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fairytaleinagem · 1 month

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currently dying of "creativity under my skin but no motivation in my soul" disease, anyways here's a short story and a new divider! testing smth out for my post aesthetics

TW: SMOKING (though not very detailed)

Despite the looming deadline of another report of Zenith's progress (both in skill and memory recovery), Andrei couldn't help but stop at the sound of laughter, raucous and echoing from one of the various rooms within the Training District. His brows furrowed. For once, he wanted to join in. To smoothly enter whatever conversation was happening and to laugh with others. Make them laugh, maybe. God, wouldn't that be a shift in energy? Something that many of the others say he lacks.

And that urge is probably why he found himself walking into a room, peeking around the corner to see those who were scheduled to tutor Zenith today; Aeva, Akina, and Marcelo. It was more likely that they volunteered—they were always around the kid, flocking around them like moths to a lamp. That, and their evident skill of melee and physical attacks. Zenith had yet to fully take down Marcelo, but they have proven themself to be a quick learner, lasting longer and longer each fight that was initiated. They might even be able to move up to Aeva's level soon.

"Researcher Andrei. Were we too loud again?" a flat voice snapped him out of his slight daze, and he found himself wondering when he had walked right up to the four, standing behind them with his arms crossed. Zenith stared at him, dark green eyes staring into his own green ones.

"Oh, Andrei! Didn't notice you were around the District! What's up, man?" Marcelo greeted, a toothy grin spreading across his face as he wrapped a slightly sweaty arm around his shoulders. He grimaced at the feeling of fabric being dampened by it, but he shook it off like he shrugged off Marcelo's arm.

"I was on my way to send in a report, but you seem particularly joyous today. Any reason for that?" he asks, raising an eyebrow, looking at Akina for an answer.

"Hah! We're just teaching Zen to axe throw! And suffice to say, they're doing a great job at it!" she exclaims, a sunny grin on her face. It matches Marcelo's, and soon Aeva's face begins to shine with a similarly bright smile.

"Hell yeah they are. Pretty sick at aiming, I'd say. Almost better than I am," Aeva said, punching Zenith's arm with a wink. A short, nervous chuckle leaves them, and Andrei could almost feel the sharp pain that definitely goes through their arm.

"Hm. Mind if you show me?"

A possible update to the report that was due soon—he was glad that he tends to write notes as he goes, he couldn't imagine the stress that would be coursing through his veins if he didn't.

Zenith nods, hefting an axe nearby with two hands, before walking a bit away from the group. They stand a few feet away from the target board, and a dense aura of immediate focus and calculation rippled throughout the air, entering Andrei's head. A familiar feeling.

"The use of a Special Skill?" he muttered, brows furrowing as he noted it down in the holographic report. This new development could help lead towards finding an identity match for Zenith—something the Conglomerate has been waiting on for weeks. Impatient bastards. It was also an update on their progress. Signs of a Special Skill could help progress them even further than they were originally! The four watched as the axe was thrown, landing directly in the middle.

Bullseye.

Aeva, Akina, and Marcelo cheered, rushing over to jostle the poor kid around. They cheered and laughed, much like they did earlier when he was merely passing by.

Despite his stable position as a researcher and Epitome within the Company, Andrei couldn't help but feel…hurt. Something inside him ached. His arms twitched as he barely suppressed the urge to jump on the four in a giant hug, no matter if three of them were much taller than he was. With clenched fists, he begins to back away. Back out of the room. Out of the identical white hallways that were beginning to become blurry, and out of the nearly never ending Training District entirely. By the time he stepped foot inside the Residential District, the ache had grown into something terrible. His lungs stuttered as he Flicked into his room, and he could barely feel the fabric of the bed that he fell into. There was no telling how long he laid there, eyes wide with an emotion that was entirely new to him. No. He knew what it was. What was it doing within him? Poisoning his mind, so quickly and quietly?

A dizzying sit-up later, he yanked the bedside drawer open, fingers fumbling as he nearly dropped the box of Vigorettes and lighter. He pulled a Vigorette out and lit it, inhaling the smoke as quickly as he could. He nearly choked on it. The uncharacteristic panic smoothed out into a careless daze the longer he smoked.

Maybe this is why the others said he had no energy. It was all put into throwing away any feeling anything other than peace.

Only the faint purple light of the Vigorette flame and dark blue of the report lit up his room. He sent both away with a wave of a hand, before landing back into the soft pillows of his bed.

#彡★ akinacharoite #writeblr #ੈ✩‧₊˚ writing #* ˚ ✦the aetherium #the aetherium #✎⇢recurring character #the divider is ugly but we'll fix that at some point hskh

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diviluscorner · 1 month

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Traditions

Written for @goblininawig as part of the @cloneficgiftexchange Song Lyric Exchange!

Song: This Feeling by The ChainSmokers

Characters: Hardcase X Reader

Side note: I might be just a bit rusty on art and writing.

Summary: You run a small, little shooting gallery that doesn't see much traffic, but the traffic you do get just might make your heart patter

------------

The small shooting gallery you run doesn’t see a lot of foot traffic. Most days you sit gazing out the window as people pass by overlooking your little place. Coruscant doesn’t have a need for weaponry, nor do they have an interest in such a location. Those passing through are simply awed over the dazzling lights and latest fashions the senators bring here from afar.

The few regulars you have come to form a tiny community who filter in and out through the week, bringing you caf and spending time laughing with you. They enjoy the complex bullseye challenges you’ve crafted for them—and yourself, if you’re honest. They return even if your blasters aren’t in the best condition—you could only afford a certain price tag with your start up credits—but the environment is predictable, relaxing and inviting.

Until the day a soldier meanders into your shop.

His gaze doesn’t seek you out like the regulars. No, he’s drawn to the wall of weapons like a moth to a flame. The mischievous half-grin on his face lights his eyes reminding you not quite like a kid in a candy story, but perhaps the way you’ve seen a man in love gaze at the woman of his affections.

Which blossoms a yearning inside so overwhelming it takes a second to breathe again.

No one will ever look at you that way.

Taking a deep breath, you relax and keep a polite smile on your face. “Afternoon.”

“Hello, ma’am.”

The man barely glances your way as the artillery speaks to him in words you cannot hear yet understand.

As a child, you always enjoyed the water blaster booths at the fair. Despite realizing they were often rigged, your interested grew in the idea of weapons. You were a natural, as use meant a gentle touch and great care in maintenance. You may not have a green thumb, but when it comes to safety and weapons, you’re a whisperer.

Well, this man is a whisperer. You simply do your best.

Leaning on the counter, you prop your chin up with your palm. The soldiers you’ve come in contact with have only been from afar. None have stepped foot in your gallery, but why would they? They’re busy. Their practice ranges are far more sophisticated than your dilapidated one.

There’s no reason for them to bother with this shack.

As the soldier before you slowly shifts to another section with a bit more advanced weaponry, you become curious. You’ve been told they all look the same, and from a distance, you suppose that might be true. However, you’ve seen armor of different colors so perhaps they’re not exactly the same?

The one before you has an intriguing tattoo beginning with a dot on his right cheek before a line slips from his lower eyelid to the top and up along his forehead until taking a decisive left—no, his right—turn near his temple. Another turn upward takes place at his temple where it’s joined by another line for a moment before it curves around the back of his skull. There’s something simplistic and beautiful about it. In a way, it reminds you of the lines that make up a blaster. Sharp lines, a few curves creating a handsome man—

Weapon!

You meant weapon.

Straightening up, you smooth out your tunic. The man before you is not handsome. That would be a foolish thought. That would be thinking with the beat in your chest. You don’t need that. Weapons need the sole focus of your head, your mind, your brain…

Oh…

The look of wonder on the soldier’s face as he admires your little trove does not make your heart patter in the slightest. He doesn’t admire these second-hand blasters the way you do. He has nice, new weapons of his own. Weapons he likely prefers over these—

“Are these powered by Tibanna?”

“I wish,” you wistfully reply. “It’s Skevon. Not as reliable, but Tibanna is expensive and rare.”

Rich, brown eyes settle on you, and a brow arches emphasizing the tattoo across his right eye. “Can I test one?”

What? You nod slowly. “Any on the wall.”

The half-smirk that spreads onto his lips also does not make your heart patter. “So, you have others prospective clients can’t use?”

The joke in his voice brings a shy smile to your face. “I don’t show my private collection to strangers.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, ma’am.” With great care, he takes a simple KYD-21 blaster from the wall and walks to your counter. Setting it down, he holds out his hand. “Name’s Hardcase.”

And you sense this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

…

The regulars gather round watching through the transparisteel as Hardcase fires the KYD-21 blaster—a weapon he seems to prefer since he retrieves it every time he visits. It’s become a sort of weird tradition, but in any case, his accuracy awes those assembled as he efficiently takes out the targets while leaving the false flags alone. With ease, he passes everyone’s score with that little blaster, and you find yourself wondering what possible challenges you could concoct in order to stump the soldier.

Slipping from the crowd, you make your way back to the counter as defeat settles in. No matter what you do, you can’t create anything that remotely challenges him. While difficult for your patrons and you, he walks through like it’s child’s play—which to him it is. Heart sinking, you know he only comes for the weapons. It’s not as if your friendship is enough, and if there’s nothing difficult to challenge him it’s only a matter of time before he’s never seen again.

Your lack of financial resources has truly become a pair of hands wrapped around your neck, slowly suffocating your chances at—

Chances at growing a business, you correct yourself just in time.

Once Hardcase exits the range, he’s questioned and complimented by those gathered. The pomp and circumstance makes you smile. He’s adored by all your patrons and with just cause. He deserves to be appreciated, and he’s willing to help any and every person who walks through your doors. He does wonders for the Republic. He’s brave and strong and kind.

Good with the young ones.

“I liked that one.”

Looking up, he graces you with a smile as he sets down the KYD-21 blaster and leans on the counter. This as well has become a sort of tradition. He passes the course, comes to return the blaster with a smile and you smile in return. Only this time, you can’t find yourself smiling back. He’ll realize soon enough you’re not gifted and then you’ll lose one of your closest friends.

“Uh…” His smile fades. “Somethin’ wrong?”

Shaking your head, you begin closing procedures. The sooner you can get out, the sooner you can get home to the bake warming in your little apartment. Which means the sooner you can forget about the impending tragedy. When the work is done, you realize Hardcase has been there the entire time working beside you in silence.

“Do you wanna grab a bite?” He questions. “I could eat.”

No. You don’t want to keep him. You don’t need him around. You don’t need him to help. You don’t need to take up anymore of his time.

“I have a bake warming at home if you’d like.” Your mouth betrays you.

His brow rises, creating a soft scrunch in his tattoo. “Wouldn’t wanna impose.”

“You’re not imposing at all,” your mouth says and it eases into a smile. “I tend to make too much and won’t be able to eat it all by myself.”

“Then I’d appreciate the company and decent food.”

“Not sure if it’s decent,” you try, the jest dying on your lips as your heart sinks. Shoving your hands in your pockets, you lead the way.

What have you just done?

The tram ride to your apartment is silent as is the walk there. You catch the glances of the underbelly crowd, and for once you’re not harassed. No one’s pestering you for credits or trying to grope you, and you’re pleased to be left alone.

If only you could afford to straighten up the little apartment above your shop. You could live there which would cut your bills, mostly stop the harassing tram rides, and perhaps you’d be able to afford new weapons which would keep Hardcase coming back.

All of which are fanciful illusions created to crush what little hope lingers in your weary soul.

Entering your studio apartment, you have to slam the light switch a few times for the light to flicker above the table. You’ve asked the landlord for months to fix that, along with the leaky faucet and the garbage disposal, but he can’t be bothered to do much more than bet on the fathiers.

“Uh… can I get you a cup of water?” you question, hanging your jacket on the rack before heading to the oven.

“Yeah, that’d be… fine.” His gaze quickly sweeps across your lumpy sofa and the small cot in the corner. “Can I help you with anything?”

“No. No. Take a seat at the table.” You pull the bake out and work on scooping it onto two mismatched plates before grabbing two bottles of water.

“It smells great.”

You’re sure he’s just telling you that, though this is your favorite meal. It’s warm and comforting and filling even if there isn’t much in it. Placing a portion and a water before him, fear creeps up your spine. You’ve never spent much time with him. You don’t even know what Hardcase likes to eat. Maybe he hates this, maybe he's regretting his decision, maybe he wants to be anywhere else but here.

“Are you gonna sit?” He asks and picks up a fork. “Or…are you not gonna eat…?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Grabbing your own, you settle across from him.

Maybe it’s because of the small space or that it’s been a long few months or you’re not used to guests or you’ve never invited anyone over or you can hear the harsh buzz of the flickering light above or—

“Are you okay?”

Blinking, you see Hardcase has cleared his plate, and you grimace. “S-Sorry. Would you like a second helping?”

“That’d be nice, but I’d rather know what’s going on? Am I imposing?”

You shake your head. “No. Not at all.”

“Then what is it?” His brow arches again, shifting the angles of his tattoo.

Sighing, you drop your fork. If you have one night left with this man, and you can’t focus on the good, perhaps getting everything off your chest might help for the lonely days ahead. It’s not something you’d ever put on your patrons, but from this apartment to the gallery to how you had hoped for better, it all comes out like a rushing tide you can’t be embarrassed by until long after you’re done and cleaning the tears and snot from your face.

“That’s a lot to deal with,” he says, finger tracing a pattern across your rickety table.

Heat floods your cheeks. It’s nothing compared to what he has to do for the Republic. “It’s all silly things. There are worse problems in the galaxy. We’re in a war, after all.”

“There might be worse problems, but it doesn’t make yours any less valid,” he responds with a slight uptick of his lips. “How can we lessen at least one of those problems?”

“The leaky sink,” you admit. “I’ll be able to sleep if I’m not listening to it drip all night.”

“Let me see what I can do.”

As Hardcase works on the sink, you ask him questions about the war and smile as he becomes quite animated—much like he is while firing blasters. He laughs, jokes and smiles as he tells of his brothers and war. He’s confident he was created only to fight, but you notice he’s quite skilled at putting your sink back together.

Once complete, he glances at the chrono and frowns. “I need to get back before curfew.”

You nod and give him a smile. “Thank you.”

“Thank you.” He grins. “I’ll see you soon?”

“Of course.”

“And maybe we could start on the apartment above your gallery.”

You’d like that very much.

…

The notice on the datapad in your hand is a crushing blow as the reports on the holo from Umbara work to drag you down into the depths. You’re not certain why your heart heavies with sorrow, you don’t even know where Hardcase is, but the feeling progressively grows throughout the coming weeks. It’s only worsened by your patrons telling you not to grow attached to a soldier.

Why they make such statements continues to baffle you. It’s not as if you’ve mentioned him to them.

While he’s been away, you’ve begun packing up your little shop. A military expansion is set to claim your property and luckily, the government has offered you more credits than you’ve ever seen in your life rather than just take it from you. It’ll be easy to rebuild somewhere else.

Still…

It’s a bittersweet moment.

You’ve made wonderful memories here. From the patrons you’ve come to adore, to the weapons you’ve acquired, and to Hardcase; this rundown little place gave you hope and perhaps expectations. Friends, laughs, possibly lov—

The now-desolate shop weighs your heart down to the depths.

As you gently place the KYD-21 blaster in its case—the last one to be removed from the wall, your hand caresses the cool metal. It’s done a lot of good for your place. People have enjoyed it. A soldier has enjoyed it. You enjoy it. This little pistol with seventy-five shots and a favorite among bounty hunters and assassins has become the prize of your collection.

Taking one last look at the boxes neatly labeled and organized, you cast aside any anxiety over the movers who’ll be here tomorrow. Everything is clearly marked and ready for transport to storage. You’ve given yourself a few months to find a more ideal place. It shouldn’t be too hard since you’ve already narrowed locations down—

The dread dripping into your soul floods through and you struggle to swallow. Closing the blaster case, you grip the handle and take several deep breaths. This attack is irrational. It’s okay to say goodbye. There will be something better on the other side.

This place, despite the little apartment upstairs, was never your endgame anyway.

There’s a life yet to be lived some place far more exciting than Coruscant.

Squaring your shoulders, you grab the blaster case and head out the door for the last time. With your head held high, you find yourself paralyzed as you come face to face with two soldiers outside your door.

Clad in full armor, you look up into their T-visors and the case in your hand slightly trembles as your breath comes to a slow halt. Your wide eyes are transfixed as, in unison, they remove their helmets revealing one face tattooed with a Republic cog and the other with a Five on his right forehead.

“Ma’am,” says the one with the Republic cog, and the heavy tone in his voice sends ice through your veins. “We need a moment of your time.”

Those words are never good. Never good. Never… The dread and foreboding finally explode in your chest cutting off oxygen to your lungs as you manage to give a single nod.

“We regret to inform you…” starts the one with the Five before he swallows down what must be a thick lump in this throat. “…that Hardcase was killed in action.”

The thump at your feet seems a million miles away and you’re unaware that something has slipped from your grasp. Instead, the world around grows eerily silent and chillingly cold.

…

“I’d like to try that one.”

You continue sweeping the floor—not that it needs sweeping, but your hands always need to be doing something these days. Your brain needs these mindless tasks as you continue to put the past behind you.

“As I’ve already stated each and every time you’ve come in,” you say, and cannot hide the annoyance in your tone, “It is not available.”

“Then why is it there?” asks the Bith who constantly nettles you over the weapon each and every time he’s here.

Meeting his glassy, black gaze, you square your shoulders. “It’s for décor, that’s why it’s in a display case. Either choose one of the other blasters or leave.”

“You’re not very friendly,” he growls.

“And you’re not very bright,” you mutter as you return to sweeping.

When he selects a different blaster and enters the shooting range, you pause and let out a heavy sigh.

Six months have passed since you arrived on Thune. It’s home to all sorts of beings from dangerous Hutts to dancing Twi’leks. Your Wookie neighbor—who sells hand crafted bowcasters—is great to have when walking home at night—not that the neighborhood is dangerous, but it’s always good to be cautious.

The canals the city is built on and you boat home in are filled with beautiful, clear water. They’re gentle and calming and so far removed from the war you swear you’ve been transported to another time. That’s mainly why you chose it in spite of the Hutts lurking.

It truly is a piece of paradise.

Leaning against the counter, you’re aware of other customers milling about. You have growing relationships with most of them, and word of mouth seems to be your best advertisement. Unlike your spot on Coruscant, you’re constantly busy with the day-in and day-out which does it’s best to help ease the sorrow that a few months ago clung to you like a wet rag.

Overall, things have definitely panned out well.

Still, your gaze lifts to the display case where the KYD-21 blaster glints in the bright light streaming through the window.

Rubbing the back of your neck, you take a slow breath and huff. The soldier whose presence graced you for a little while will always be with you. His memory hangs not only from the weapon displayed prominently in your shop but stirs in your chest with every beat of your heart.

And you find yourself grateful every day for his sacrifice.

“I suppose that one’s off limits.”

Breath slowing as your brow furrows, you’re quick to shut your eyes and shake your head. That playful tone in a baritone voice cannot be. It simply cannot be.

It’s impossible.

“Didn’t think it was worthy of your private collection.”

Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, you turn to see a man leaned on your counter giving you a playful smirk. His face holds a few healing scars across his nose, cheeks and forehead, but the tattoo starting on his right eye hasn’t faded.

How it be, though? You know what those soldiers said, you heard what happened, you know…

What do you know?

Looking down at the gun he’s placed on the counter, Hardcase grimaces. “Didn’t think I’d earn the silent treatment.”

“S-sorry,” you stutter and wet your lips. “It’s just… I heard. Well, you were…”

He gives a nod. “Thought I was. Suffered a bunch of injuries and sometimes my ears still ring, but a well-placed escape pod and some luck got me through.”

Your hand runs over the blaster he’s brought to your counter. This one is for heavy combat—something you know he enjoys. “How long are you in town for?”

He gives another grimace as he continues to lean against your counter. “Uh… Well, officially, I’m… dead.” Smiling, he looks at the new and improved shooting ranges you have set up. “Besides, looks as if I have my work cut out for me testing all those ranges you’ve crafted. Hope this blaster is as good as that one.”

And you smile before pulling the KYD-21 blaster out of its display case and handing it to him. “Well, it is tradition.”

#star wars #clone wars #clone trooper hardcase #hg #tcw hardcase #hardcasexreader #sfe24 #clone song fic gift exchange

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tflohr · 7 months

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I made a moth- @tflohr

I got this shadow box frame a while ago and wanted to find something to put it it and eventually decide to make my own moth pal. This is a gynandromorph moth based on the Madagascar bullseye moth. The antenna are probably not accurate but I don't care its just for fun.

I think the frame is a bit big for the moth, so I might end up adding some moss or other nature bits to it.

#moth #insect #bilateral gynandromorph #art #watercolor #bug #goth art

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sternenreh · 7 months

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Antherina Suraka framed

Here you can see one of my latest pinned and framed moths! I raise them as pets and give them a second life afterwards. This is a madagascar bullseye moth which I am currently raising again because they are such cute little fellas. I will have this moth as well as many more with me on the Leipzig Bookfair at the end of March.

Posted using PostyBirb

#insects #moths #exotic pets

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sexisdisgusting · 3 months

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I heard you like moths..

https://www.tumblr.com/monamoni/658976078063353856?source=share

https://www.tumblr.com/monamoni/654970835373834240/elephant-hawk-moth-deilephila-elpenor?source=share

https://www.tumblr.com/monamoni/649319666434654208/the-luna-moth-commonly-known-as-giant-silk-moths?source=share

https://www.tumblr.com/monamoni/648379022066237440/yellow-leopard-moth-dysphania-militaris-photo?source=share

https://www.tumblr.com/monamoni/642440003936452608/atlas-moth-ngjan-si-2-koka-gjarpri?source=share

https://www.tumblr.com/monamoni/721387174540541952/madagascar-bullseye-moth?source=share

https://www.tumblr.com/monamoni/751466311519961088?source=share

IIIII AMMMMM INNNN HEAVEN THANK YOU SO MUCH ANONITA YAY I LOVE MOTHS SO MUCH

#asks #anon asks

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butterfly-lies-chase-them-away · 11 months

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Hi, how are you? Can you do a one shot about Tommy Warnecki where female reader is bullied by the bullies of the movie, Leah and Stacy, but Tommy defends her,please?🙏❤️

Sketch of Love - Tommy Warnecki x Fem!Reader

(I do not own this gif) (Also can't find Tommy Warnecki gifs)

Pairing: Tommy Warnecki x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1907

Warnings: bullying

Summary: (The request)

A/N: Hello Anon, I'm doing well, thank you. I ended up make the reader a rather artsy person, didn't mean to go that way, but oh well! I also made Tommy more shy than what his actual character is like. Oops. The title for this is rather sappy than normal but I am so bad at titles so it will have to do.

The hallways of Westwood High bore witness to daily skirmishes in an ongoing battle of wills. For Y/N, it felt as though each school day was a relentless struggle, a journey from one classroom to the next fraught with the looming threat of running into the school's resident tormentors, Leah and Stacy. These two notorious bullies had carved out a sinister niche for themselves, where their malevolence was unleashed upon anyone they deemed an easy target, and, regrettably, Y/N's presence seemed to invite their cruelty all too often.

Leah and Stacy, inseparable in their maleficent pursuits, strutted through the corridors with a sense of superiority, their laughter echoing off the steel lockers. Their reputation for cruelty and ruthlessness was well-earned, and Y/N had become a preferred victim, a bullseye for their taunts and torment.

The lunchroom buzzed with the vibrant hum of animated conversations, the loud chorus of teens' laughter filling the air as they relished their lunch break. Amid this lively scene, Leah and Stacy spotted Y/n nestled at a corner table, her attention consumed by the world within her sketchbook. With a wicked glint in their eyes and devious smirks, the two girls cast a malicious gaze upon Y/n as they stealthily approached her table, their sinister intentions veiled by the cacophony of the bustling lunchroom.

Tommy happened to be seated nearby. His cheek rested upon the palm of his hand, his eyes fixed on Y/n with an almost dreamlike fascination. It was as if he had been drawn into her world, captivated by the beauty that Y/n displayed amidst the noisy lunchroom chaos.

Tommy found himself captivated by the presence of Y/n in the cafeteria. Her quiet elegance and artistic aura had drawn him in like a moth to a flame. Despite his growing admiration, he had never managed to muster the courage to strike up a conversation with her. She seemed like a distant star in the night sky, beautiful but seemingly out of reach.

But as he observed her in her moments of solitude, sketchbook in hand, an unshakable feeling of fascination and admiration began to well up within him. It was this silent admiration that finally became the catalyst for him to overcome his own reservations and intervene when she needed it most. He barely noticed to two girls approaching her.

Leah, with a devious slant to her grin, leaned in so close that her words dripped with venomous sarcasm. "Hey, Y/n," she cooed, her voice taking on a chillingly sweet quality,

Y/n let out a resigned sigh, refusing to give her tormentors the satisfaction of a reaction. She had mastered the art of ignoring their harassmen by now. But Leah and Stacy, always eager to exert their dominance, saw an opportunity and decided to escalate their torment.

They sauntered over and sat on either side of Y/n, blocking her escape. Stacy, with a malicious glint in her eyes, reached out and snatched the sketchbook from Y/n's hand. Y/n's fingers reached out in vain, a desperate attempt to reclaim her sanctuary, but it was futile. With an evil smirk, Stacy held the book aloft, scrutinizing its contents.

"Now, look at this!" Stacy exclaimed with a cruel, mocking tone. "Skulls and snakes? What a weirdo!" Her laughter was grating, a chorus of cruelty that echoed through the lunchroom.

Y/n, her face flushed with embarrassment, attempted to snatch the sketchbook back, but Stacy was swift and heartless. In a cruel twist, Stacy tossed the book over to Leah, who caught it with a triumphant grin.

"Give it back," Y/n implored, her voice trembling with a mixture of frustration and vulnerability. But her plea seemed to fall on deaf ears as Leah and Stacy continued to taunt and torment her. The two bullies had no intention of letting Y/n regain her precious sketchbook.

Leah, with a sinister grin, opened the sketchbook to a random page. "Well, well, what do we have here?" she taunted. "Looks like someone has a crush!" Leah's laughter was piercing, like nails on a chalkboard, as she held up the page for everyone to see.

Leah held up a drawing of Tommy, haphazardly sketched by Y/n during an English class a while back. The cruel revelation of Y/n's personal drawings intensified the humiliation, leaving Y/n feeling utterly exposed and defenseless. The lunchroom's once vibrant atmosphere had turned suffocatingly hostile, as her peers watched, some amused and others uncomfortable, while Leah and Stacy relished in their torment.

Y/n felt her entire face heat up with embarrassment, a burning sensation that spread from her cheeks to the very tips of her ears. The hushed whispers and curious glances from her fellow students felt like a spotlight, amplifying her humiliation. The weight of so many eyes fixated on her was suffocating, and she longed for a way to disappear from this excruciating moment.

Just as Leah callously flung the sketchbook in Stacy's direction, it was intercepted by an unexpected hand. The sudden turn of events sent a ripple of surprise through the onlookers. Whispers spread like wildfire, as they tried to make out who had intervened to put an end to this relentless humiliation.

"Leave her alone," a voice rang out with unwavering determination. It was Tommy, his playful nature replaced by a resolute resolve, who stood there clutching the sketchbook, his expression a mix of defiance and concern. The once-thriving lunchroom had turned into a battleground, and Tommy had become Y/n's unlikely champion.

Amid the chaos, Stacy couldn't resist one last taunt. "Oh look, it's Y/n's crush!" she jeered, the words laced with venom, as she attempted to diminish Y/n further.

In the midst of the turmoil, Tommy moved with purpose. He reached for Y/n's bag and slipped the sketchbook inside. With a reassuring smile, he made his way back to Y/n, offering her a lifeline.

"Come on, Y/n, let's go somewhere more fun. We can leave the drama queens behind." he said with unwavering support, trying to guide her away from the relentless bullies and the prying eyes of the spectators who had witnessed the confrontation.

As they continued walking, Tommy gently and spontaneously intertwined their fingers, their hands fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. Y/n's heart fluttered in her chest, a mixture of surprise and warmth surging through her.

Hand in hand, Y/n and Tommy made their way out of the lunchroom, leaving behind the remnants of the tormentors' power. As they distanced themselves from the hostile atmosphere, Y/n turned to Tommy, her voice tinged with gratitude and a newfound blush on her cheeks.

"Um, thanks," she stammered, her vulnerability momentarily showing. It was a simple expression, but it carried a weight of appreciation for the unexpected hero who had stepped into her life at just the right moment.

"It's no problem at all, Y/n," Tommy beamed, his smile radiant and genuine as he walked alongside her.

Tommy's heart danced with excitement as they strolled together. He couldn't help but feel a sense of elation at finally being able to engage in a conversation with Y/n. Until today, he'd never quite found the confidence to approach her. However, witnessing her sketches had ignited a newfound courage within him, inspiring him to take that leap and stand up for her. Little did he know, this act of bravery would not only change Y/n's life but also pave the way for a connection that held the promise of something extraordinary.

Y/n finally broke the silence, her voice soft and tinged with self-consciousness. She cast her gaze toward the floor, her cheeks still faintly flushed from the recent ordeal.

"Sorry about what you saw in my sketchbook," she admitted with a trace of vulnerability, her words a quiet admission of her embarrassment. "I didn't mean to come across as such a... creep." The weight of the revelation had been heavy, and she now felt the need to explain, to bridge the gap between herself and Tommy.

Tommy's eyes widened in surprise, and a warm, reassuring smile graced his face. He took a step closer to Y/n, eager to put her at ease.

"No, Y/n, you don’t need to apologize," he reassured her with a gentle tone. "In fact, I was actually wondering if I could take a closer look at it? Your drawings are really beautiful, and I'd love to see more of your work." His request held a sense of genuine curiosity, and he hoped to foster a connection through their shared appreciation for art.

A faint blush tinged Y/n's cheeks as she gracefully shrugged off her bag, revealing the cherished sketchbook that held herdrawings. Her fingers moved with a hesitance as she located the particular page that featured a drawing of Tommy, the one she had drew during an uneventful English class.

With a delicate yet confident touch, Y/n opened the sketchbook to the designated page and then, with a mix of vulnerability and anticipation, handed the book over to Tommy.

Tommy's eyes widened with genuine admiration as he gazed at the sketch, his voice filled with heartfelt appreciation. "Wow," he uttered, "This is amazing, Y/n. You're incredibly talented."

A soft, appreciative smile touched Y/n's lips as she responded, her eyes reflecting a mix of gratitude and humility. "You're too kind," she replied, her voice carrying a subtle note of surprise at the praise.

Then, in a moment that caught them both off guard, Tommy found himself unable to contain his growing feelings. His words slipped out before he could reconsider, "Do you want to go out with me?" The question hung in the air.

Y/n, taken aback by the unexpected proposition, gazed at Tommy in shock, her eyes wide and her heart racing.

Tommy quickly realized the boldness of his words and his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He averted his gaze, a mix of anxiety and hope swirling within him, awaiting her response.

Tommy chuckled, a self-deprecating laugh that cut through the tension, "Was that a bit too forward?"

Y/n felt a rush of emotions, a mixture of relief and budding courage. Gathering her strength, she finally spoke up, her voice carrying a newfound determination, "I'd like to go out with you."

Tommy's gaze lifted to meet hers, and a radiant smile broke across his face, his eyes twinkling with joy.

"Awesome," he exclaimed, his excitement bubbling over, "Are you free this Friday? There's this incredible ice cream place I know!"

"Sounds good to me," Y/n replied, her smile radiant and a newfound sense of anticipation in her voice.

Tommy's enthusiasm was palpable; he couldn't contain his excitement. He bounced on the balls of his feet, his smile widening, and he asked with infectious energy, "I'll pick you up?"

Y/n nodded, a warm agreement to their upcoming date.

The school bell rang, its chime resonating through the air, signaling the end of lunchtime.

"I'll see you later then," Y/n said, preparing to part ways.

"Definitely," Tommy affirmed, his enthusiasm unwavering.

As they walked away, Y/n couldn't help but chuckle as she heard Tommy celebrating behind her. She turned to watch him, smiling kindly as he punched the air in triumph, a playful reminder of the charming and spirited Tommy she'd always noticed from afar.

A/N: Thank you for reading! I hope you liked it and I hope I wrote it well.

#fanfic #keanureeves #keanu reeves #keanu reeevs headcanons #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves fanfic #Tommy Warnecki #Tommy Warnecki x reader #Tommy Warnecki fanfic #fluff #keanu reeves fluff #Tommy Warnecki fluff

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jellymellydraws · 8 months

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Masterlist ~ <<Previous Chapter ~ Next Chapter >>

Astarion x Dark Urge Chapter 13 Rating: E Tags: Angst, Fluff, hurt/comfort, slow burn, two guarded people fall in love so hard it makes them stupid

Chapter Summary:

Rose, Shadowheart, Wyll, and Alfira explore the Blighted Village. Alfira proves her mettle in a dangerous fight for their lives. Rose confronts Wyll about the disagreement they had back at the grove and if their moral differences are going to be an issue. Shadowheart shares a bit more details about her Shar worship to Rose, while Alfira tries to figure out what blighted this village in the first place.

Rubble and rotted food were plentiful throughout the village. But this served little use to the party.

Also in abundance, however, were the loose threads that depicted a once thriving community. Their words were stitched in the pages of journals hidden within bedside tables. Embroidered on schoolhouse attendance sheets were the names of children-- many of which were marked as ‘missing’. Bound by moth-eaten clothes, still folded in dressers. Together, they formed an incomplete tapestry of the people who once had a life here.

The question was ever present.

What happened?

No one seemed to care as much as Alfira, who saved as many scraps, books, and sentimental trinkets as she could carry. Shadowheart did little to conceal the disgust on her face whenever the Moon Goddess’s holy symbols were picked up and stowed in the bard’s bag.

“Why are you so interested in a people who are dead and gone?” The cleric asked after they cleared another home.

“They’re only gone if they’re forgotten…” Alfira answered earnestly, “It’s why my kin sings the song of Elturel, so our story won't be forgotten.”

“And you’re going to be telling theirs?”

“Why not?”

“Many a great lessons from history only exist because a bard shared them across Faerun,” Wyll added, “I think Alfira’s onto something.”

Alfira smiled as Wyll came to her aid. The cleric dropped the subject, bitterly.

Wyll pulled the bowstring back quietly. His eye focused on a silken bridge. Arrowhead ablaze.

She was the size of an owlbear, but with a poisonous bite. Delicate long legs plucked the silvery strands, placing them against the rocky platform she stood upon. A cluster of eggs behind her, wrapped in a knitted blanket of her making, rested peacefully.

The Matriarch.

“C’mon…just wander onto the webbing…” Wyll whispered, “please?”

“Maybe someone can lure her forward?” Alfira suggested, “it’s a spider— a huge oversized one but still— a spider!”

“I’m not so sure,” Shadowheart warned, “those notes weren’t the manic writings of a zealot. If Lolth is willing to give any power to her followers, we might be dealing with something much smarter than an oversized spider.”

“She’s right,” Rose nodded, “we have to be patient.”

It was fortunate they didn’t alert the whole colony when they ambushed the spider patrol. Continuing to be careful, they quietly explored the tunnels until they found the nest. They remained crouched behind a stone column, keeping their voices at a whisper.

Watching.

Waiting.

Praying.

All they needed was for her to take a few steps towards them. If they could get her to the ground below, the rest of their plans would fall into place. Higher ground meant upper hand. Upper hand meant surviving.

The matriarch turned towards the bridge.

Everyone froze.

This was it.

“Bullseye!” The flaming arrow shot across the air, briefly lighting the caverns in its warmth before diving through the webbing.

The flames spread from the melting weave and wrapped the giant spider queen in its embrace. The Matriarch burning body fell to the ground. The skittering of legs were heard coming from below. This was their chance!

“Move in!”

At Rose’s command, spells and alchemical bottles rained down on their enemies. The matriarch let out a piercing screech that reverberated against the walls. Tiny oversized spiderlings crowded together on the rocky platform their mother had once stood upon.

The eggs had hatched, and its inhabitants now surrounded the party.

This was bad.

The giant spiders appeared behind them.

Worse than bad.

The matriarch, in front of them.

Alfira shrieked.

“THEY CAN TELEPORT?!”

Shadowheart raised her shield against the Matriarch’s venomous maw. She spat venom over the party, but most of them could withstand it. Without injury, the venom didn’t do as much damage as it could have.

Alfira desperately strummed her lute, blasting their surroundings with any cantrip she could conjure. Her arachnid audience did not offer applause, only additional screeches and skitters as they closed around her.

“There’s too many of them!” Wyll shouted. His bow had been dropped in favor of magical blasts to push back the swarm. Spiderlings were easily knocked over the edge, but replaced with their giant counterparts.

He was right. Even as Rose stabbed her blade into the hatchlings, the Matriarch’s screech forcefully hatched more to take their place.

They needed to break up the group.

C’mon Rose. You got the boots, there’s still plenty of web.

Another screech. More spiderlings appeared around them.

They teleport— you can’t outrun them.

The matriarch spit more venom upon them.

Maybe I don’t need to…

“Shadowheart, switch with me!” Rose shouted, a plan beginning to piece together.

The cleric looked over her shoulder and nodded to the assassin. They rotated positions, dagger and mace swinging into the insect swarm along the way. The matriarch’s maw dripped with poison as she chomped at the standing piece of flesh that dared enter her sights.

Rose struck. Slashing the matriarch before immediately weaving beneath her legs. The details were hazy, but there was no time to iron out a perfect plan. Just to act one what little she knew.

C’mon…

The magical boots she donned earlier stepped onto the webbing without so much as a trip to her gait. She took a chance to look behind her.

And thank the Gods: the matriarch turned her focus to Rose.

“Fend off the rest!” She shouted over her shoulder, sprinting across a bridge.

The matriarch teleported right behind her, barely giving her a moment to avoid the spray of venom. The acrid smell made her eyes water, nearly blinding her. Nearly. The strands of web illuminated beneath the light of magic, just enough for her to see her trail. With one bridge burnt away, she was prepared to endure a few injuries for the sake of turning and running back the path she came from.

In an amusing sort of way, she would liken this to a dance. She would run from her partner, then wait for them to approach. Daggers would strike her flesh, poison would spit from her maw. A twist, a twirl, and a turn. One step after the other, a repetitive sequence matching that of well rehearsed dancers on stage. Ah, but what a stage they danced upon where death could call upon them at a moment’s notice. One wrong step, one trip, one itsy bitsy mistake, and they’d swan dive into the pit below.

“Impero te!” Alfira strummed the chords of her magic, successfully lulling a cluster of spiderlings into a peaceful slumber. The bard had been free to take cover and jump into view to cast spells from a safe distance. Wyll and Shadowheart maneuvered to lower ground, pulling apart the swarm and thinning their forces.

“Hatchlings are cleared!” Wyll shouted, pulling his blade from the oozing abdomen of a spiderling. “How’s the Matriarch!?”

“Still alive!” Rose shouted, gritting her teeth as venom spittle dripped into a few of her open wounds, “Shadowheart, can I get some healing?!”

“A little busy!” The cleric shoved her shield against a giant spider, pushing it close to the pit’s edge.

“I’ve got it!” Alfira strummed another chord. Ephemeral notes leapt from the lute, and pressed into some of Rose’s wounds. A cooling sensation washed over them as the healing magic sealed them.

“Are we clear to regroup?!” Rose called, running towards the main platform she had initially lured the matriarch away from.

“Bring her over!” Wyll replied as he hoisted himself over the ledge.

Perfect. She couldn’t see anymore spiderlings harassing her team, nor were there any more giant spiders in sight. The main platform was just across this bridge, and the Matriarch lurched forward. The same lurch she always did when she was teleporting.

Just like they rehearsed.

Two dancers, in time.

Repeating their steps.

Until one decides they want to be the star of the show.

The matriarch appeared in front of Rose, sinking her teeth into the assassin’s shoulder when she couldn’t stop fast enough. Venom spilled straight from her maw and into the bloodstream of her newly acquired meal. The arm went numb. Her legs collapsed.

Voices called out, heavily muffled through her haze.

The ground disappeared beneath her. Her descent resembled sinking towards the bottom of a lake.

More voices. Her vision started to black.

There was a harsh tug before she felt solid ground beneath her. A bitter cool taste poured into her mouth.

The voices got louder. Surrounded her. Became clearer.

“Is she okay?!” the bard, panicking, “I saw a lot of blood, is she--”

“Stop shouting!” the cleric hissed, “Give the antidote a moment to work.” Cool magic touched her numbed shoulder. “She’s going to be fine.”

Their faces began to come into view. Alfira, clutching her lute as she watched Shadowheart work. Wyll, kneeling besides Rose to keep her from leaning over. The hollow call of the pit nearby told her how close she was from her own demise.

“By the Gods, Rose,” Wyll began when her head tilted towards his direction, “you really gave that spider the run-around.”

Rose tried to laugh, but her throat felt too dry. All she could manage was a painful cough, “Was that a joke?” Wyll grinned at her, unashamed. She put a hand on his shoulder and weakly smirked at him, “that was awful. Is everyone else okay?”

“You’re the one who nearly had her arm ripped off and fell in a pit,” Shadowheart cut her off quickly, “I think the rest of us are fine.”

That last point was made evident by the fact that the others looked exhausted, bruised, yet not as bloodied as Rose was at this moment. Shadowheart insisted that she stay and rest. The cleric and Alfira checked the rest of the caverns for missed treasure. They had seen a few bags by corpses earlier, but did not get to investigate before their presence had been discovered by the patrols. Wyll remained seated next to her, regaling her of how they fought the spiders while the Matriarch was distracted.

“Once Alfira put them to sleep, it was easy. Shadowheart managed to lure the two giant spiders towards the pit,” he went on, “we were ready to take on the Matriarch together when she blocked you.”

“Talk me through that— everything got hazy as soon as I crashed into her,” Rose admitted, wincing as she tried to roll her arm. Nope. not ready for a wide range of movement just yet.

“Alfira’s quick thinking, believe it or not.” He smiled proudly, “She had a scroll of Feather Fall, and told me to destroy the webbing. She’s gotten really good at thinking on her feet.”

“Not without some of your training,” she nudged him, despite the pain.

“Ah, well she had it in her. Just needed some direction.”

Speaking of direction…

“I’ve been meaning to talk about what happened at the grove,” Rose transitioned quietly, “the night we killed Kagha.”

She saw from the corner of her eye how Wyll turned his head away, “and here I thought we were going to quietly move on from that.”

He scooted away from the wall and sat in front of her. She could see now how he didn’t look the least bit worried about the topic. Well, that made one of them.

“Alright. Ask away.”

“I gave you a direct order and you deliberately went against it.”

“I did.”

His confidence didn’t sit right with her. Not now. She foolishly thought she would have to worry about him becoming defensive, but she hadn’t accounted for him being so blatant with his disobedience. Of all the ones to give her trouble, was it Wyll she should’ve been worried about? She took a deep breath when the silence weighed on her.

“Why?”

“I won’t turn my blade on the innocent and defenseless,” he answered, without hesitation. “I won’t apologize for doing what I felt was right.”

“They weren’t innocent,” she insisted.

“According to what measure? Because they followed Kagha?”

“Yes! They were part of the problem!”

Wyll shook his head. Rose adjusted herself to sit further upright. He reached for her when she winced, still willing to offer aid while she attempted to chastise him. Quite the hero, indeed.

“Would you have said the tieflings, those fighting in the blood war, were a problem?”

The question gave her pause. She furrowed her brow, searching her (frustratingly selective) fractured memory for anything about the events of Elturel. She knew what she heard in the grove-- that the city was gifted to the hells in a bargain made a generation ago. She recalled several speaking about their time fighting, though she didn’t exactly pry into what.

“When Elturel fell,” Wyll explained, “those who couldn’t leave the city in time were forced to fight in a war within the hells. By your standards, anyone who’d wish to see Zariel dead should also slaughter those tieflings.”

Rose bit back her retort. She’d insist it was different, but the question still stood before her.

‘Was it really?’

“Some people follow their commanders for the sake of their survival, even if they disagree with their ideology. Who are we to decide that they were monsters by association?” Wyll’s eye seemed hopeful as he peered into her’s, seeing her ruminate on his words.

“Your point has been made,” she admitted, “but I was trying to take precautionary measures. It was a great risk to let them live-- they could’ve targeted those tieflings in the morning. I was hoping to prevent unnecessary bloodshed.”

“And yet, there was no bloodshed anyways.”

“Thanks to Rath’s leadership.”

“Maybe,” he shrugged, “but they were still given the chance to choose. They could have taken arms against the tieflings-- I still wouldn’t regret my decision.”

“How can you be certain of that?”

“Because my blade is guided by my heart,” he concluded with a hand to his chest. She couldn’t help but scoff at the gesture. Wyll moved closer to her, “It’s easy to kill, but it takes true strength to be merciful.”

Rose chewed the inside of her lip. There were too many ways she could tell him he was wrong. Too many problems with such a lofty notion. Mercy? He wouldn’t offer that to monsters. Would he offer it to the goblins if given the chance? She doubted it.

Frustrating as his heart of gold may be, his honesty and firmly planted principles told her exactly the kind of traveling companion he would be. Reliable. Kind.

Willing to see the goodness in people, even if others couldn’t. What would that mean for someone who couldn’t see goodness in themselves?

He extended a hand to her.

“How about this: we agree not to shed more blood than we need. Deal?”

Minimizing bloodshed was a proper goal to have. But she couldn’t risk their lives for the sake of a moral compass. Then again, Wyll didn’t hesitate for the camp. At the end of the day, he’s proven to be an ally.

She lifted her uninjured hand.

“Deal.”

Alfira and Shadowheart returned with the tiefling’s nose thoroughly buried into a journal. Her brow was furrowed in concentration. If the cleric didn’t have a firm hand on her arm to guide her, she would have easily tripped into the pit on the way back.

“Hey, has anyone heard of a Dark Just..Justee…Justice—“

“Dark Justiciar? ” Shadowheart finished, more intrigue in her voice than the sarcasm she had the whole morning.

“Yes!”

“They’re— why?”

Rose had her eyes closed, resting as she was instructed to when she heard the women’s back and forth. She opened a single eye to glance over at them.

“It’s one of the last thing this journal mentions— they killed the writer’s master.” Alfira turned back a few pages, “there’s no mention of them anywhere else in here.”

“Hm…” The cleric sat beside Rose when they were close enough and the bard no longer needed guidance.

She knew something. The interest in her voice gave her away, but Alfira may have missed that. When Shadowheart saw Rose staring at her, she pursed her lips.

“It also mentions a key gem…” the bard muttered, “have we seen any gems down here?”

“How do you know it’s around here?” Rose reached her hand out. The pain in her arm was a dull throb, but workable.

“‘The keygem’s secure in the tunnels,’” she recited before turning the book over to their leader, “they were going to come back for it, and considering this was in a backpack next to a pile of bones…”

“Then the writer was probably looking for it when they died,” Rose looked at the last lines of the journal. “Wyll was going around to collect arrows and reagents for me, go see if he found anything else.”

Alfira nodded and walked around the pit, immediately finding the warlock as he was harvesting from a giant spider.

Shadowheart breathed in relief.

“You know something,” Rose smirked, “and you don’t want to tell Alfira because…?”

“I’m not sure if she’ll be as understanding as you have been about Sharrans,” she admitted, bitterness coating her tongue. “Dark Justiciars are what every Sharran strives to be. To serve our lady as part of an elite group. Working in the shadows, doing our lady’s bidding.”

“Hm…that sounds a bit familiar. Covert operations, dedicated to a creed. Working quietly and out of sight, but still deadly.”

“And the tests to become one are not generally accepted by anyone outside of Sharrans. I’ll leave it at that.”

Rose hummed thoughtfully, satisfied enough with the answers she got. She quietly turned the pages of the journal, reading through the entries as she waited for Wyll and Alfira to return. A couple of passages caught her attention.

Let it be known that I left my homeland because I was bound to my master, and not because I chose to. … Were it not for the oath I swore, I would be home serving the zulkirs, and not tending to hog pox in this crude hamlet. … I’ll return the Tome of Necromancy he stole. … I’ll slip into the cellar, take what I can carry, and then go home.

The story began to fall together before her. If these were the tunnels, then the writer of this journal seemed to be a resident of this village (or, technically a hamlet from what was written here). If this was a resident, then the cellar they wrote about is in one of the buildings. Did they miss it? Was it under rubble?

She remembered what Gale had told her: where there is one magical item, there will be more.

A tome of necromancy sounded like a suitable item for the wizard to consume. She wondered, if it was as powerful as this journal made it seem, maybe it would satiate his condition for a while. A tome that powerful could be useful but no one seemed interested in the art of necromancy.

She’ll confirm her suspicions when they discuss distributing the magical wares. But even if the tome was useful to someone in camp, this ‘master’ should have other magical items.

Across the pit, Alfira’s gasp carried. Rose reached for her dagger, but relaxed when she saw it was just the bard and Wyll crouching around…something?

A purple glow radiated from their hands, as they pulled out an orb. The two reunited with the group, carefully cleaning the dirt off the shining gemstone. It was the size of her hand, with darkness swirling within it.

“I think this is it!” Alfira exclaimed.

They saved the apothecary for last, anticipating that it would hold a good amount of supplies for their needs. They used their authority as “True Souls” to order the goblins to leave the place alone. She continued to be amused at how easily they listened, all thanks to the pesky parasite in her head.

The scent of herbs and old wood greeted them. Miraculous that this was one of the structures standing. She didn’t know who to thank for that, but appreciated the blessing all the same. Rose grabbed the dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, carefully stowing them in her pouch. Bulbs of garlic were neatly laying on the counter. Her hand hovered over them for a moment.

“Hey Wyll,” she called, looking over her shoulder to him, “have you faced many vampires, or are fiends more your specialty?”

“Ah, I have,” Wyll approached, quickly noticing the likely suspect that prompted the question, “that’s not really going to help if vampires are involved. Not as strong as other methods, at least.”

“Okay, well we haven’t had an update on the vampire threat since we found that boar. In your professional opinion, should we be worried?”

“I would advise maintaining a healthy sense of caution. Thankfully, our camp is by running water. That’s doing more to protect us than garlic would.”

Rose nodded, but tucked the garlic into her pouch anyways. If not for vampire wards, it could be used for other recipes.

“In your professional opinion, Wyll,” Shadowheart began, light tease entangled in her tone, “are vampires picky about their meals? Think they’d help us out by feasting on the goblins?”

He shrugged, “Picky…well, if you consider a strict diet of blood to be picky— but otherwise, I couldn’t say. But you know, I have noticed something a bit concerning the last few days. There’s been a lack of wildlife around these parts. Other than a few birds and an occasional squirrel, the woods are a bit empty. Could be the vampire’s doing.”

“Or the goblins could have over hunted the area,” Shadowheart suggested.

“This is the same handwriting as the journal from the tunnels!” Alfira gasped excitedly.

Everyone turned to stare at her. The bard’s cheeks darkened.

“Sorry, I— this ledger has the same writing as the journal— I mean— we’re in the right place.”

Her voice got quieter and quieter as her cheeks flushed. Rose smirked.

“If the cellar door isn’t obvious, look for runes etched into the floors,” she redirected, “Gale said magic users would hide their valuables with magical means. I think it’s safe to assume a cellar full of fancy tomes would count.”

They quickly went to work searching for a cellar door. Furniture was turned over in the other room. Shelves were pushed away from the walls to check for hidden runes. Wyll walked behind the counter when the bedroom had nothing to offer. A dusty rug was pulled aside, revealing the heavy metal ring of a cellar door handle.

“I found it!” He cheered, summoning the rest of the group over.

Shadowheart gave the door a firm yank.

Then another.

It wouldn’t budge.

The cleric crouched down to investigate. The dirt around the handle was wiped away, revealing a series of runes etched into it.

“It’s sealed with magic…” she deduced, “we might need Gale’s expertise for this.”

“Then we’ll have to come back. Let’s finish up here and return to camp.”

The next hour was spent searching the rest of the village for supplies and magical trinkets. They managed to find an enchanted helm, dagger, and several more scrolls. A very fruitful morning.

Next Chapter >>

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #dark urge #astarion #astarion x dark urge #baldurs gate 3 #durge

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marionedde · 2 months

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rock bottom bugs: full group

a group of misfits from around the world travelling together, setting up markets.

Lycoris (he/they)- a vessel raised in the spider tribe by his Uncle Shiv. After a tragic event, Lycoris was kept alive by cursed thorns. Sells flower arrangements.

Crescent (they/them)- a vessel who is deeply connected to the dream realm.

Bullseye- a pet aspid. Very jittery.

Paprika (he/him)- a mosquito from outside pharloom who sells soup.

Vels- a young bed bug from Pharloom.

The Offshoot (it/its)- a lifeblood creature who protects Vels.

Bobbin (she/they)- a weaver making intricate cloths, caring a fallen vessel called Belldoll (it/they.)

Sori- an old snail shaman who does fortune tellings.

Edgar- an ex troupe member who drives the wagon, pulled by two stags ( Roo and Rex.)

Abiidae (they/he)- a skimmer who used to work in a factory. They make candles with their companion Scab (it/she).

Pocket (he/him) and Pick (he/him)- a mole cricket and moth who play music together.

Kuris (they/them)- an assassin bug with a pet mosscreep (momo) that plans the stops.

Rosebud (she/her)- an old beastbug who sets up the market and tells jokes.

Shiv (he/him)- Lycoris's adoptive uncle. Medic.

Aria (she/her)- a dancer ant carrying the mask of her lover.

Broken (they/it)- Broken Tamer was an ex- god seeker who now studys the history of the world, selling books.

Venus (she/they)- Lycoris's botanist partner.

Spore (they/them) Shatter (he/she) and Honey (they/it)- triplet vessels cursed with different residues of hallownest.

not pictured: Hawkbill (he/him) and Warnecliff (she/it), two steelsoul soldiers hunting down something the RBBs have.

#hollow knight ocs #my art #hollow knight desolamolt #hk #hk oc

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valorums · 9 months

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UNIVERSE: All Universes

Alongside her extensive training in ballet, Shi’al also pursued instruction in MARTIAL ARTS as a form of SELF DEFENSE. It was her father who insisted in this pursuit — life as the chancellor’s daughter is quite dangerous, and Finis wished for her to be able to protect herself amidst the assassination threats made against their family on an almost daily basis.

Shi’al, although initially reluctant to begin her training and vehement in her protests against it, soon took to martial arts like a moth to a flame. She genuinely excelled in the field, climbing through the ranks of the CORUSCANT ACADEMY FOR THE MARTIAL ARTS at a breakneck pace. By the dawn of the Clone Wars, Shi’al had acquired a black belt, and was experienced enough to join the academy’s Grandmaster — a CHALACTAN human by the name of VAADRA JOVEM — as his Assistant Instructor. Notably, Grandmaster Jovem taught Shi’al how to wield a KATANA SWORD during the time wherein she was under his tutelage. This, amongst the many other lessons that she learned from the man, saved her life numerous times throughout the Clone Wars.

However, her hands, her voice, and a katana sword aren’t the only weapons with which Shi’al is gifted. For Shi’al’s tenth birthday, her godfather — a close family friend by the name of SHEEV PALPATINE — gifted her a set of silver THROWING KNIVES and a DAGGER to be used in combat. In this, too, she proved herself a prodigy; she grew so adept in the art of knife throwing that hitting the bullseye of a target was pure instinct, and she could even do so whilst blindfolded.

When one is as prominent as Shi’al, every second spent out in public is a second where your life may be in jeopardy. Hence, Shi’al made a concrete effort to learn these various combat skills in all forms of attire. She gave particular focus to learning hand-in-hand combat while wearing dresses. It was not unusual to see her decked out in a ballgown, ballet tutu, or even one of her opera costumes while training in the dojang. Suffice to say, she can hold her own in a fight.

#⠇ headcanons ⠇ ━━━ the songbird trapped in a golden cage

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reallyradicalmultimuse · 4 months

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MUSES!

-Bruce Wayne/Batman (Dozierverse and Burtonverse)

-Thomas Wayne Jr./Owlman

-Diana Prince/Wonder Woman (‘77)

-Charles Brown Sr./Kite-Man

-Drury Walker/Killer Moth

-Helena Wayne/Batwoman

-Barbara Gordon/Batgirl/Oracle

Marvel

-Bullseye (Lester Jangles/Benjamin Poindexter)

-Loki Laufeyson

-Wade Wilson?/Deadpool

-Marc Spector/Moon Knight

Other Comics

-April O’Neil

-Nemesis (Matthew Anderson)

Metal Gear

-Naked Snake/Big Boss

-Venom Snake

Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure

-Josuke Higashikata (Part 8)

-Yashuo Hirose

Scooby Doo

-Velma Dinkley

#ooc ; out of character #important ; breaking news

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ihateoc · 7 months

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Knife Throwing

(word count: 1,276) (Shadow has a free day.)

For the first time in... well, ever, Shadow was left with nothing to do, no targets to stalk, nothing to steal, nobody to kill. Bennett wasn't home, he had left a few hours ago, telling Shadow he wouldn't be back until late and his sister was nowhere to be found.

After some sulking, he figures he'll take advantage of his free day, choosing to roam around the city. He's new here. He may as well get a feel for it, especially if he's going to be sticking around longer than expected. It also provides him with an excellent opportunity to look out for any potential threats against Bennett or Ren.

Old habits die hard.

As he walks down the bustling streets and alleys, he more often than not finds himself in dark corners rather instinctively, almost like a moth drawn towards darkness instead of light due to its comfort and familiarity. Exploring further, he comes across a flea market that's happening downtown.

The former mercenary's maroon eyes take in the chaos of the bustling area. The variety of items on display, from worn-out antiques to hand-crafted trinkets, brings a ghost of a smile onto his lips. There's an odd sense of comfort found amongst these second-hand goods.

His gaze catches something that strikes him, a little charm bracelet with tiny daggers hanging down as pendants. They almost look like Ren’s weapon of choice. He swiftly picks it up and inspects them closely. They do seem pretty similar. Without giving it much thought, he pays for it and stuffs it into his jacket pocket. Now, should he give them to her subtly or make some dramatic flourish out of nothing?

He walks ahead, stumbling across an old woman running a knife throwing stand. A pair of young boys are trying their luck at the moment and failing miserably. He scoffs. Amateurs. Before he can retreat, the elderly lady greets him.

"My, my, aren't you a handsome one?" She says with a gentle smile.

"Well, thank you, ma'am," Shadow returns the woman's smile with a devilish grin of his own, "Interesting game you've got here. Mind if I try?"

She gestures to the stand as if encouraging him, "Be my guest!"

He runs a hand through his black hair before standing in front of the knives. As he picks one of the sharp objects up and tests its balance in its hand, it brings back familiar feelings from an old life. Too long spent hurling these deadly instruments at innocent targets that too often had blurred faces. Shadow shakes off those memories and throws three quick knives into all bullseyes, earning a round of applause from several passing onlookers.

"Wow, you have some skill!" The woman remarks as she claps herself, seemingly impressed, "It seems like you do this often."

"Once upon a time, I did," The dark-haired man answers casually, flashing her another charming smirk. His eyes narrow as he adds in an elusive manner, "Throwing knives was all just part of the job."

There's a brief moment when his past life as a mercenary claws into his mind again. The countless lives he had to end and the bloodshed that still often haunts him. He considers how second nature these deadly skills came to him before quickly brushing off those dark memories with a shake of his head.

"My husband would have been really impressed by you. He used to run this stand," She begins, her smile shifting into something sadder, "He passed away a few months ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Shadow replies sincerely. Even though he's not particularly good with emotions, the woman's comment reminds him of losses he had frequently seen his victims endure. Losses caused by him.

He offers her a reassuring smile, a foreign facial expression for him, "I bet your husband was an amazing man and an expert at this game. This round goes out to him then."

Shadow takes one more knife into his hand and throws it, hitting straight on target again. The small crowd watching erupts with applause as Shadow raises his hands up as if saluting toward the sky.

When he turns around and takes notice of the audience watching him, impressed looks etched onto their various faces, he decides fuck it, why not show off a little bit more?

Feeling multiple eyes on him and the adrenaline rushing into his veins, Shadow's cocky confidence rises back to the surface. With an impish glint in his maroon eyes, he takes five blades this time, one held between each of his fingers.

"Watch closely now," He utters with a smirk as he throws them all at once.

Every single knife hits its target perfectly, creating an awe-inspiring display that nobody there had expected to see today. The spectators erupt into applause again while Shadow bows down exaggeratedly, allowing a hearty chuckle to escape his lips.

"You're very talented! What's your name young man?" The elderly woman prods him enthusiastically.

A pause follows her question as he contemplates his response. Should he simply give her an alias as he had so often done in the past when walking among normal society? Although aliases have always been part of his past life, something about this current state of honest existence pushes him to stick with the truth.

"Name's Shadow," He responds smoothly, shooting her an amused grin as if daring the old lady to challenge the oddity that was his chosen name.

It may spark curiosity or maybe even skepticism but it was what it was. He was nothing but a shadow, or at least he used to be. For years all he did was exactly what shadows do, follow wherever their host goes regardless of any consequences.

But being here now like this? It felt like finally coming home.

"Shadow?" She begins, leaving him worried she was about to question him about his identity. Instead, she introduces herself with a warm smile, "My name is Hildegard but everyone just calls me Grandma Hildy. I do hope you come by again and show me some more of your talent. I'm here every weekend! Perhaps we can even have lunch sometime."

Shadow's eyes widen slightly, surprised at the old woman's warm gesture and invitation. He hadn't anticipated such kindness from a stranger, especially one who had just lost her husband. A genuine smile tugs at his lips as he replies, "Grandma Hildy, it would be my absolute pleasure to show off for you again. And lunch? Well... I'd be honored."

The idea of sharing a meal with someone who radiates grandmotherly warmth is strangely comforting to him. As he bids farewell to Grandma Hildy and the onlookers with a wave and confident stride, Shadow can't help but think that maybe this city has some unexpected surprises in store for him after all.

As he walks away from the market, he shoves his hands into his pockets, touching the charm bracelet he had purchased earlier. Maybe it wasn’t about being hard or soft, maybe for once. It was about simply being human.

Human enough to enjoy throwing knives at a flea market. Human enough to accept an old woman's invitation for lunch and even more so, the feeling of warmth when someone else shows genuine kindness. And as much as these feelings were alien to him due to years of chaos, bloodshed and hiding in the shadows, it felt kind of good too.

A small content smile plays on his lips as he begins walking back towards Bennett’s apartment. He had been running on adrenaline and darkness his whole damn existence. It was about time he let some light in.

#OC #my ocs #my characters #my writing #oc: shadow #hunter x hunter oc #hxh oc

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