and over again… He'd seen that look before.

[v-l-d-s]

Warden

As a warden, you gain the following class features: HIT POINTS Hit Dice: 1d10 per warden level Hit Points at 1st Level: 10 + your Constitution modifier Hit Points at Higher Levels: 1d10 (or 6) + your Constitution modifier per warden level after 1st

PROFICIENCIES Armor: Light armor, medium armor, shields Weapons: Simple weapons, martial weapons Tools: None Saving Throws: Strength, Constitution Skills: Choose two from Animal Handling, Athletics, Nature, Perception, and Survival

EQUIPMENT You start with the following equipment, in addition to the equipment granted by your background:

• A shield and any martial weapon • (a) chain shirt, (b) leather armor and a spear, or (c) chain mail (if proficient) • (a) two light hammers or (b) any simple melee weapon • (a) a dungeoneer’s pack or (b) an explorer’s pack

Sentinel’s Stand Wardens are towers that cannot easily be felled. At 1st level, choose one of the following features. ARMOR PROFICIENCY: You gain proficiency with heavy armor. PRIMAL TOUGHNESS: Your hit point maximum increases by 1 + your Constitution modifier, and it increases by 1 every time you gain a level in this class. STALWART SPIRIT: You gain proficiency in one saving throw of your choice.

Warden’s Grasp At 1st level, as a bonus action, you can use the force of your daunting presence to ensnare nearby enemies into combat. Until the start of your next turn, you can’t move, and each Large or smaller creature you choose within 5 feet of you can’t willingly move away from you unless it first takes the Disengage action. At 14th level, the range of this ability increases to 10 feet.

Fighting Style At 2nd level, you adopt a style of fighting as your specialty. Choose one of the following options. You can’t take a Fighting Style option more than once, even if you later get to choose again. CRIPPLING: When you hit a creature with a melee weapon attack, its speed is reduced by 10 feet, to a minimum of 0, until the end of its next turn, and it can’t take the Dash action until the end of its turn. GREAT WEAPON FIGHTING: When you roll a 1 or 2 on a damage die for an attack you make with a melee weapon that you are wielding with two hands, you can reroll the die and must use the new roll, even if the new roll is a 1 or a 2. The weapon must have the two-handed or versatile property for you to gain this benefit. PROTECTION: When a creature you can see attacks a target other than you that is within 5 feet of you, you can use your reaction to impose disadvantage on the attack roll. You must be wielding a weapon or shield. TITAN FIGHTING: You gain a +2 bonus to melee weapon attack rolls you make against Large or larger creatures.

Warden’s Mark At 2nd level, you can use your bonus action to mark a creature you can see within 30 feet of you. While a marked creature is within 5 feet of you, it has disadvantage on any attack roll that doesn’t target you. The mark lasts for 1 minute, or until you mark another creature, become incapacitated, or die. At 11th level, whenever you take the Attack action on your turn, you can make one additional attack as part of that action against a creature you have marked.

Champion’s Call By the time you reach 3rd level, you feel the inexorable pull of an important duty or task that you assume as your own. No outside force compels your choice or enforces your conduct; if you fail in your charge, you alone are responsible. Choose your Champion’s Call. Your choice grants you features at 3rd level and again at 6th, 13th, and 20th level.

Warden’s Resolve Starting at 3rd level, whenever your hit points are less than half your maximum, you have resistance to bludgeoning, piercing, and slashing damage. Starting at 17th level, when your hit points are less than half your maximum, you have resistance to all damage except psychic damage.

Ability Score Improvement When you reach 4th level, and again at 8th, 12th, 16th, and 19th level, you can increase one ability score of your choice by 2, or you can increase two ability scores of your choice by 1. As normal, you can’t increase an ability score above 20 using this feature.

Font of Life By 4th level, you can use your action to end either one disease or one condition afflicting you. The condition can be blinded, charmed, deafened, frightened, paralyzed, or poisoned. You can use this action even if the condition you end would otherwise prevent it. Once you use this ability, you must finish a short or long rest before you can use it again. Starting at 15th level, when you use this feature, you can choose to restore your hit points to half your maximum, if they were lower. Once you restore your hit points in this way, you can’t do so again until you finish a long rest.

Extra Attack Beginning at 5th level, you can attack twice, instead of once, whenever you take the Attack action on your turn.

Sentinel’s Step Wardens are faultless trackers who can navigate hazardous terrain with ease. At 7th level, select one of the following features. EARTHSTRENGTH: You possess the might of the earth itself. Your carrying capacity doubles, and you have advantage on ability checks and saving throws against being pushed against your will or knocked prone. THUNDERING CHARGE: In the first round of combat, your speed increases by 30 feet and you have advantage on the first melee weapon attack you make. WILDBLOOD: Your reflexes have been honed by the perils of nature. You can’t be surprised while you are conscious. Additionally, you have a +5 bonus to your passive Wisdom (Perception) and passive Intelligence (Investigation) scores.

Undying At 9th level, when you are reduced to 0 hit points and aren’t killed outright, you can choose to drop to 1 hit point instead. Once you use this feature, you can’t use it again until you finish a long rest.

Interrupt Starting at 10th level, as a reaction when a creature within 5 feet of you makes a melee attack against you, you can punctuate its strikes. After that attack, the creature can make one less attack than normal on this turn.

Sentinel’s Soul Wardens are unshakable guardians that cannot be bowed. At 18th level, choose one of the following features: AGELESS GUARDIAN: You are immune to poison and disease, no longer need food or water, suffer none of the frailty of old age, and can’t be aged magically. You can still die of old age, however. Additionally, you have advantage on Constitution saving throws. EYES OF THE MOUNTAIN: You gain tremorsense with a range of 15 feet, and you can detect the presence of hidden or invisible creatures within 30 feet of you. Additionally, you have advantage on Dexterity saving throws. IMPENETRABLE MIND: Your thoughts can’t be read, and you can’t be charmed or frightened. Additionally, you have advantage on Wisdom saving throws.

[painsandconfusion]

Febuwhump Masterpost

Shea makes bad time-management decisions 3.0

Since people are sharing this, click here for an updated version of this post (I’ll be adding to it daily until the event is done and rbs freeze it)

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Febuwhump First:

[Prompt: Headwound]

(tw: unhinged/unpredictable whumper, creepy whumper, yandere?, broken glass cuts, head wound, blood loss, barefoot on glass, punishment, concussion, forced comfort)

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Febuwhump Second:

[Prompt: Failed Rescue]

(tw: knife, death threats, kidnapping, stress position, traumatized whumpee, failed rescue, some kinda strong vampire vibes)

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Febuwhump Third:

[Prompt: Blood Loss]

(forced/dubcon comfort, hypothermia, creepy whumper, stockholm syndrome, implied kidnapping)

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Febuwhump Fourth:

[Prompt: Nightmares]

(tw: nightmare (hands grabbing - sinking), kidnapping, restrained (tied to a bed), manhandling)

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Febuwhump Fifth:

[Prompt: Let Mee See]

(tw: yander whumper, caught, manhandling, implied threat to break bones)

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Febuwhump Sixth:

[Prompt: Hypothermia]

(tw: mild gore, heavily implied future character death, unhinged whumper (this dude has almost completely lost touch with reality), hypothermia, severe frostbite, flesh and skin ripping off - vague gore in that way, restraints, manhandling, whumpee won't survive this)

Same whumper as in this scene.

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Febuwhump Seventh:

[Prompt: Used as an Experiment]

(tw: almost kinda attempted murder, hostage, restraints, blood/knife mention /threat, fear of death and impalement)

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Febuwhump Eighth:

[Prompt: No Anesthesia]

(tw: fear of death, gangrene (flesh rotting), amputation, crush injuries, broken bones (hammer 1, foot 0), long term captivity, dungeon cell, shackle restraints, tons of pain or whatever)

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Febuwhump Ninth:

[Prompt: Kidnapped]

(tw: recapture, falling back to conditioning, the permeating sadness of a good day being ruined, kidnapping, locked in a trunk (claustrophobia trigger))

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Febuwhump Tenth:

[Prompt: "How Long Has It Been?"]

(tw: very very very very very very very bad caretaking, language, domestic violence referenced, strangulation, manhandling, kidnapping, caretaker turned whumper, maybe masochistic whumpee (its not but same triggers apply), degradation, gaslighting)

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Febuwhump Eleventh:

[Prompt: "Chronic Pain"]

(tw: recapture, conditioned whumpee (falling back into conditioning), constant pain)

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Febuwhump Twelfth:

[Spiked Drink]

(tw: spiked drink (obv...), drugging, kidnapping, implied danger of noncon/rape (nothing active), degradation, loss of autonomy)

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Febuwhump Thirteenth:

[Won't Regain Conciousness]

(tw: death (not just the killing, we have a corpse and it gets massacred), helplessness, failed resuscitation, broken ribs/other bones, god complex, desperation/panic, snuff film, and again - I cannot stress this enough - mutilating a corpse)

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Febuwhump Fourteenth:

[Can't Go Home]

(tw: kidnapping threat, recovering/recovered whumpee, stalking, threats, blatant disregard for traffic laws)

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Febuwhump Fifteenth:

[Hidden Scars]

(tw: kidnapping, general depressive and anxious headspace, mention of abuse, torture, injury, trauma etc, electrocution, sadism, blood, murder)

.

Febuwhump Sixteenth:

[Does That Hurt?]

(tw: cutting/kinfe, teasing, sadistic whumper, condescension, implied kidnapping, restraints, blood)

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Febuwhump Seventeenth:

[Buried Alive]

(tw: vampiresssss, vampire hunters, murder, forced to kill, heavily implied kidnapping, lots of unbidden unintentional sexual undertones (idk, its vampires, man), noncon touch, manhandling, strangulation, cemetery, lets say domestic violence?)

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Febuwhump Eighteenth:

[Forced to Watch]

(tw: phobia whumper - so this means panic attacks (just the start of one) and phobias, eisoptrophobia/extreme fear of mirrors, long term captivity, restraints(handcuffs), recorded whump, punishment, intimate whumper)

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Febuwhump Ninteenth:

[Delirium]

(tw: phobia (fear of sleep), hallucinations, murder, major character death, panic attack, bludgeoning, creepy hands that maybe drag you to the afterlife)

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Febuwhump Twentieth:

[Caged]

(tw: pet whump, cage, belting/beating, condescension)

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Febuwhump Tweny-first:

[Help Them]

(tw: long term captivity, helpless/useless caretaker, fever/delirium, unconsciousness, threat of death, infection, no nsfw themes but could be read as such)

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Febuwhump Twenty-second:

[Restrained]

(tw: merinthophobia (fear of restraint - reminiscent of claustrophobia), panic attack, hyperventilation, intimate whumper, forced comfort, forced to beg, phobia, cellophane mummy? is that a thing? it is now.)

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Febuwhump Twenty-third:

[Don't Leave]

(tw: blood loss, forced comfort, conditioned whumpee, intimate whumper, torture mention)

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Febuwhump Twenty-fourth:

[Too Weak To Move]

(sparring, bruised ribs, just a really bad hit I guess, language)

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Febuwhump Twenty-fifth:

[Muffled Screams]

(tw: intimate/creepy whumper, implied kidnapping and/or torture, manhandling, gaged with a hand (? eh, sure.), recapture, condescension, a sprinkling of PTSD, and complete and utter disregard for whumpee's sleep schedule)

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Febuwhump Twenty-sixth:

[Please Don't Do This]

(tw: kidnapping, restraints, murder mention, lots of needless flirting, intimate/creepy whumper, stress position, implied torture, knife)

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Febuwhump Twenty-seventh:

[Shower Breakdown]

(tw: implied domestic abuse, male whumper, dubcon kiss/touch, nudity (unsexy - vague shower), lots of depression, sad deforestation thoughts)

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Febuwhump Twenty-eighth:

[Presumed Dead]

(tw: nightmare, strangulation, death mention, ptsd, implied kidnapping/recapture, depression, denial/delusion/repression, a light sprinkling of existential dread)

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[Febuwhump Masterlist]

Thanks @febuwhump for putting together this event!!!

(tags: @prisonerwhump @whumpawink @mabledonut @paleassprince @distinctlywhumpthing @tropes-for-my-md-daydreams @batfacedliar-yetagain @suspicious-whumping-egg @wormwriting @jadeocean46910 @villainsvictim @thecitythatdoesntsleep @heathenwhump @cryptidhongo @rainbows-and-whumperflies @bookish-anon @whumpy-catfish @whumpworld @bandages-andobsessions @deltaxxk)

I never know who to tag at the beginning of challenges like this, so lmk if you want to be added or removed from any tag lists!

[lacunafiction]

literally everything you post about J makes me 🥺😢😢😢

i am really looking forward to loving the shit outta them (and then going for round two, where i team up with R to smother them with double the affection)

Hi Anon,

I hope you're doing well. 💚

Aw, so many pouty and tearful emojis in one sentence. 😊

I'm glad that you're looking forward to J's romance; they could use some love! Also, the fact that you're planning to tag team them with R is precious (there can be some angst on the poly route, but it's worth it) and makes me excited for you to experience the difference.

I've included an edited J code snippet below that comes from...Well, it comes from Chapter 7 (<.< ), but yay for slight spoilers? This is just one section of a few pages relating to a choice the MC can make that I am fond of... 👀

Best wishes!

"I don't want to crowd anyone, so I am waiting," J replies, somewhat surprised you came over to check on them.

"Then I guess I'll wait too..."

J does turn to face you properly at that statement, unsure of what you mean by it and if they possibly heard you wrong, though the thought of asking for clarification causes them to hesitate. Are you really waiting for them...? The very start of a soft smile buckles under their nerves and self-doubt, bludgeoned into a thin, inscrutable line like tempered steel being hammered out into something stronger that is less malleable and impressionable. "That is considerate, but please, after you-" a hand gestures to the corner booth that is mostly filled at this point. "I don't mind being last, MC. You know that..."

You aren't going to be able to win a debate over seating convention, so you go first, sliding into the booth with J following behind at a slower pace.

[paperanddice]

The brighthammer avenger is another dangerous dream, but less innately hostile than many. It loves combat and seeks out battle wherever possible, but they are not dedicated to the destruction of non-dreams the way many battle loving dreams are. They wish to challenge the greatest foes, and while in many cases that pits them against humanoid and other natural foes, sometimes if a large host of aberrant nightmares approaches an avenger will join the battle against the nightmares for the more exciting fight.

Appearing in the form of an ogre sized humanoid with massive wings, a bestial face and fur covered forearms, these avengers always wield a sword and a hammer with no armor. Their exact clothing arrangement and animal face usually matches what would be expected in the area they manifested, matching local clothing styles and taking the face of some feared creature in the region. They also usually speak languages that the locals would be familiar with, though somewhat limited by their monstrous jaws. There's usually something slightly off in the animal features, marking their unnatural origin. The consistency in their weapons is another suggestion that these manifested dreams are drawing from a common source, even if the specifics vary a bit.

In alternate settings, the brighthammer avenger may be a giant, monstrosity, or even a humanoid, depending on the role you'd like for them to take in your story.

Originally from the Dreamblade Base Set. This post came out a week ago on my Patreon. If you want to get access to all my monster conversions early, as well as access to my premade adventures and other material I'm working on, consider backing me there!

5th Edition

Brighthammer Avenger Large aberration, unaligned Armor Class 17 Hit Points 133 (14d10 + 56) Speed 30 ft., fly 30 ft. Str 18 (+4) Dex 16 (+3) Con 18 (+4) Int 8 (-1) Wis 14 (+2) Cha 13 (+1) Skills Athletics +7 Senses passive Perception 12 Languages any two languages Challenge 6 (2300 XP) Charge (1/Turn). If the avenger flies at least 20 feet straight toward a target and then hits it with a melee weapon attack on the same turn, the attack deals an extra 9 (2d8) damage. Unarmored Defense. The avenger's AC includes its Constitution bonus. Actions Multiattack. The avenger makes two attacks: one with its Longsword and one with its Warhammer. Longsword. Melee Weapon Attack: +7 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target. Hit: 13 (2d8+4) slashing damage. If the target is a creature other than an undead or a construct, it must succeed on a DC 15 Constitution saving throw or lose 4 (1d8) hit points at the start of each of its turns due to a bleeding wound. The target can repeat the saving throw at the end of each of its turns, ending the effect on itself on a success. The wound also closes if any creature takes an action to stanch the wound with a successful DC 12 Wisdom (Medicine) check, or if the target receives magical healing. Warhammer. Melee Weapon Attack: +7 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target. Hit: 13 (2d8+4) bludgeoning damage. If the target is a Medium or smaller creature, it must succeed on a DC 15 Strength saving throw or be pushed 5 feet away from the avenger. If the saving throw fails by 5 or more, the target is also knocked prone.

13th Age

Brighthammer Avenger  Large 3rd level wrecker [aberration]  Initiative: +7 Bleeding Sword +8 vs. AC - 8 damage plus 5 ongoing damage Natural Even Hit: The avenger can make a brighthammer attack as a quick action this turn. Brighthammer +8 vs. AC - 12 damage and the target is dazed (save ends) Natural Even Hit: The avenger can make a bleeding sword attack as a quick action this turn. [Special Trigger] Whirlwind of Weapons +10 vs. AC - 25 damage Natural Even Hit: The target also takes 5 ongoing damage. Natural Odd Hit: The target is also dazed (save ends). Beating Wings Charge: If the avenger is unengaged and moves to engage an enemy it can make a whirlwind of weapons attack as a standard action. Building Tempo: When the escalation die is 6, the avenger can make whirlwind of weapons attacks as a standard action. Flight. AC 18 PD 16 MD 13 HP 96

[dailyadventureprompts]

Villain: !rhu-nyJi , Outer God of Anathematic Architecture

“I thought I’d seen it all, yeknow? Chaos spirits, Mad titans, mage-gods that could remake reality.....You delve into the forbidden lore deep enough and you sort of get numb to the weirdness after a while. That thing though.... there’s a line that even I won’t cross... and it starts just short of my prospective patron giving me mercury poisoning and turning my bones to chalk by way of a friendly introduction.” 

-Taken from the Memoirs of Valgreif the odious, dark lord (retired)

Adventure Hooks: 

Fraught with difficulty and delay, the construction of a grand cathedral comes to yet another halt as it appears the master architect has suffered a mental break: attaining builders with a hammer and walling himself up inside the most secure.    The duke who's footing the bill foe this project is tired of the endless complications that have seen this great work of architecture stalled since his grandmother laid the foundations, and is eagr to finish the project with or without his architect's cooperation.    Sending in the party to investigate, our heroes must hunt a chisel and bludgeon wielding madman while navigating increasingly impalpable passages that alternate between claustrophobic and absurd.

A grand festival is marred by a grisly series of murders, Bodies found Dismembered, parts hanging from thin wire and posed in eerie tableaus in grim imitation of Celebration and dance. Following the clues, the party discovers the murderer is a harmless seeming old woman, a master puppeteer invited to perform at the town's behest but disappearing on the eve of her performance.    Confronting the inexplicably murderous granny, the party discovers that her body is as dead and strung up as her victims, piloted about by a murderous tangle of metallic wire that seems intent on continuing its macabre art.

Something is wrong in the city’s poorest slum. Everyone can feel it: the alleys that twist their shape when no one is looking, or the slight taste of blood in the public fountains, not to mention the disappearances, not that anyone with the power to do anything about it cares. Or atleat they won’t not until several of the district’s derelict buildings inexplicably pick themselves up and go marauding through surrounding neighborhoods, looking to demolish other buildings and acquire their lotspace like a mob of hermitcrabs fighting over shells. 

Setup: Called the Dancer in Calamity, the Kinnabari jester, architect of unmaking, or the Lord of toppled towers, the outer-god known as !rhu-nyji is perhaps one of the most outwardly destructive forces of the multiverse.  A reckless world shaper who wishes to subvert all structure and hierarchy ( be it social, divine, architectural, biological, etc), all of reality is like hot wax in the red-titan’s influence, malleable and pleasing to mold. 

Inexplicable even by the standards of most other extraplanar beings, !rhu-nyji’s influence governs those who’s lives dissolve into paradox: artists that destroy, doctors that harm, or rulers who abuse their populace. Those who wish to disrupt the cosmic order are also drawn into the Dancer’s service, whether they be heretics who wish to subvert the will of the gods, or aberrations who find common reality to be displeasing to their form.  

Cities and other mass constructions seem to hold a fascination for the red titan, who delights in corrupting sturdy, reliable structures into shifting, hostile places.   Brick and metal transmute to bone and gristle, and vise versa. Floorplans sprout new rooms like malignant growths, and gravity becomes a subjective flourish of the architecture. 

Taking on  myriad forms throughout its appearances in cosmic history, !rhu-nyji’s representation seems to default most often to that of a faceless colossus twisting under its own impossible anatomy, flowing freely between a tower of ruddy stone, skittering insectoid,  and imposing behemoth.   In this form the outer-god earned its “dancer “ dancer title as it gleefully rampaged through great cities across the multiverse, raining down abstract chaos like some form of post modern kaiju

In all its forms, !rhu-nyji has cinnabar coloured not-flesh, mercurial blood, and a hollow void in place of a face, strung with metallic wires like a cancerous piano. Distaining the use of actual words, the lord of toppled towers communicates in jaunty plucking or high tensile sawing noises that scar its intent into the listener’s mind. 

( Also, a small matter of the name and its pronunciation: When I was creating this creature I knew I wanted its name to be able to be written upside down and backwards, and while I came up with a few different variants: I delighted the idea with using an exclamation mark as an inverse i .  For those unfamiliar, the ! when included in a name indicates a click consonant from the top of the mouth.  If you have trouble making the noise, the entity’s name can be pronounced as “ Tey-rhu-nee-ge”, or you could use some of my earlier itterations:  Oroxojo, or Al,dopl’v) 

This post is dedicated to @we-are-cultist, fellow eldritch enthusiast and friend of the blog. Go check out their stuff, along with the rest of the @weareadventurers collective for some great content!

[therealieblog]

Health At Every Size - Thoughts

Despite the name of this blog, I hadn’t actually ever read Health At Every Size by Linda Bacon. I’d read the HAES mission statement, I’d read their tenants. But I’d never read the actual book. I have to say, eight or so chapters in, I can honstly say that my mind is blown. 

There’s a lot about this book that might be triggering to people just starting out on an IE journey, as it is health focused, and health is a hammer that has been used to bludgeon fat people all their lives, so the association with hearing about ways to improve overall health often trips off reminiscences of family and friends, encouraging, shaming or badgering us into diets. 

Also, the book uses words that we’ve outgrown. “Obese” and “Overweight” being among them. Also, there are some possibly triggering descriptions of animal harm in the form of many studies mentioned that are done on rats, so rat lovers beware. I’ll put the rest under a spoiler, but regardless of its minor flaws, I am finding this book life changing. One chapter only goes into detail about dietary changes they say you could make if you wanted to in order to improve mood and overall health, but there are warnings all over the beginning of the chapter that if you think you might turn this information into another diet, to please just skip it. I listened to it and will actually be trying to make some of the suggested changes. 

The book talks extensively about multiple research studies on a wide range of populations that prove that there’s no significant link between weight alone and poor health. If a fat individual exercises or gets regular movement into their day, doesn’t smoke, drink or do drugs to excess, hydrates adequately and eats a wide range of foods, including plenty of vegetables, they are just as healthy as a thin person. Weight hardly mattered as a factor when these other things are controlled for, and thinner people have just as many complications from unhealthy behaviors as fat people do. 

This was truly mind blowing to me. Health is really about healthy behaviors, not weight. And the “War on Obesity” America has been waging should have stopped decades ago. Our weight as a country has leveled out. More people are not getting fatter, so where’s the fanfare? Why aren’t we celebrating, rather than pushing more diets? 

The book brings up, picks apart and destroys nearly every dieting myth out there, and scientifically breaks down why diets make people fatter. Why diets don’t work, and why they are horrible for your body. Also it lambasts barriatric surgery, but I won’t go into that as it gets graphic and upsetting quickly. 

I chose to listen to the chapter on improving health through dietary changes, because I have six years of not-dieting and studying Intuitive Eating under my belt and I feel pretty natural and comfortable around food. It seems like the last bastion of my negative feelings surrounding weight and food, deal with worries that I’m degrading my health by being fat. Health At Every Size sort of blew that out of the water. Still, I don’t feel good in my body. I am achy and fatigued a lot, and I’m tired of having painful joints and stomach issues. 

The chapter mainly boiled down to a few general suggestions to improve health. The book was also very clear that these suggestions should not be turned into new food rules, and should be followed only if desired. DO NOT STOP EATING FOODS YOU LOVE, was stated loud and clear several times. 

1. Cut back on animal fats and rely more on vegetable fats. Especially monosaturated fats. Avoid trans fats. 

2. Drink drinks and eat foods (when possible) sweetened with glucose, rather than fructose, as glucose is more readily used by the body, rather than stored like fructose.

3. Eat more fresh fruits and vegetables. This can be on top of a meat eater’s diet, but the book stated that making your food “mostly plants” is ideal. This I found a bit triggering and would never suggest this for anyone struggling with disordered eating issues, or anyone who was not absolutely bonkers for vegetables. I for example, am bonkers for vegetables, and eat them relatively often, but don’t really like fruit all that much and rarely eat it. Also, raw vegetables often give me stomach issues if I eat them too much, so this advice really must be tailored to each person. 

4. Exercise regularly. With the caveat that you may not be able to due to limitations of time, ability or finances. And “exercise” could mean cleaning the house, dancing, taking a walk, doing some yoga. Not killing yourself at the gym. 

That was basically it. I decided to invest in some vegan butter, some couscous (which I already love), and some brown rice. I will not be replacing my cheeses (also favorites) with vegan cheeses. That wouldn’t be feasible or enjoyable for me. Nor can I cut back on meat, as meat protein is one of the only foods that won’t cause me stomach issues. I am curios to see what these additions and substitutions will affect me. 

I’ll update this blog with new info when I read it, but so far, I am very impressed.