#but it unlocked a can of worms within me

[ravenwolfie97]

i love that more exposure is being given to NB characters in media but pleaseeee please please please make more of them AMAB the market is so goddamn saturated with AFAB NBs and people need to see that nonbinary people aren't just "girl/woman lite"

[moonstruckme]

hiiii sorry I feel like I request so much I just love your stories!!!! could you do an EMT poly!marauders where the reader is coming home from an injury or surgery or something and they’re just being all sweet and overprotective of her

Don't be sorry sweetheart, thank you for requesting!! <3

cw: mentions of hospital, surgery (no details), nausea

emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 930 words

“Careful of the step,” Remus warns as he unlocks the front door. 

James makes a disgruntled little sound as he passes over it with you in his arms, angling you sideways to get you both through the front door. 

“I know where the step is,” he says. “I’ve lived here exactly as long as you.” 

“I just wanted to make sure.” Remus heads straight for the bathroom. “Do you want to have some more ibuprofen, dove? It’s been long enough now.” 

“Yes, please,” you call after him. James sets you down on the couch, a divot forming between his brows at the thick quality to your voice. 

“Siri has your bag,” he reminds you. “You want it, just to be safe?” 

You nod, swallowing. 

Sirius hustles over, crouching in front of you and holding the plastic bag under your mouth. “Oh, baby,” he coos, setting a hand on the back of your neck while you shudder and cough unproductively over the bag. “I know, I’m sorry. Better make it aspirin, Rem,” he calls down the hall. “She’s still got a fever.” 

“How bad?” 

“I’ll check in a bit.” He presses his lips to your hairline, murmuring softly. “She’s under duress at the moment, aren’t you, poor girl?” 

You want to cry for the sweetness in his tone, not one ounce of teasing. It can be hard to tell with Sirius, sometimes, but when you’re not feeling well he goes gooey-soft and saccharine as honey, all pet names and gentle touches. His thumb strokes the baby hairs at your nape. 

Remus sighs as he comes back. “I knew we shouldn’t have checked her out.” 

“I didn’t want to stay there,” you say into the bag, and James splays a hand on your back, rubbing slow circles. 

“We know, sweetheart.” He gives his fretful boyfriend a reassuring smile. Remus returns it wearily. “We can take care of you just fine from here, don’t worry.” 

Within an hour of waking up from your surgery feeling nauseous and pathetic, you’d been begging anyone who would listen to let you go home. The hospital had wanted to monitor you for a couple more hours, but after that your boyfriends had been able to exercise some sort of paramedic privilege and take you home early despite the normal two-to-three-day inpatient protocol. Your troubles hadn’t evaporated the way you’d expected upon getting out from under all that fluorescent lighting, but you do feel much better being miserable on your own couch. 

You cough into the bag a few more times before relinquishing yourself to the idea that you’re stuck with this nausea for the foreseeable future. “I don’t like this,” you decide, lowering the bag from your face. 

Remus tosses a thermometer to Sirius, who catches it with a good-natured eye-roll and sets it in your ear compliantly. 

“I’m sorry, my love,” James says, his hand migrating to your shoulder as you lean back against the couch cushions. “I know it’s rough right now.” 

The thermometer beeps, and Sirius reads the number aloud as he takes it out. You frown. 

“Oh, thank god,” Remus exhales. James chuckles at him. 

“It’s okay?” you check. 

“Perfectly okay.” Sirius kisses your temple. “That’s completely normal for the first twenty-four hours. You’re all good, sweetness.” 

Pathetically, you feel a bit invalidated. To feel as gross as you do, surely your brain would have to be fully boiling in there. James must see some of this on your face, because he scoots closer to you on the couch, leaning you against his side. 

“Sorry,” you say quietly. 

You can feel Sirius gaze boring into the side of your head as he perches on the armrest. “Not sure why you would be,” he mutters, worming his cold feet underneath your thigh, “but do go on.” 

“I made you all take me home and now I’m being difficult.” 

You’re not quite looking at any of them, but you could swear a collective sigh goes up from your boyfriends. 

“Dove,” says Remus, “look at me.” 

You do, shifting ever so slightly closer to James' side for comfort. A quiet chuckle rumbles through him, his thumb sweeping back and forth over your shoulder. 

Remus’ gaze is steady and kind, his usual remonstrance curbed for your sorry state. “You’re not being difficult,” he tells you. “You’re tired and not feeling well, and that’s to be expected after a procedure like this. I didn’t mean I regret us taking you home, I’m only nervous that you’d have been better taken care of in the hospital.” 

“Impossible,” Sirius remarks. Remus nods in grudging acknowledgement. 

“I’m glad I’m home,” you say, and despite your best intentions your voice teeters on the edge of a whimper. “I’d rather be with just you guys, you know?” 

“We know,” Remus says gently. “I’m glad you’re here, too.” 

James makes a soft sound, rubbing your shoulder more firmly. “Are you feeling tired, angel? We could have a nap.” 

“We?” you ask.

“What, you think you’re the only one who deserves a rest?” Sirius wiggles his toes underneath your thigh. “You got to sleep just this morning. We’ve been worrying all day long.” 

You smile. He looks thrilled to see it, and James stamps a kiss of approval on your cheek. “Right, my bad. A nap sounds good.” 

“Perfect,” Remus agrees, standing. James needles his arms underneath you to pick you up again. 

“Fairly sure they said I could walk on my own,” you say. 

James only shrugs, carrying you towards the bedroom. “Not sure I heard that part. Better safe than sorry, I suppose.”

[arvandus]

If you don't mine writing Dabi with a S/O that's a trans man and on their period.

Oh anon, I'm so sorry it took me so long to finally write this. It took some time for me to build the confidence, as I am not trans. However, I hope that I was able to empathize and understand in a way that resonates for you. Hopefully you're still around to be able to read this and I hope it is to your liking!

Between a Rock and a Hard Place (Dabi x trans male Reader)

CW: A bit of angst; hurt/comfort; established relationship; Dabi learning to be soft.

WC: 1,704

Nothing forced you into the bone-aching, skin-itching discomfort of gender dysphoria like getting your period.

It didn’t matter how you dressed, or the chest binders that you wore, or the name that you picked for yourself that resonated within your soul in a way your dead name never did.  Each month, the flawed imperfection of nature reminded you exactly how ill-suited your body was to your spirit.

You did your best to ignore it, to handle what needed to be handled with barely a glance.  But no amount of pain relievers could rid you of it entirely, the pain sometimes so severe that it felt like divine punishment.

This was how Dabi found you. 

He’d snuck through your window – the one you kept unlocked just for him – to find you curled up and miserable beneath your blankets as you lay on your couch, the pale blue light of the TV illuminating your face. You barely looked at him when he entered, and that alone was enough to set off the warning bells in his mind.  Usually, you were happy to see him. Usually, you were scolding him about his unusual entry, even as a grin tugged at your lips and your hands pulled him close by his coat collar.

But not this time.

This time, you were anything but welcoming.

“Go away,” was all you muttered, you voice muffled beneath your blankets.

You didn’t really want him to go, but you also didn’t feel like yourself in this very moment.  You didn’t want to be perceived, and you most definitely didn’t want to be touched.

And Dabi always loved touching.

Lots and lots of touching.

Dabi didn’t go. Instead, he stared down at you with sharp, blue eyes, his hands buried in his pockets.  He stayed silent, brooding almost, as he walked past you and into your kitchen.  You sighed heavily as you heard the fridge open, heard the pop of a beer can being opened.

When he returned, he didn’t try to worm his way close to you, didn’t invade your personal space like he usually enjoyed doing.  Instead, he sat on the arm of the couch and stared at the show you were watching.

Silence hovered between you, and the longer he lingered, the guiltier you felt.  He came here for you, to find comfort in you.  You were his safe place, his home.  Even though he never said it, you knew it, could feel it each time in the way that he kissed you, held you...

But it felt like that person wasn’t here right now.  That version of you that he found solace in wasn’t home, instead replaced by someone broken and confused.

Tears started to sting the corners of your eyes, and close behind came the tingling sensation of nasal congestion, the harbingers of open crying.  You sniffed, wiped at your eyes before the tears could fall, hoping to keep the actions subtle.

But Dabi was far too perceptive for that.

“What’s wrong?” he finally asked.

“Nothing,” you lied.  “I just don’t feel good.”

“You sick?”

“...yeah.”

“Move over.”

You curled your legs tighter against yourself, allowing him room at your feet.  He sat next to you and placed his hand over your covered calf.  You recoiled from his touch, afraid of what it meant, of what it could possibly lead to. Dabi stared at you, his eyebrows furrowed and his lips pulled into a frown.

“You mad at me or something?”

“No.”

That much was the truth, at least, and it felt good to be able to say something that felt honest for once.

“Then why won’t you let me touch you?”

His question made you feel cornered, trapped.  He didn’t believe you.  Why should he, you realized.  It wasn’t as if you’d made him feel welcome since the moment he stepped foot into your apartment.

“Because I don’t want to be touched,” you replied.

Dabi didn’t understand, and you could see the confusion and frustration written in the angles of his mouth, in the tight pull of his staples.

“Why--”

You snapped.  “Because I can’t fuck you tonight, okay??”

Dabi froze, his blue eyes wide, mouth slightly parted.  You froze too, your breath caught in your throat, tears burning at your eyes and you hoped they would blind you, keep you from seeing how much you hurt him.

You expected him to snap at you, to get pissed.  You weren’t sure why you expected that... it wasn’t as though the two of you ever fought.  Oddly enough, your relationship with Dabi was rather...mellow.  Maybe it was because both of you had seen enough of what unhealthy relationships were to know what to avoid.

But he didn’t get mad.  Instead, his expression gentled.  Not into something entirely soft, of course... Dabi wasn’t a soft person. But it calmed into neutrality, and he stared at you for the first time that night as if he saw you... truly saw you.

“It’s that time, isn’t it?” he finally asked.

You were surprised he figured it out so quickly.  After all, he’d never been around you before when it was your time of the month.  It was a combination of circumstance and carefully delivered text messages that managed to keep him away from you when you were struggling the most.  The fear of his reputation as a wanted criminal leading a trail of breadcrumbs to your doorstep made his visits woefully infrequent.  And the other times, times when you’d planned to meet up, were occasionally canceled with excuses on your part.  The need to work late, stuck in a social engagement, having the flu, etc.

Your tears spilled over finally, and you nodded, half-covering yourself against his piercing gaze. You stared at the TV in an attempt to put distance between yourself and your emotions.

Dabi let out a sigh and took a sip of his beer as he stared at the TV.  “Well that explains a lot...” he muttered.

And you knew in that moment that your excuses would never work again.  It left a strange vulnerability within you that you weren’t prepared for, but were forced to accept just the same.

You waited to see if he would do anything.  Get up to leave or get mad at you.  But he didn’t.  Instead he sat there, waiting.

Waiting for you.

“Sorry,” you finally whispered.  “I should have told you.”

“’S fine,” he replied. He finished his beer and set it on the coffee table in front of him. “it’s not a big deal, y’know.”

“Yeah, it is,” you muttered.

Dabi gave you a look of reproach, as if you offended him.

“Trust me,” he said, “it’s not.”

“That’s not what I meant,” you replied. “What I mean is that it’s a big deal to me.”

You forced yourself to sit up with a wince, the blankets still wrapped around you and covering your head as you sat cross-legged next to him. You were close enough now for your shoulder to touch his and your knee to rest over his thigh, and you took comfort in his warmth, in the firmness of his body. It was grounding in a way.

“I hate feeling like this,” you muttered.  “Like I’m stuck in a body that isn’t mine. I wish I could rip it out of me, like a puzzle piece that doesn’t fit.”

You felt Dabi’s arm drape over your shoulder, and this time you didn’t recoil. Instead, you leaned into it, allowing your weight to rest against his side.  You inhaled the scent of him, rich and comforting.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, his voice reverberating where his chin rested against your head.

“Yeah.”

“Did you take anything for it?”

“Yeah, but it didn’t work. I still feel like my insides are being scraped out with a knife.”

Dabi let a long breath out of his nose.

“Open up your blanket,” he said.

Your body stiffened again, and he noticed.

“Relax, I’m not gonna try anything.”

You unfurled from your cocoon and Dabi took the blanket.

“Lay down,” he ordered.

You did, resting your head in his lap. He put the blanket back over you, and tucked his arm beneath it until it was wrapped around your torso, his palm and fingers resting against the cotton of your shirt over your belly.  A moment later, a soothing warmth began to emanate from his touch.  Your heart fluttered in your chest and tears welled in your eyes.

“Dabi....” you started.

“Shut up and lemme take care of you,” he muttered.

So you did, falling into silence as you both continued to watch TV.  It wasn’t long before you felt his other hand on your head, his rough, calloused fingers gently petting you along your hairline and along the curve of your ears. 

Your breath caught in your throat at his gentle care.  He’d never done this before.  To be quite honest, you weren’t entirely sure he was capable of such affection.  It wasn’t that he didn’t care about you, but his way of expressing his feelings was either more heated and needy, or more... clumsy, all awkward pats and even more awkward words.

But now, right now, he was learning, adapting.  And you couldn’t deny that you needed it.  You needed this.  You needed to be touched, not out of desire, but out of love.  To be a person first and foremost, all other aspects of yourself set aside because they were secondary to what truly made you ‘you.’  One minute became two, two became three.  As the minutes stretched, your body began to relax.

Finally, Dabi spoke, his voice deep and laced with a tangled web of hurt and something akin to love.  “I don’t come here just for the sex, you know...” he muttered.  “I come here because it’s the one place where I feel happy.”

Guilt dug a hole deep into your heart.  You were supposed to be his rock, his safe space, and yet... here you were, neither of those things.

Tears stung your eyes again as your vision blurred.

“Even now?” you asked.

Dabi gave a dry huff. “Yeah, dumbass. Even now.”

And for the first time, you realized Dabi could be your rock too.

[see-arcane]

Last Night

It isn’t a dream. It isn’t moonlight or mist. It’s him.

The pretense shed, the door at his towering back, the teeth bared with a glee that borders on the giddiness of a child finally unwrapping a gift dangled out of reach until the appropriate holiday. All the world is shrunk down to the pieces of him Jonathan has had to endure by increasing increments. Mouth, hands, eyes. The latter are trying to hook him. He feels the push of them just as the Weird Sisters’ influence had fogged his sense when he was too near to sleep to fight.

But he is awake now. So horribly, implacably awake with that fearful energy which visits all prey spotting the pursuer’s jaws. Run! that energy demands. Run! Hide! Fight! Something, anything!

With no mode in which to answer any of these instincts, the energy is left to pace through his veins in frantic circles. It feels as if his own blood is leaping to answer the Count’s wishes, churning itself into a froth. Sickly, he thinks he sees exactly that answering delight in the horror’s pallid face; a twitch of the nostrils, a salivating shine on the saber teeth, a darkening of the eyes. A wolf before a lame calf.

“I do wish to thank you before we part. Most sincerely.”

Jonathan doesn’t answer. Doesn’t dare meet the trap of the eyes. Watch the red mouth. The white hands.

“You have given me so much more than I dared hope for after all this time.”

“I only,” his voice is thinned down to a rasp. A raw quavering. “I only came to sell you a house. That was all.” The flatness of the fact seems almost comical when said aloud. A noise that can’t decide between a laugh, a sob, or a scream lodges in his throat.

“And so you did. So anyone might have. Anyone else,” the Count takes a step closer, as Jonathan moves back a pace, “would have come and gone within a day. Less than. A mere workman, a living appliance good only for one thing before being discarded. Not so for you, my friend. You have gifted me such aid and pleasure in your company that it merits mention. That and more.” Step forward, step back. The door is visible over the high cloaked shoulder. Locked? Unlocked? Does it matter?

Jonathan digs for a response that isn’t bile, begging, or more incessant playacting to suit the damned game. All he can dredge up is more hot coal in his throat, more wet burning behind his eyes. He wants to wake up. Please, God, now if no other time, let the nightmare end, let him out, let him wake—

But you are. You are awake.

A single word makes it past his tongue. Empty and pleading, but there.

“Why?”

“Because.” Step. “Since your coming, since your staying, I have been met again and again with a joy I thought dead in me.” Step. “Dust piled on the clockwork of my mind has been swept away.” Step. “You have brought lifeblood into my nights and made me feel things I feared were buried in long-gone ages.” Step. “A lifetime of paling distractions, suddenly alight with something worth attention.” Step. “Such a perfect prelude to dear England. But more than that…”

Jonathan’s heel strikes a leg of the bed.

Door, door, get to the door—

He gets scarcely an inch before the white hands are on him. One is the manacle grip on his arm that first stole him up into the caleche and drove him away to this benighted hell. The other locks around his jaw like a cold vise, seizing him where the crucifix had once barred that touch on the night of his last shave. With bleary inanity, Jonathan wonders if there would be any difference if he wore it now rather than leaving it pinned as scant protection on the wall. The Son hangs his tiny head and cannot guard him from his spot above the bed.

Not that Jonathan could look him in his carved eyes now. The hand at his jaw has wrenched his face up and the red eyes are worming their way into him like maggots coiling through loam. A braided sensation of dread and calm, terror and welcome stitches itself through him. When he tries to open his mouth for a last word—he can’t guess whether it would be a prayer or an animal-cry of protest—there’s only the slackness of a doll.

“…you have made me feel young, my friend. In so many ways.” Cool digits stroke and cradle. “For that, you deserve all I mean to give.”

The red stare does not blink. Does not move. Does not end as the pressure of it softens the world’s edges into a dreaming haze. Jonathan feels himself going away. Away…

Dracula says things he can no longer hear. The room tilts as he is tilted, neck taut, back folded over the strut of a dead man’s arm, and it is bliss not to know the words whispering their endless litany in his ear. Murmurs of youth, of forgotten pleasures, of life, of love, of a dozen other endearments made profane through the sieve of those lowering teeth are all lost to him. Even the farewell, padded as it is in stroking hands and cold lips, hushing him away to an oblivion without sight or tears, melts into ether.

When the blood begins to flow, he does not have to see the turning of the wild white mane into a fall of iron.

[thelavendernarwhal]

I received an ask that a person wanted answered anonymously, so:

But I really, truly cannot stop thinking about this one scene in Legacy. It’s around page 351.

“You mean having Dizznee pull some money from your birth fund and then hitting up a shop for a couple of minutes?” Keefe asked. “Yeah, Dex told me all about how not exhausting that was last night, when he checked in to tell me how things went for you two in London, while someone was off doing something with Mr. Forkle…”

So what I’m hearing is sleepy Dex on call with Keefe? Dex telling Keefe that he’s tired? A cute little nightly convo?

Side note, why was Dex tired? Does his ability make him tired? I need more elaboration, Shannon.

This scene is hella interesting to me since you look at it and it immediately seems like a Sokeefe scene, but in the middle, it has this seemingly random shift into talking about a completely different character dynamic. The context this snippet falls into is Keefe trying to cheer up Sophie after she had an argument with Mr Forkle. It all makes sense within of their relationship and dynamic, but this bit of dialogue is communicating something pretty different. It’s pointing out that Keefe and Dex have a close friendship that Sophie isn’t super aware of and that Sophie doesn’t spend a lot of time with/pay attention to Dex. 

Both of these things can be chalked up to the fact the story is from Sophie’s perceptive. The big plot details have to happen or be explained to her or else they won’t make it to the reader. That doesn’t leave a lot of page time for banter, especially for a character like Dex who’s narrative role can mostly be done off stage. Of course, Dex’s character can be used for a lot more than ‘cool gadget guy’ (ie class divides, matchmaking/queer allegories, parallels to many other characters, etc), but that’s a whole different can of worms. Having moments like this that show things happening outside of Sophie helps establish a larger, more lively world. It shows that Sophie isn’t the center of the universe. 

But these little moments can be established with many different characters. There are so many background dynamics and friendships that can be leveraged for this purpose which makes it interesting that specifically Keefe and Dex are highlighted. In fact, these two are highlighted in this way fairly often. Back in book 3, the two of them hit it off quickly and spend more time together outside of a group setting which then translates into many Keefex moments (including getting their team/ship name). Late night calls are probably pretty common. 

But what really gets me about all of this is the casualness and I think it's because few other relationships in this series have that. Even characters that are established to be best friends have a good amount of tension between them (ie Fitz and Keefe, Sophie and Dex, Stina and Marella), but Keefe and Dex don’t have that. There’s a sense of stability and trust. They hang out and talk to each other without a practical reason to do so. Dex feels okay complaining to Keefe about projects and, presumably, feelings of isolation. Especially seen in Unlocked, Keefe trusts Dex to help him and hear some of the ugly things he doesn’t want to say to Sophie. There's definitely a lot of room for cute late night conversation on call, but also for a chill relationship in a sea of high-tension dynamics. 

The length of this thing kind of got away from me but that's my take :) 

(Also, I'm exploring a lot more of the mechanics of technopathy in my own writing, so I think that it's possible that Dex’s experience is something very similar to Keefe’s as the Forbidden Cities has more integrated technology that seemingly ‘speaks’ to Dex. That could be very overwhelming for him, hence why he's tired.)

[misseviehyde]

KEY HOLDER

"Pleeeease," Sean hissed as you applied a another layer of lipgloss to your full sexy lips and pointedly ignored him. "Please take off the key now."

He looked at you pleadingly, but you refused to meet his gaze - not because you were ashamed - but because you had no intention of contaminating your eyeballs with his embarrassing display of subservience.

You could feel the key nestling sexily above your cleavage like it belonged there. You had no intention of removing it.

Cleavage...

That wasn't something you ever thought you'd have, but there they were on your chest, two full rounded firm titties that were all yours to play with and dominate boys with.

"No."

You were almost shocked at how good your voice sounded. So full and sensual - the voice of an entitled brat. Like poison honey. You almost wanted to say more so you could hear it, but that would be going too far.

There wasn't a need to say more. You didn't need to explain yourself. Brats like you NEVER explained themselves, just expected boys to obey.

If you had been minded to explain to Sean, you would have told him that removing the key would turn you back into a boy.

Your beautiful hair would shorten, your long sexy black nails would retract and your beautiful pussy would seal up as your useless boy cock grew back.

The key had set you free, unlocking the bratty potential within you and making you a Goddess. You had transformed into a rich, popupar, beautiful girl and it seemed that Sean was the only one who even remembered the original you.

"Please," he begged again. "Goddess, my cock hurts... please set me free."

You sneered and tossed your hair contemptuously, enjoying how the silken wave moved effortlessly over your shoulders. Adjusting the hem of your satin skirt, you casually turned and reaching down grabbed Sean by the balls.

He squealed and you grinned, your perfect white teeth flashing. "It only hurts because you've been trying to take off your cage again. I told you - I'm the only one who can remove that now."

The key round your neck and the cage on Sean's cock were magically linked. It could never be removed without your desire to do so and unfortunately for Sean you had no intention of doing that.

You squeezed and he groaned. With a flick of your will you made the cage tighter and you also strengthened the sense of devotion and worship he felt for you. Through the cage you controlled everything about Sean. You could make him do or believe anything. So far you'd left his mind relatively untouched, after all it was far more fun to break him manually.

You knew it was the key doing this to you. You never used to be this cruel, this manipulative, this sadistic. Wearing the key had made you beautiful and popular, but it had also rotted your soul and turned you into an evil bitch.

You smirked as you saw the light of worship blaze in Sean's eyes. "I... I'm sorry Goddess. I should be punished for trying to undo what you did to me. I am a worm."

"You ARE a worm Sean," you sighed, "but you're my worm. Goddess forgives you - but there does need to be a punishment. How about you eat another creampie?"

You saw Sean quail and it made you laugh. "Oh yes my little pet. The reason I'm putting on this lipgloss is we are on our way to Shane's house and once there I'm going to suck that big fat cock then get fucked. You can eat his cum out of my freshly fucked pussy as your punishment."

"But Shane was our bully... you wouldn't..."

"Shane only bullied me when I was a loser like you. Now he's all over me like a rash. He's not very sophisticated, but he does know how to make me squirt. Now come along loser - it's play time."

The magic key that had turned you into such a bitch bouncing on your chest, you walked off - high heeled boots clopping as with a snap of your fingers your pet followed.

Being a keyholder felt so fucking good.

[gutspiller]

sin triangle - II

read it on ao3 here

You, in fact, do not have the pretties.

Upon checking your tattered pockets, the jewels have unmistakably fallen out. You really, really do need a bag for this kind of thing. You’re hoping it was just taken by Alastor, but upon further thought (Of which you do not often do), it feels gross to know the radio host can even do that without you batting an eye.

You’re being forced into redemption via theft debt. This day is just spectacular, especially in the way you’re pretty sure every bright light is indenting itself into your corneas. On the other hand.. They have locked the robber in with the money.

As soon as you finish pretending to know what the fuck is going on, you’re going to shoot up and sprint out of the lobby to scrounge the area. If you’re lucky, the hotel will get blown up, and a couple of those signs will fall off with it! Then you can– you can–

You’re plucked by the scruff of your neck by those nasty, thin claws before you know it. “Now, now,” Alastor croons, waiting for a response. Or anything. Literally anything at all, but you’re stunned in place with dilated eyes like a doe in front of blinding headlights.

“Oh, well, ah,” He only smiles wider, shrugging his shoulders and dropping you on the hardwood floor. “Run along now! I will.. arrange something for you to assist me with later.” With that, you run for the hills.

Your sputtering wings don’t do much for running (Much less your flying abilities you pretend to have), but you flap them anyway, sweeping the floorboards. Everyone is definitely staring, but you stopped caring as soon as that demon let you go.

Climbing up the stairs, you reach what feels to be an endless hall of doors. This is… really just not what you need right now at all . Well, the early bird gets the worm! Or, jewels and pretties and such!

You huff and puff, pulling on each handle to find an unlocked door, until finally you reach a hotel room covered in pink . Suuure, there’s insinuations around, but it’s probably just their guilty pleasure!

Back when you were alive, plenty of people roamed around with their dirty secrets on display! Not that most noticed, but you were pretty observant in the way people gave you those nasty looks– Guilty, indeed!

You could always tell on these kinds of things, ha! You’re so smart..

A few things in the room instinctively made your feathers puff out, but for the most part you found lots of new pretties! There was even a pretty pink hog covered in spots– he was so sweet!

Tossing the pig in your satchel, you jump up and sprint to the next room, peeking through the cracks of light in the doorframe. You spot a scarlet loveseat and a crackling fireplace, still blazing despite the absence of a keeper.

The second you step into the room, you're overwhelmed by the damp scent of a bayou. What in the everloving..

Before you can think on it further, a neon green light fills the room and you spin around to meet Alastor standing before you.

His expression is tense, but within a moment’s glance, he’s back to his usual self! Wow, he's really good at staying positive in these trying times!

The radio demon leans over you menacingly, and you swallow the frog in your throat, looking up at him with a guilty stare.

An amulet slips out of your bag, glittering with a loud clank to the floor.

Oh.

[kapanbenernya]

Back 4 Blood -- It is Now Literally Left for Dead

As I have touched in this post, this is one of the games I still play, and for good reason. It has huge replayability, it's easy to pick up, it can fit all of my friends, and most importantly: it's fun. Yes you heard it right here folks, I like Back 4 Blood despite being aware of all it's faults and imperfections because it's still fun. And because of that, I will spend what free time I have to talk about this game and what I appreciate from it.

First, let's talk about the apocalypse

As we all know from the Left 4 Dead comparisons everyone throws around, the setting to Back 4 Blood is a plague apocalypse. Notice that I use the word "plague" instead of the straight "zombie" apocalypse because there are almost no zombie apocalypse in mass media anymore. Ever since the year 2010-something everyone just shied away from it like last month's fast fashion.

"LOOK AT HIM STILL USING CONVENTIONAL UNDEAD ZOMBIES! LOOK AT HOW MUCH OF A SIMPLETON HE IS!"

And with the traditional undead zombies declining in popularity, rose the new hotness that I can only describe as scientifically induced zombiefication, in which the "zombie" is caused by a scientific phenomenon like fungus, virus, bacterial infection, etc. Popular examples including 28 Days Later, The Walking Dead, and of course, Left 4 Dead. In the world of Back 4 Blood, the cause of the zombie mutations is an entity called the Worm which is said to proliferate in the waters and could mutate human flesh into all sorts of malformed abominations. And it's up to us, the cleaners of Fort Hope to thin their numbers and save the future. Or at least our group's future

But who is our group? And what are the Cleaners?

As mentioned before, we play as Cleaners. Essentially a ragtag group of survivors from Fort Hope sent out to execute missions such as community outreach, resupplying, and more often than not, blowing shit up. The characters available to us ranges from a soldier, a doctor, a delinquent, a prepper, two war veterans, and two nutjobs each with their own unique craziness. The variation is more than just salad dressing mind you, as each character comes with their own character and party skills. Such as the doctor that affects how well you can heal and how resistant the party is to long-term health damage, The prepper that can somehow turn the zombies into pinatas of ammo and grenades, and a young man whose only purpose is to annoy me every time he opens his fucking mouth.

"No seriously, Jesus Christ, just shut the fuck up Evangelo"

On top of the skills that comes with each unique character, you also have to build your own personal skill with the Skill Card system. It's essentially buffs in the form of cards that you form into a 15-card deck filled with multiple buffs and/or debuffs that will combine to fill a certain role within the team. The cards are unlocked via an in-game currency called copper (boy am I glad they didn't charge us micro-transactions for those) and you earn copper by playing the game. The system sounds pretty okay on paper, since you unlock your skills quite organically and slowly build yourself up as you play. But as you know things that sounds alright on paper might just be fairy farts in the real world, and the skill card system is no exception. The downside is that the skill cards are unlocked via packs that will randomly spawn on the shop. So if you're in a hurry to unlock certain cards, you can take a cactus up the arse and get fucked.

Wait. We've veered too much into gameplay territory now. Let me actually switch the topic to gameplay

It's no secret that the gameplay is very much similar to Left 4 Dead, so any attempt to explain the gameplay is a waste of time because everyone knows Left 4 Dead at this point. Its simple formula of "move from the starting point to the finish zone while dodging obstacles in the form of zombies" has been tried and tested for so many years now that it can almost vote. Attentive readers might have realized that I didn't put the words "killing zombies" in there because it wasn't really the main objective in L4D. They're more nuisance in the form of very bitey assholes, not unlike a teething baby that just learned to run.

"Yeah, not so tough now are you?"

Aside from them however there also the special infected that are so famous that they don't need an introduction. What I need to emphasize however is how good their designs are. I'm talking about each of them are so visually and audibly distinct, and how their roles are so synergistic with each other that they are still downright terrifying to face even with a tight 4 man group.

As the self-proclaimed "spiritual successor" of Left 4 Dead, and how the tagline for the game is "From the creators of Left 4 Dead", one would rightly assume that the game would at least maintain such quality. A thing that they unfortunately, did not manage to do with this game. Dishonorable mention goes to the special infected that can be very hard to discern unless the game spells it out for me. Not to mention that their roles aren't very distinct from one another that they all just blur out into "collective nuisance" for me. Overall, such a letdown from the people that made L4D.

Before we go to the final say, let me list the good things I really like from this game

Oh my god, it's the weapon system. The way the weapons handle, the customizations, the brutal melee weapons, the satisfying OOMPH some of the weapons have, and aiming down the sights? Good lord killing zombies haven't been this cathartic since COD Zombies. This is one of the reason why I think this game is still fun despite all it's shortcomings. The other reason? Nothing else except the fact that it's very much competent. It already has a satisfying gameplay loop that could carry the game by itself. All we need it just for the devs to keep this putrid ball of cadaver rolling.

And as we are now in the current future of 2024, we know that the Developers have pulled out like a couple of teenagers fucking on a risky day. This post by the Developers (almost exactly a year ago, by the way) has cemented the death of this game. The lack of community modding means that the game will stay the same as it was until the servers inevitably close. It truly has been the final nail in the undead coffin. The devs did say that they were gonna "be Back, bigger, bolder and better than ever!", but seeing how they treated this promising IP? Might as well get the phone ready to call CPS

In Brief

I'd still play it. No matter how much shit the community says about this game, I'd still play it given the chance. I still truly believe it's a competent game that just need a few fixes. I dare the developers to get off their ass and actually put community modding and/or map maker to the game. If that happens, I'm willing to bet one of my testicles that the game will re-flourish and we're going to start seeing a lot of new fan-made content and fixes it sorely needed.

But we will not get it of course. Not because the devs are lazy or incompetent, but I'm thinking it's because there is no money to be made in implementing it. We still remember the backlash about "Paid mods" back in 2015 so monetization is a very tricky issue. Apart from that, the devs will just look greedy by doing so. And trust me, Turtle Rock Studios cannot afford to tarnish their reputation any more than this. Not after Evolve

22/02/2024

[tgrailwar-zero]

You began the hacking process, as you drifted deeper and deeper into darkness once more.

This place, existing in the depths of LUCIUS' mind, seemed like a true hellscape.

No laughter.

No light.

No life.

Simply an expanse of destruction and sorrow.

LUCIUS: "This place… I hate this place… but we must sally forth. This is where my memories are stored, supposedly."

She began running in one direction. Following her, you managed to pick up some noise.

You heard the sounds of combat off in the distance. This must be one of the 'Failsafes' that had been installed within her-- and probably one of the reasons why her memories were so difficult to unlock.

A figure, cloaked in shadow, led an ever-vengeful army.

They seemed like a formidable opponent by themselves, but that army seemed to grow larger and larger each passing second. There seemed to be no end in sight.

However, this warzone wasn't simply made of the enemy army.

You saw two figures fighting off to the side, struggling for their lives. One of them was a tyrannical woman in black armor, her flaming blade smashing through wave after wave of enemies, throwing her head back in excited laughter as the sparks from the flames glinted off the dark horns curling from her head.

She also looked strikingly similar to LUCIUS.

'TYRANT LUCIUS': "Finally! Masters who have come to tear this world asunder, take my hand, and we shall battle forth! But you are late! The Lunar Grail War is long since passed, and the souls of the Servants henceforth soil for the worms. However, I forgive you nonetheless! So let us join forces, and achieve destiny, victory, and glory!"

The other was a woman in elegant red clothing, her blazing blade dancing as she weaved between enemies, swinging her sword as if it were a baton in a practiced dance. Similarly to the first one, she shared an eerie resemblance to LUCIUS.

'IMPERIAL LUCIUS': "Interlopers, you are not my Maestro, but we must set this 'Solar Cell' to rights- so I am open to being your ally. To be truly honest, my story has long since ended, but I am a stubborn actress, willing to hog the stage until I see the final curtain fall. Come! Take my hand, and let us battle!"

Compared to the other two, LUCIUS seemed weak and lacking in confidence, with no blade or weapon in sight.

LUCIUS: "Are those people... me? No, they're nothing like me... perhaps they're relatives? Cousins... no, sisters, perhaps?"

LUCIUS: "However, they've both taken up arms… but there are ways to settle conflicts aside from fighting, yes? That woman, in the captain's coat- perhaps we can speak to her! After all, I am an artist, not a warrior!"

You felt as if you had several paths before you…

[miloscat]

[Review] Sonic Boom: Shattered Crystal (3DS)

Maybe Sonic Boom works better in 2D than 3D.

Alongside Rise of Lyric, Sega commissioned a handheld companion game within their Sonic Boom line. Development duties went to Sanzaru Games, another American studio who had previously made the Sly Cooper 3D platformers. This is actually their first 2D game (well, 2.5D anyway) and while it's less ambitious than RoL, it is much more successful at fulfilling those lower ambitions.

While RoL had a flash-forward cold open, this one abruptly starts in medias res with Lyric accosting Amy. Amy apparently is an archaeologist of sorts, and Lyric mind controls her to find the secrets of a lost extra crystal, tying into the MacGuffin objects in RoL. This sadly puts Amy in the "damsel in distress" role, but it does make room on the D-pad character switcher for Sticks to be playable this time (yay!). Incidentally, Lyric is not given an introduction in in-game cutscenes, but gets some backstory in the form of a short comic that is only viewable after level 1, which also sets up the present-day events. It's done by the Archie team of Ian Flynn and Evan Stanley, and [fun fact] is the only time that Sega let them put Lyric or Boom Shadow in any kind of comic medium.

The game plays out on a 2D plane with occasional dips into the foreground or background in short transitional sequences. It reminded me a little of Generations 3DS since it has a boost/dash button (unlimited use here, but doesn't damage enemies until you get an unlockable perk late on) and a mid-air homing attack. You also get the Enerbeam for grapple swinging and removing enemy shields, and each character has their own abilities and interactions. Tails can hover and throw bombs, Knuckles can burrow, Sticks throws her boomerang, and Sonic has a versatile air dash. As you encounter the characters and quickly build your team, you can swap between them on the fly which is needed to progress and find optional areas.

Although the format feels a lot more like traditional Sonic than RoL, this is similarly more slow-paced and exploratory than many of the series' 2D outings. I do think it strikes a good balance and flow, helped by quick on-the-spot respawns from pits as long as you have rings. The levels can be sprawling, and it's not always obvious which path leads onwards or to optional goodies, but it's usually possible to backtrack or loop to earlier portions. And you will need to do this, as completionist plays of levels become necessary. In a good use of the bottom screen, a scrollable map does help you get around and find goodies.

Saying this game only has eight (8) levels sounds absurd, but it's not the full story. The levels are huge, with full collectathon runs taking upwards of 15 minutes while the time trials often have a goal over 5 minutes. Each one also consists of two different environments that you bounce back and forth between using Enerbeam slingshots. These levels have a series of goals: time trials and ring collection give tokens to unlock character model dioramas, while collection of all blueprints (for unlocking passive perks, much more useful here than RoL's equivalent bonuses) and crystal shards give crests that unlock new levels. If you try to just breeze through you quickly encounter a hard roadblock that makes you go back and repeat levels for crests. I'm the type who enjoys doing and getting everything so it suited me, but it might not be to everyone's tastes that this is required.

Along with the eight main levels, there are race levels... kind of like the races in Generations 3DS. These use the same engine to have you beat another character through a fast-paced platforming level, and I found them fun to learn and improve. Another type of side level is the worm chase, an into-the-screen autorunning affair which Sanzaru would build on in their Tron Run/r game soon after this. These were less enjoyable for me and more demanding, although they're simpler to control. Rounding out the whole game is a Lyric battle—the only boss fight—which is not bad and incorporates platforming between phases. These other level types are a good way to flesh out the package and break up the action between the gigantic regular levels.

One of the strengths of the Sonic Boom show is its array of goofy side characters, and while RoL slotted a few in, there's a dearth here. Shadow at least has slightly more of an integral role in Shattered Crystal, but oddly Eggman has barely a cameo! However SC does stand head and shoulders over RoL in the script department as it actually remembers that Sonic Boom is a comedy series, and has lots of silly interactions between the characters before and after each level. The credited external writers weren't involved with the show but they seem to get it, and it makes this game feel more authentically part of the setting.

Speaking of the setting, the game looks lovely with varied environments and lots of detail in the backgrounds. The Donkey Kong Country-style world map helps give a sense of place and context to the levels, although it's far too zoomed in so you can't even see where the paths take you, which means a lot of trial and error to find levels. Trial and error on the map screen! What were they thinking!!

Shattered Crystal always got points for me by including a playable Sticks, but now that I've played it, it turns out it's a decent game as well. It feels more like a Sonic game than Rise of Lyric, but also shakes up the format a lot in ways that I like by encouraging exploration and interaction, even if it's relatively simple. I also think it does well specifically as part of the Sonic Boom series. I'm excited to see how Sanzaru builds on it with their second game!

[fridge-reviews]

Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor

Developer: Monolith Productions Publisher: Warner Bros Interactive Entertainment Rrp: £15.99 (Humblebundle and Steam) Released: 30th September 2014 Available on: Humblebundle and Steam Played Using: Xbox One Control Pad Approximate game length: 16 Hours

I doubt there is a single game genre that the Lord of the Rings franchise hasn't been 'officially' pushed into (fan games don't count). However there was a time when open world wasn't one of them. That seems really strange now given that it seems like such an obvious choice, but things are always obvious after the fact. I do have to admit though, the open world genre really does suit it.

The game is set in Tolkien's Middle-Earth between the events of The Hobbit and The Fellowship of the Ring. You play as Talion, a man who has been cursed to be 'banished from death', meaning that until the curse is lifted he cannot die, not truly. This might seem like a benefit (and mechanically speaking it is) but thematically it's a fate worse than death for Talion who was forced to watch his family be slaughtered by invading Uruks and is unable to join them in the afterlife. A part of this curse also links Talion to the soul of a long dead elf and this is when I start to question how this is a curse rather than a boon, because this elven wraith grants you a lot of abilities that are most certainly positive.

Scattered around the world are Forge Towers, these are towers that you have to scale and activate to reveal the missions and collectibles that are within a region on your map. Essentially these are the equivalent of radio towers in the Far Cry games (or most other Ubisoft games). As was mentioned before, Talion is 'banished from death' which means that when he dies he gets respawned at a Forge Tower (I believe its the nearest but I'm not entirely sure).

Handily the icons on the map tell you which missions advance the story and which are side quests, meaning you can avoid the main mission and go explore the world.

In typical RPG fashion killing enemies and completing missions gains experience which will eventually lead to gaining ability points. As you would expect with ability points, you spend them to unlock new powers.

Finding collectibles, completing side missions and challenges earns a resource called mirian along with awarding you with experience points. Mirian is used to to purchase upgrades such as increased health etc.

You can use your wraith powers to stun enemies, interrogate them for intel and later on dominate their minds so that they fight for you.

Information gained through interrogations will reveal the name, location and power rating of the selected Uruk Captain within Saurons army. Further information can be attained by interrogating 'worms' which are specific Uruk's that will reveal a Captains strengths and weaknesses. This power rating is an indication of how powerful that Captain is and the more powerful a Captain is when defeated the greater the reward is for doing so. A Captain that survives a fight (or even an interaction) with you will increase in power, they also will make a point of mentioning how you died or ran away last time.

Combat in this game is pretty similar to that of Assassin's Creed or the Batman: Arkham games (Arkham Asylum, Arkham City and Arkham Knight). It's all a matter of keeping an eye on the button prompt that appears above an Uruks head so that you can counter them or dodge away. The best part of combat though for me was performing the combat executions, which you can only do when you breach a specific hit streak amount. They're just so visceral and very impressive looking.

Of course, you don't always have to kill these Uruks in huge group melees, you can be subtle about it and sneak in bushes taking them down one by one. Or snipe them from a distance with your bow. Or you could combine all three, which is likely how things will go because it's rare to find an Uruk all alone.

Uruks that kill you can challenge existing Captains within Sauron's army (or fill a gap left behind by a Captain you've killed), if they win the challenge the become promoted to Captain. You can even assist in their ascent if you wish by going to 'challenge' events and killing their opponents. Now you may be wondering why you would want to assist in their ascent, the answer is actually simple and relates to a previous paragraph, the more powerful a Captain is when they are killed the better the reward is.

I've mentioned that killing Captains gives you a reward a few times now but not actually said what the reward is, well now is the time. The reward for killing an Uruk Captain is a rune, either for your sword, bow or dagger. At the start of the game you can only equip one rune on a weapon at a time but if you spend mirian to upgrade the weapon it will be able to hold up to five runes. These runes have all sorts of benefits and there are a great many to find, some will heal you upon each successful kill, others increase the damage you cause etc.

I found the default field of view to be too close to the character, this meant that sadly I did have to mod this game slightly to increase it. Normally I would be against such an action, however, it seems that this is a peculiar quirk of the PC release for this game, the console versions apparently had a wider field of view on release. Because of this I've determined my slight modification to the game as a fix rather than an alteration.

In all honesty its the nemesis system that raises this game from being a fairly standard open world game into something more special. A great example of this is while I played I was killed by some random Uruk, that Uruk was then given a name, a title and became a Captain. I was so incensed by him killing me that I specifically hunted him down. Sadly I failed to kill him in three separate occasions so I saw what was once a random Uruk eventually reach the highest echelon he could. With each fight he would taunt me and I was so immensely satisfied when I finally killed him that I actually cheered. It was a totally unique and organic experience which caused me to completely ignore the main plot until I had finally killed him.

This game is definitely worth its current asking price and you don't even need to be all that familiar with the Lord of the Rings franchise to enjoy it. I highly recommend this game. Now I just have to see if the DLC's are worth their salt.

If this appeals to you perhaps try;

Middle-Earth: Shadow of War Assassin's Creed 2 Batman: Arkham Asylum

----

If you’d like to support me I have a Ko-fi, the reviews will continue to be posted donation or not.

[princess-of-anons]

Okay my last post for Metamorphosis AU got an “OwO” from somebody so I’m gonna assume that means there is Interest.

So here’s some lore for the aliens and alien-adjacent characters for the AU

Benrey and Gordon

Benrey (and by extension Gordon) isn’t technically part of a species, but there are/were others like him. A lot of them were captured by Black Mesa and subsequently “pulled apart” for whatever materials made up their bodies while the vast majority fled for greener pastures after the fact.

He doesn’t have a true form either, at least not one that can be properly “rendered” into the simulated world they live in without crashing the game.

He wouldn’t be able to shift into a true form if he wanted anyways, Black Mesa kinda messed up his head and one of the things they broke was his shapeshifting ability, so he’s kinda stuck looking like Some Guy, but he can still fuck around with proportions and add extra limbs.

That “change in his DNA” that Coomer sensed was Benrey trying to shift out of human form. It didn’t work but it was still freaky so he counts that as a win.

When Gordon’s alien powers start blossoming he and Benrey can share dreams (very important for the plot) and Benrey can shapeshift into whatever Gordon’s brain imagines to be a True Form for Benrey, which happens to be a massive worm-thing, both inside and outside the dream; this has the accidental effect in that Gordon can ALSO become a Worm now. Whoops.

Benrey can be easily nullified by blue light, which is pretty much everywhere on Earth. Extended exposure to blue light will cause it to be less effective with time; the only consistent way to keep Benrey at bay is with TV and video games since the movements on screens is distracting.

Gordon can, with time, do everything Benrey can but with more clarity and intent since he didn’t get his brain scrambled by Black Mesa AND grew up on a planet filled to the brim with blue light.

Yes I’m going back to the worm thing. Gordon doesn’t know WHY his brain imagines Benrey’s true form to be a giant worm, Benrey doesn’t have thoughts about it he just likes turning into a worm to bother Gordon. He has intentionally blocked the front door 15 times within 3 days of unlocking Worm Mode and he cannot be stopped, he’s just so happy to not be stuck as Some Guy forever.

Yes, I do have pictures of The Worm. They will arrive with time.

G-Man and Tommy

Mr. Coolatta/G-Man, unlike Benrey, is part of his own species, most of whom have taken the form of the exact same middle-aged human man. They have knowledge of multiple timelines and dimensions, and the ones that decide to go into “work” are often tasked with a specific timeline to keep watch of.

Tommy is biologically G-Man’s son, but whether he spawned via budding or was born to a human mom is intentionally left undiscussed. Tommy doesn’t know, and he doesn’t want to know.

Tommy grew up human and his DNA is 100% human.

The Resonance Cascade activated Tommy’s G-Man powers. Unlike Gordon, whose powers are coming to him slowly and with time, Tommy’s were immediately activated. He simply hasn’t used them yet outside of having a scarily good aim.

G-Man is actually young by the standards of his species.

Members of G-Man’s species that go into “work” are bound by the laws of the universe to follow the orders of their employers. If given an order, G-Man would not be able to disobey it even if he REALLY didn’t want to.

Only G-Man knows who his employers are, and he cannot tell anybody about them unless they also work for his employers.

Okays that’s what I have so far, the rest I either cannot remember right now or is probably spoilers

I have no clue what people might want tagged so just let me know and I’ll tag as needed

[waltwhitmansbeard]

go on, claim my heart: epilogue

see my masterpost for what came before this. thank you for going on this journey with me. i hope it's been a good one.

Things begin to move very quickly. Keyleth remains stoic through her father's funeral, a joyous affair of music and flowers and colors befitting a man of his temperament. She saves the falling apart for when she is back in the cottage, with only her husband and her daughter to witness her shattered pieces. Vax holds her as she weeps into the night, for her father, for her mother, for her child, for her people. She sleeps when she can, though often the sorrow pulls her from her slumber, awakening her in the darkest hours with tears already streaming down her cheeks.

During the days, a new government is born. From sunrise to sunset, what was once the Ashari Council meets to establish what the new city-state of Zephrah will look like, how it will run, by what method its citizens will elect their representatives. Within the first week, the leaders of the other Ashari cities arrive—including Duchess Uvenda, who, as it turns out, made a full recovery once her worm of a grandson left and a skilled cleric arrived—and they, too, begin to see the vision of what their cities' futures might look like. Keyleth, who occupies the role of sovereign until a formal declaration can be made, urges the Archdukes and Archduchess to follow her lead in allowing the citizens to decide their own futures, but she sees reluctance in particular in Duchess Uvenda and Duke Patisse's eyes, which, she supposes, is their business. She is no longer in control of their destinies.

It takes about a month, but Zephrah decides on a High Council with five elected positions—Development, Commerce, Arcana, Divinity, and Defense—with elections to be held every three years, the first to be held in one year's time. Also on this High Council will sit four appointed positions, one ambassador from each of the other city-states in the newly founded Ashari Confederacy. Keyleth is to serve on this council as well in an advisory capacity for the next five years, long enough to transition Zephrah into its new future, and then she and her little family will be citizens, no more or less than any of their neighbors.

Keyleth makes the announcement on a frigid winter morning, bundled up against the icy winds in the center of town. She is surrounded by the new High Council and the visiting nobles, as well as her husband, who stands just behind her, looking every inch the valiant guard she fell in love with. The people of Zephrah react with confusion, uproar, anger, unrest, but after they are given some time to converse among themselves, to gather as neighbors and dream of what their futures might look like, Keyleth is unsurprised to learn that the Zephrans come to look forward to what they might do with the newfound power placed in their hands.

Despite this dawning era of hope and change, a nasty, twisted gnawing at her stomach rarely lets her know peace. She keeps it to herself, not even divulging her worries to Vax, because if anyone knew of her doubts, her fears, her uncertainty, she knows that this unprecedented thing they are trying to do will collapse. Even though her each and every quiet moment is deafened by peppering questions—is this the right thing, what if it doesn't work, has the nation been made more vulnerable, what would Korrin say—she must not let them spill out, lest her plan be foiled by her own insecurities.

So on a spring morning, when Vax sleeps in with the baby and the morning fog has yet to roll off of the hills, Keyleth goes to the place she's been avoiding since her return to Zephrah: her father's chambers. Percy locked the doors and gave her the key, and it has taken her this long to summon the courage to go in. Her hand trembles on the key as she unlocks it.

The first thing that nearly sends her to her knees is how much the room still smells like him. Her father always had a woodsy, smoky scent, given his proclivity for staying up late into the evening reading by firelight, and thought it has been several months now, that scent still lingers. She forces her legs to continue in, closing the door behind her. His dressing gown is still draped over the back of the chaise by the hearth, as if at any moment he might stride in and throw it on. There is a writing desk near the window, smaller than the one in his study yet still littered with all the accoutrements of the station he'd held. The bed, never turned down for the night again, has a fine layer of dust atop the duvet. Keyleth presses her hand onto the mattress. If she closes her eyes, she can feel the early sunlight of mornings in this bed as a child, climbing up between her parents and giggling as they pretended not to notice her less than stealthy arrival.

She goes to the desk and begins to sort through his many papers and ledgers. She should have done this earlier; she's sure there is information in here that is crucial to any number of projects the Ashari Nation had been working on before its grand transformation.

Half-tucked under a report from Pyrah regarding the near-completed reconstruction efforts, she finds a page covered in her father's familiar looping script. She pulls it out, her breath escaping in a quiet gasp when she begins to read.

My darling daughter,

I wish I had the words to attest to the depths of the despair I feel as I write. Your mother was always the wordsmith, not I. Like you, she was far more fit to rule this nation than I will ever be. But let me make myself clear: my despair derives not from your absence, but from my granddaughter's. I failed you, Keyleth, by not ensuring that the home I gifted you was impervious to any and all harm. I see now that I left you and your family vulnerable, and for that, I beg for your forgiveness.

I know all too well about parental imperfection, because I know that I spent your childhood so preoccupied with the welfare of our people that I neglected the welfare of the one person I cared for most in this great world. I imagine that your days were often long and lonely, my dearest, and all I can say is that my gratitude for those who remedied my mistake—Vax'ildan, Percival, Pike—will forever be as ceaseless as the stars above. I doubt nothing less than whether you will be a better parent to Vilya than I was to you. I only hope that I can be there for her in all the ways that I was not there for you, that under your guidance, the family that was shattered the day your mother died might once again be made whole.

I do not begrudge you a single decision you make in pursuit of returning your child home. Having just led our great nation through a terrible war, I know that dreadful decisions must be made to achieve peace, and know that you have my support in whatever decisions you make in your quest. You inherited your mother's wit, wisdom, and grace, but I like to think you inherited my unwavering devotion to the things that matter to me, and I know that will serve you in your aims.

I will be awaiting your successful return with bated breath, my darling daughter. Know that my nights will be sleepless and my days long until my family is together again. I love you, Keyleth, and I hope

By the time she gets to the point the unfinished letter ends, she can hardly read through the wall of tears. She holds in her hands her father's unwitting last words to her, and each one of them breaks her heart more than the last. She collapses into a heap on the stone floor, sobbing into her hands; her father did not die thinking her a disappointment. He loved her, fiercely, unequivocally, imperfectly. There will be so many years without him now, so many moments where his absence will loom in the background, a specter always in the corner of her eye. He will miss spring days beneath the flowering cherry tree and winter nights before the fire, huddled close and warm with wine. The years will press on, obstinate and heartless, and she wishes she didn't already know how the ache will dull over time, how the pain will become something she learns to live with, the one villain she will never vanquish.

It takes an hour, maybe longer, but she scrapes herself up off the floor and makes her way back to the cottage, where Vax is awake now and clearly trying not to worry. He has always seen through each and every veneer she has attempted to put between herself and the world, so she doesn't even make the attempt. She takes the baby from her cradle and feeds her as Vax reads the letter, and when he is done, his own eyes red and swollen, he curls over top her, presses an endless procession of kisses into her hair, and whispers his love for her, over and over and over.

Keyleth had hoped that the abrogation of the Ashari Nation would result in fewer decisions on her part, but at least in this short term, as new laws are written and new agreements between the constituent city-states organized, it seems all she does these days is make choices. Luckily, she rarely has to make them alone, relying on the newly-established High Council more than ever, but there is one that everyone, frustratingly, has left in her hands and her hands alone: the fate of Duke Vallen. Keyleth begged Duchess Uvenda to take responsibility for him, to drag him back to Vesrah and dole out whatever punishment she saw fit, but the Archduchess refused, claiming that Vallen's greatest crime was regicide, the punishment for which must be decided by the would-be next sovereign.

So Keyleth lays awake, night after night, imagining the face of the man who killed her parents, who arranged for the abduction of her daughter, who murdered his own family to achieve a throne that no longer exists. She thinks of all the ways she could have him dealt with—hanged from the branches of her mother's tree, beheaded in sight of the Seat of the Ashari that would never be his, drawn and quartered under the judgmental eyes of the citizens he betrayed for his own selfish gain, locked up forever in a cell the size of his shriveled heart, lower than the rats who would come to feast upon his flesh. None of them feel right, satisfactory, just. There is no suffering she can heap upon him that will ever equate to the torment that she will carry with her for the rest of her days.

The solution comes to her slowly, then all at once, a long-simmering ember stoked into a raging inferno in her belly. On a cold night, with the hope of spring just around the corner, Vallen is dragged from his cell, half-starved and filthy, and brought out deep into the wood surrounding Zephrah, far from prying eyes. There is a little clearing, one that, come spring, will likely be beautiful, serene, but now is barren and dull. A wooden post has been spiked into the hard earth, thanks to Grog's inimitable strength, and Vallen is lashed to it, gasping and panicked.

Keyleth arrives when the moon is high, Vax never more than an inch or two from her side. She pulls back the hood of her cloak to look Vallen in his bruised, swollen, fearful eyes. His mouth is gagged, and he struggles to plead for his life through it, but all the honeyed, desperate words in the world couldn't make Keyleth regret this choice. She steps as close to Vallen as she dares, feeling the nervous tension of Vax just behind her—she does not need to see him to know that one hand grips a dagger, the other halfway up to snatch her cloak and drag her back—and whispers, "The world will know the atrocities you committed. They will know my parents were murdered, that the Vesran noble line was betrayed by one of its own." She draws herself up to her full height, her circlet gleaming in the silvery moonlight. "But no one will ever know it was you. When I am gone, when all those who currently know of your crimes have been returned to the earth, there will be no one alive to remember you, to speak your name with scorn or disgust. You will be forgotten, not even a footnote in your own family's story. I do not know what awaits you in the next life, but in this one?" She lifts one hand, summoning the mysterious tongues of flame that do not burn her, and from the sides, two of the guards tasked with bringing Vallen here douse the man in oil. "In this one, you will never be anything more than ash." She gently brings her finger to touch his forehead, and he instantly bursts into flames, the oil catching quick and hot. Keyleth takes a step back, and, after shaking her hand to dispel the fire, laces her fingers with Vax's. She does not blink, though her eyes burn from the smoke and light, as she watches this man crackle and burn, his choked screams eventually fading as the life is torched from his body.

It is a new dawn for Zephrah, for the Ashari people, for Keyleth and her family, but this is still night, and the moon is high and the dark of winter has not yet given way to the light of spring. Whether this is justice or vengeance is of little concern to her; there is one less great evil in this world, this world that is now a shade safer for her daughter.

When Vallen has gasped his last breath, when the flames shrink from the blackened corpse, Keyleth turns to leave, but she is stopped when Vax instead steps forward toward the pyre. He bows his head, just inches from the cracked, charred flesh, and murmurs, "May the Matron usher you swiftly into the afterlife you have earned." He then returns to Keyleth's side, and for the first time that night, tears spring to her eyes. She lets him wrap an arm around her shoulders, just now realizing how cold she is, and guide her back to the cottage where Nel waits with their sleeping daughter, whom Keyleth will lift gently from her cradle so as not to wake her and, kissing her closed eyelids, one then the other, hold until the sun breaks, warm and hopeful, over the snowy horizon.

.

These days, it feels as though Percy's attention is constantly being drawn in a thousand directions at once. His days are largely dominated by the construction of a new government, his largest development project to date, and any free moment he has is spent in correspondence with Chancellor Desnay and other resistance leaders remaining in Whitestone. Legally, the title of Lord of Whitestone belongs to him, has done so since the night his parents and siblings were slaughtered in cold blood, and now all of the choices that must be made for the betterment of the city that the Briarwoods let fall to ruin rest on his shoulders.

The one person who would be his greatest ally in this time, unfortunately, is also the one person he has most trouble speaking to on the matter. Cassandra has become something of a phantom in the castle in Zephrah, appearing and disappearing as randomly and silently as a ghoul haunting the halls. She hardly speaks, hardly eats, hardly sleeps, if the fact that she keeps being found wandering the grounds in the middle of the night is any indication, and Percy is at a loss for how to help. He has not known her since she was four years old, though he has missed her keenly every day in the intervening years. They are, for all intents and purposes, strangers.

So Percy goes to Keyleth, who dealt with a very similar specter all those years ago, when he, too, arrived suddenly in Zephrah, shaken and silent. Keyleth has been extraordinarily kind to open her home to yet another Whitestone refugee, and with all the grief and responsibility she wields these days, he is loath to add another concern to her plate, but he is at his wit's end with his own inability to help his little sister.

Keyleth, being Keyleth, rolls her eyes at his emotional ineptitude. She reminds him of just how long it took her to crack open the shell in which he'd encased himself, how many days of sitting in silence beside him in the library or in the gardens or in the small spaces he'd managed to find away from the others at court. Keyleth points out that his failure to find a way to speak to her likely stems from his attempts to speak at all.

So he finds Cassandra on a chilly morning, sitting on the floor in the empty music room between the harpsichord and the dulcimer, knees tucked to her chest. He smiles apologetically when she startles at his entrance, but instead of asking her if she is alright, as is his wont, he takes a seat just a few feet in front of her, his back resting against one of the legs of the harpsichord. They sit in silence, brother and sister, for an indeterminable amount of time, no sound except their asynchronous breathing and vague footfalls from the hall outside, until Cassandra murmurs, almost too low for him to hear, "Did you know I thought you were the lucky one?"

Percy tips his head to the side, giving her the space to continue.

"All these years...I thought you got to die outside, in the fresh air, under the stars. Not like the rest of them. Not like me."

Percy nods. The anguish threatens to choke him, to suck the air from his lungs until he gasps his last breath. "Sometimes it felt like I did."

And so, day by day, week by week, the de Rolos who should have died over a decade ago begin to build a life together, breakfasts and walks through the garden and quiet words whispered in grand halls. Cassandra makes it clear that she has no intention of returning Whitestone, that she has little love left for the place that kept her in the care of the monsters who butchered her family.

Which is how Percy gets the idea. He cannot hope to serve his home of Whitestone and the newly formed High Council at the same time, not with a child on the way. And Cassandra, though still reserved and apprehensive, clearly has a de Rolo's head on her shoulders, given her newfound proclivity for offering suggestions to his dilemmas whenever he shares them with her. She may not possess any desire to live in Whitestone again, but she is still of Whitestone, and is, in Percy's mind, the only logical choice to be the city-state's ambassador to the High Council.

Cassandra balks, of course, at the audacity of the suggestion, and Percy has to admit that, yes, placing a sixteen-year-old into an extremely important position of a fledgling government is perhaps not the wisest choice, so instead he asks her to stay in Zephrah and serve as an apprentice to Chancellor—now Ambassador—Desnay.

"You are too smart to let your brilliant ideas go to waste," he tells her, "and too opinionated to keep them to yourself."

The bruising pinch she gives him is worth her dubious agreement to his proposal.

There is another proposal that Percy must also make, one that somehow terrifies him far more than suggesting the baby sister he is only now getting know become the mouthpiece for the city he once fled from as a boy. It is not his request for Vex's hand in marriage; that question is asked a mere two weeks after Sovereign Korrin's funeral, which Percy endures through a clenched jaw and sheer force of will. He takes her on an early morning horse ride through the fields on the outskirts of Zephrah, and when the pink sky starts to give way to icy blue, he asks her, no ring, no knee, just a question for her and the wind and the songbirds. She asks if he only wishes to marry her for the child's sake, and he can only hope she believes him when he says that he has thought about marrying her every day since the attack in Syngorn, when all he could think about was how he was about to die without her knowing just how precious and revered she was to him.

No, the proposal Percy dreads making is one he fears she will reject outright. He asks her on a night when he slinks into bed long after dark, when she should be asleep and not waiting for him to finish whatever work has kept him from her for so long. He pulls her in close, palm pressed to the negligible swell of her belly, and rests his forehead to her ear. "Would you come to Whitestone with me?"

The question is quiet, timorous, because the only thing he fears more than letting his people down is disappointing her. She turns her head to look at him, brow furrowed in confusion. "Darling...where else would we be going?"

Oh, he loves her. He loves her, he loves her, he loves her. He captures her lips, relishing in the sound of her laugh, and then he spends what little energy remains in him reminding her of all the ways he hopes to worship her in their many years to come.

.

Vex is used to keeping secrets. Protection of sensitive information is par for the course when one is Captain of the Royal Guard, to say nothing of the silence she held when her brother decided to take up a romance with a literal princess. Her adolescence was pockmarked with little secrets kept from her father, more to irritate him than for any other reason. She herself has never been particularly adept at letting people in, at pulling back the curtain of confidence and cheek she has long set between herself and the world—the obvious exception to this, of course, being her brother, with whom she has always shared her innermost thoughts freely, easily, even when perhaps she shouldn't.

But this secret, this hidden truth, belongs to her and Percy, and that delicate fact feels so very precious. In the first weeks after the group's return from Whitestone, after the death of the sovereign, after Keyleth has announced the end of a nation, Vex returns to her duties, her condition kept from everyone except the tight-lipped Mistress of Divinity. She trains the guards and maintains their schedules and confers with the new High Council about what security will look like in this new age for Zephrah, and when she is done for the day she goes back to the chambers she shares with Percy, who she can tell is cracking under the pressure. Like Vex, he has grown up sharing so much of himself with Keyleth, and she knows that keeping such a large secret from her is killing him.

So she relents in the spring, when her uniform is fitting more snugly than she'd like and Keyleth's grief is not so overwhelming as to be visibly drowning her. Vex and Percy go to the cottage beside the cherry tree and once Vex has swept her baby niece, babbling and joyous, into her arms, she says bluntly, "I'm pregnant."

Unfortunately, at the exact same time, Percy bursts out with, "We're going to Whitestone," so there is quite a long series of confused clarifications before Keyleth is shrieking, throwing her arms around Percy's neck and congratulating and admonishing him at the same time. She's mostly crying, so it is difficult for Vex to make out the specific words, but she comes to understand that Keyleth is more or less happy for them.

Vax, who had been frying up sausages for dinner, sets the skillet aside and bounds across the cottage to scoop Vex and Vilya up in a hug. "Are you happy, Stubby?" he whispers in her ear, and she merely nods, her throat too thick for her to speak.

When he sets her down, he turns on Percy, who, despite having half a head on Vax, shrinks a bit at the scrutinizing glare Vax gives him. There is a beat of tension, and then Vax cracks a grin, wrapping his arms around him, too. Vex grins as her oldest friend and her greatest love embrace, and for the first time since they left Byroden, she realizes that she's managed to build for herself the family she never thought she would achieve.

The night is spent reminiscing and planning for the future. Keyleth laments needing to find a new Master of Development, though Percy points out that the predicament is the perfect opportunity for Zephrah to test its new democratic elections. Keyleth begins scribbling a list of all kinds of tonics and tinctures she wants to send with Vex, for the nausea and the food aversion and the stretching skin and all the other ailments that Vex dreads about the next few months. Percy asks Keyleth to watch out for Cassandra the way her father did for him, and Keyleth swears that, if Cassandra would like, she will be family, just as Percy became all those years ago. When Vex yawns and Percy insists he get her to bed, Vax first pulls her aside as Keyleth and Percy peek in on the baby in her cradle.

"You know how proud I am of you, Stubby?" he says quietly, the shadows cast by the fireplace dancing across his face.

"Big changes for us both," she replies with a nervous laugh. "Will you survive here without me?"

He kisses her forehead. "I wish I didn't have to. But Whitestone deserves the wisdom and guidance that you and Percy will bring, and I am so glad to watch you build a home of your own, a family of your own."

Curse these tears, sudden and hot. "You'll always be my family, brother. You and Keyleth and Vilya. Our being in Whitestone doesn't change that."

"Oh, Vex'ahlia..." He pulls her into his arms. "Nothing ever could. You're not getting rid of me, sister, even if you move halfway across the continent to try."

She laughs. "And you'll come visit? With Keyleth's strange tree powers?"

"As often as you like. You couldn't keep Keyleth from the birth with the strength of a thousand men. And the gods themselves couldn't keep me from my niece or nephew, you know that."

Within a week, Vex and Percy have said their goodbyes and packed their belongings, the bulk of which they send via road toward Whitestone. As for them, they gather at the cherry tree, where they exchange teary farewells with their family and friends before Keyleth tears open a door in the trunk that spills them out into the center of Whitestone, which is mercifully free of shambling undead. The city is still piecing itself back together after its lengthy occupation, and as Percy steps into the role of caretaker of his ancestral home, Vex devotes herself to scrubbing the castle of any and all remnants of the monsters who lived there for so many years. Along with a team of volunteers from the city, those who survived under the Briarwoods' oppression and wish to see their beloved home returned to its former glory, Vex slowly begins to rid Whitestone of the lingering reminders of its tormentors, and after some time, the gloomy cloud of misery that hung about the castle and the town starts to dissipate.

She is blessed with a pregnancy that progresses much more smoothly than Keyleth's had, and even though it is strange for a little life to be quickening inside of her, she finds herself anticipating her child's arrival with anxious fervor. After the nightmare that Vilya endured, Vex sets up a corner of their chambers as the child's nursery, not willing to have their baby sleep so far as another room. Percy obliges her, filling the space with all of the things that remind them of their families: cherry blossoms from Zephrah, raven feathers from Vax, Ludwig's stuffed wolf, the picture books Cassandra loved as a child, a blanket Vex's mother knitted in Byroden, one of the only things Vex brought with her to Syngorn and beyond.

Keyleth and Vax pull away from their important work in Zephrah just a week before Vex goes into labor. Little Vilya toddles around with her father as Percy, Keyleth, and a midwife from town help bring a healthy, screaming baby girl into the world. They name her Vesper Elaina, and Vax cries as he kisses his niece's forehead for the first time.

They wait for the wedding. Repairing Whitestone requires so much of Percy's time and energy, and Vex's days are spent in awe with the new life the two of them have brought into the world. When they do wed, they do so in the center of Whitestone, beneath the infinite branches of the Sun Tree. The ceremony is not merely a union between two souls, but a rebirth, a return of the de Rolo name to the world stage. Each and every citizen of Whitestone is invited, as are leaders and representatives from across the continent, including Devana and Velora, who offer their unsurprising regrets at Syldor's last-minute scheduling conflict. Cassandra still cannot set foot in the castle, not after her lifetime of misery in it, but she holds her niece at Percy's side with Keyleth, Vax and Vilya standing beside Vex, as Pike guides them through their vows. They are short and sweet, neither one particularly fond of grand public declarations of love, though they are fond of grand public declarations of merriment, which is why the center of Whitestone is quickly transformed from a place of ceremony into something of a festival, with music and food and dancing and much revelry and hope for the future of Whitestone and the happy couple.

And that night, when they have retired to their chambers and are happily sore and spent, Percy leaves their bed just long enough to bring their sleeping daughter into it. Vex curls herself into his side, watches the slow rise and fall of her chest in his arms. After a minute, Percy murmurs, "Are you happy, my love?"

Vax was always the one with the silver tongue. Vex lacks the poetry her heart yearns to give him, so she must settle for a quiet, "No one, darling, has ever been happier." And it's true, her happiness, and it is a secret she no longer must keep from anyone.

.

As Keyleth throws herself into the exhausting work of creating a new government from scratch, Vax devotes all his days to his daughter. He does his best to keep his little family together, following Keyleth from meeting to meeting with Vilya in his arms, on his hip, strapped to his back. He won't admit it, but when they are not both in his immediate eyeline, he feels an itch, a nervous rippling under his skin that makes sitting still difficult. He is aware that his presence is often questioned, particularly by the delegates from the other Ashari cities, but he doesn't care; how many times must his family be taken from him before he learns his lesson?

Keyleth, for her part, encourages him to resume his studies with Pike, to take time for himself during the day, to leave the baby with Nel and the veritable battalion of guards that now accompanies Vilya wherever she goes, but he waves her off. He trusts Nel, trusts his sister's guards to prevent Vilya from being taken again, of course he does. It's just the itch.

The nights are their own struggle. It takes Vilya weeks to sleep through the night again, and Vax can only imagine what dreams haunt his baby girl in the dark. So he holds her, pacing large circles around the cottage so Keyleth can sleep, whispering his endless apologies and promises for the future in the dark and quiet. Vax sleeps only a few hours each night, which results in long, exhausted days, days in which Keyleth begs him to go rest, but he only does so during the increasingly brief windows of Vilya's own naps.

So he redoubles his efforts, tries harder to keep his neuroses from Keyleth, who is busy enough with her own work. She is writing laws and establishing norms and conveying power into the hands of her people; she doesn't need to add worries about him onto her plate. He stretches himself thin, flattens himself out until he is invisible, until his every waking moment is spent with his daughter or wife or both, and he can be so consumed with their needs that his own fade away, thunder in the distance.

But the thunder heralds a storm, and the storm must eventually break. On a night, when Vilya begins to stir and Vax scoops her from her bed before she can wake her mother, he takes her out into the dark common room, where he sits before the cold hearth and bounces her, now sitting up all on her own, on his knee. He looks at her, her mother's hair and her mother's eyes and her grandmother's nose and her five-tooth smile, and he sees all that he nearly lost, all of the precious things his carelessness nearly stole from him. Her small, chubby hands reach up for his face, and when her fingers brush against his cheek, the dam he'd constructed for himself crumbles to dust. He begins to sob, quietly at first, then louder as his control over his own faculties ebbs away. He watches his daughter's face twist in infantile confusion, and he brings her to his chest, hugs her tight as he falls apart around her.

As if she can feel the lightning in the air, Keyleth stirs in the bedroom. He hears her get up, open the door, listen for a moment before calling, "Vax?"

There is no pretending, not anymore. He holds their child and weeps as Keyleth comes over to wrap her arms around him. He sobs into her shoulder, weeks of tension and guilt and anger draining from his muscles. Vilya's little fists are curled into his sleepshirt, one right above his heart, and he can only hope that she can feel its beating, that she knows its thundering is for her.

After some time, when he is exhausted and thirsty, he sits up, lets Keyleth dry his tears with the sleeve of her nightdress. "I'm sorry." The words are hoarse, hollow.

"Please don't," Keyleth begs, taking his face in her hands. "I don't ever want your apologies for this."

"No, I mean..." He shifts Vilya, who has since fallen back asleep against his chest, and looks down at her. "I'm sorry for not protecting her better. For not protecting our family. The most important thing in this wide world, and I couldn't keep it safe."

"Vax." She forces his head up to meet her eyes. "Is this what you've been hiding from me all these weeks? Why you've been running yourself ragged, never sleeping? Do you truly imagine there is a world in which I hold you responsible for what we have endured, all of us, as a family? I told you in Whitestone—"

"I know what you said," he whispers. "I know that you meant it. But it doesn't change the fact that I failed in my duty to protect you both."

"No." She stands, fists balled at her side, and Vax is once again reminded that whatever government Zephrah finds itself under today, he married a queen. She keeps her voice low enough not to wake the baby, but he hears the force behind it, how it would echo among the mountains if she shouted. "I will not allow you to take responsibility for the actions of evil men. I will not permit the waiving of their guilt so that you may sit in your own. All of us failed to properly secure this home—you, me, your sister, Derrig, the guards, my...my father." Her jaw clenches tight. "But choices were made outside these walls by villains with blackened hearts. They have answered for those choices, and they alone must bear the eternal weight of their sins. You do not get to alleviate that burden from their souls, wherever they may be rotting."

She stares at him, unblinking, waiting for a response. He stands, presses a kiss to the crown of Vilya's head. "I don't know how to trust myself," he murmurs, "to be what my family needs."

She carefully pries Vilya from him, mindful not to rouse her, and carries her into the nursery, where Vilya has not slept since her return. Her cradle has been replaced with a larger crib, as soon Vilya will have grown too big for the gift from Syngorn. Vax watches through the door as Keyleth lays her down inside, tucks a blanket all around her sleeping form, and returns, shutting the door behind her. She then takes Vax by the hand and leads him back into their bedroom. She pushes him to sit on the edge of the bed and stands before him, running her fingers through his hair.

"There has not been a minute, since you came to me in the dark and kissed away my nightmares, in which my trust in you has wavered, even for a moment." She rests her hand on his cheek, and she is so warm, so soft, here in this darkest hour. "I cannot repair your broken faith in yourself. But I can show you that my faith in you, the only divinity to which I have ever pledged myself, heathen that I am, remains intact."

With that, she gently shoves his shoulders back onto the mattress, and until the inky black of the sky gives way to the pinks and oranges of day, she reminds him that every minute he has spent loving her these past few years, she has loved him just as fiercely.

Vax struggles with the darkness he carries with him wherever he goes, but light, tenacious and inevitable, always finds its way in. He is to be an uncle. His sister is to have a home of her own, in a castle, no less. His daughter, who has had so much taken from her before she even knew she had it, is to have a family, people other than her parents who will watch her grow and remind her every day that she is loved, that she is never alone in this world.

It is difficult, to be sure, to have his sister so far from him, even though he and Keyleth steal away with Vilya as often as they can, using the cherry tree as easily as one might step through a door into the forest surrounding Castle Whitestone. It takes a few visits for Vax to be there without his hackles raised, to be able to allow Vilya to toddle around the grounds and the marbled halls without his hand always hovering just a few inches away. But when his sister brings his squalling, exquisite niece into the world, when Percy shifts her gently into his arms, he knows what it looks like for something beautiful to be built on the bones of ruins. Soon, these grand halls will once more echo with the delighted shrieks of children, and this family, where once there was just a brother and a sister, will sprawl out, fingers of hope reaching far into the future.

As time wears on, and a new normal is forged for Zephrah and for the little family in the cottage on the edge of the castle that now serves as a hall of government, two surprises yet await Vax. The first comes shortly before the inaugural elections of the High Council, in which all of the previous Masters are expected to win their seats with ease, facing little challenge from the generally content populace of Zephrah—that is, until Pike comes to him on a cold winter's morning and tells him that she and Scanlan have decided to take a break from public service, to travel the world and see what other adventures might await them.

Vax, who has grown even more fond of the Mistress of Divinity in her time helping him develop his relationship with the Matron of Ravens, says, "Well, I'll miss you, Pickle, but...why are you telling just me, and not Keyleth and I together?"

She sips from the tea he'd made when she arrived at the cottage. "Because I want you to take my place on the Council."

Vax chokes on his own breath. "I—certainly you don't—what?"

Pike shrugs, as if her suggestion were the most obvious one in the world. "The people know you, they trust you, they know you command respect within the castle and without. You have learned enough in our studies for me to be confident that you can lead Zephrah forward on its path of divinity, at least until I get bored and drag Scanlan back from his debaucherous exploits." She grins conspiratorially.

Vax spins his teacup round and round between his fingers. "Surely I would not be elected over any of the holy people from the temples in town."

"None have yet to throw their names into the ring, though of course, perhaps they believe themselves incapable of beating me, which, fair enough."

"You are well-loved, Pickle."

"I am. Which is why I am confident that an endorsement from me will seal the deal for you."

Keyleth, Pike, Vex, Percy—they all have such steadfast faith in him. Perhaps it is time that he believed them. "Alright. I'll do it."

The second surprise comes a few weeks later, after he has won his election, after the home he chose has chosen him back, when he returns to the little cottage after a long day of meetings with the High Council. Keyleth, who now only attends those meetings when specifically requested, is just opening the door when he arrives, saying her goodbyes to one of the new Mistress of Development's secretaries. When they are inside and alone, Vax, watching Vilya tumble about with her favorite stuffed bear, a gift from her auntie Vex, asks, "What was that all about? With the Development secretary?"

Keyleth is at the kitchen counter, peeling potatoes and carrots for dinner, but he can see by the uneven rise and fall of her shoulders that there is something great weighing on her mind. "Oh. Yes. That. Well." She attempts to peel a potato, misses, then misses again, then sighs, tossing the vegetable and knife onto the cutting board. She turns to face him with a curious look on her face. "We were discussing...modifications to the cottage."

Vax is confused. The cottage is perfect, no leaks, no cracked floorboards, just exactly what their little family needs. "What sort of modifications?"

"Well..." She chews on her lip, fighting a burgeoning smile. "I rather think it will be too small for us as is, soon enough."

The realization comes faster this time. He shoves himself off of the floor, snatches Vilya up in one arm—"Papa up!"—and bounds over to Keyleth to wrap her in the other. He kisses her, hard, grinning, ignoring his daughter's delighted rapping of her fist against his face, before murmuring against her lips, "Are you sure?"

She nods. "Nel confirmed it this morning. She's already working on the proper preparations to make sure things a bit easier this time." She scrunches her nose and kisses Vilya's chubby cheek.

Vax rests his hand along the column of her throat, inspects her face closely. "How do you feel? Not just physically, but..."

She brings her hand atop his. "Happy. A little nauseated. Scared. Sad, that my father won't be here." She tilts her head forward slightly, an invitation for him to knock his forehead against hers, which he obliges happily. "Hopeful. More than anything, I have hope."

Vax pulls his family in tight, smiling at Vilya's grumbled, "Papa, down!" He acquiesces, allowing her to toddle off while he kisses his wife once more.

"Only you," he whispers, breathing in the scent of her hair and the warming vegetables and the winter air. "No one else in this world I'd rather be on this adventure with."

She folds into him, this queen who gave up her crown for a quiet life with him, this miracle for which the gods can never be properly thanked. He does not know what awaits them around this next bend in the road, but he knows that they walk this path together, and that comfort, her hand in his and her shoulder beside him, is more than a thief and bastard could ever have imagined in his wildest dreams.

.

Time moves differently for the cherry tree, which marks its passage through seasons, the growing and shedding of its leaves, the falling of snow and the melting of it, hot days and cold nights. As the seasons come, one after the next, the tree watches the little family grow, entering a new season of its own. The woman spends her time mostly in the gardens, her belly swelling with the lengthening days, her chattering toddler stumbling after her or exploring the small hill she has always called home. The man comes back each evening, tired and happy, peppers each of their faces with kisses, and then presses one final one to his wife's stretching stomach. Spring brings excitement, summer joy, and autumn impatient anticipation.

The tree does not so much mind being used as a door, these many visits between the little family here and the little one in a city far, far away. It is a magic the tree does not pretend to understand, just as it does not understand the magic of the two now buried beneath its twisting roots, the two who, though dead to this world, live on in the next, whatever that may look like. On occasion, people will spill through its cracked bark, and the cottage, now slightly bigger than it had been previously, will house guests, its walls full to bursting with laughter and cheer—or, alternatively, the little family will disappear through the tree, and it will stand a lone sentinel for some time, guarding the house on the hill as best it can until they return, happy but eager for home.

When the nights grow longer and the cherry tree's branches are nearly bare, the midwife is summoned, and the wind seems to hang silent as the world awaits its newest arrival. Pained cries give way to cacophonous squalls, and the tree must wait through the long night for the little family, no longer quite so little, to come outside in the morning, the young girl running to the base of the tree while the man and the woman each carry a small bundle in the cradles of their arms. They are tired, these parents, but each wears a contented smile that makes this autumn feel like high summer.

They approach the tree, and the woman speaks up to the branches, "Mama, Papa, we'd like to introduce our twins. This is Korrin." She smiles down at the tiny boy in her arms.

"And this is Elaina." The man grins, a devilish light in his eye as he regards his new daughter. "My sister will accuse me of thievery, but it's fine. She never was good at sharing."

"I wish you could meet them," she says quietly. The little girl runs up to cling onto her mother's leg. "I wish my children could grow under your watchful eyes. But...I'm happy." The man kisses her cheek. "We all are. And I rest easy knowing that, wherever you are, you have found peace with each other, as I have found here with Vax."

The winds shift, and the little boy she holds gurgles. The man balances the girl in one arm as he reaches a knuckle over to stroke his rounded cheek. "We cannot escape the horrors of our past, the things we have done and the things that have been done to us. But know that we will do everything in our power to make a better, more just world for our children, and for theirs, and so on, so that each new day is brighter than the last."

She rests her head on his shoulder, the autumn breeze tossing her hair as the little girl scrambles about, a stuffed bear in her hands, and the final blossoms remaining on the tree fall, all at once, a brief shower of white in a world of golds and reds. The woman smiles, and closes her eyes, and for a moment, the early morning sun behind her head could be a crown.

[ursaspecter]

I don't remember if I've seen anyone talk about it here, so I'll bring it to the table:

4 Horsemen Symbolism in Red Dead Redemption 2

So for those that don't know, the traditional 4 horsemen of the apocalypse are Famine, Conquest, War, and Death. Pestilence replaces Conquest a lot of the time since Conquest and War sound pretty similar, but I will not be including Pestilence in this post. Sorry Pestilence fans maybe next time.

Oh yeah there will be spoilers here, so if you haven't finished the game and don't want to be spoiled, save this and come back to it when you have!

Death rides a pale horse. Pale, not white. A few common interpretations of pale I've seen are a sickly yellow or green, or grey. This one is the biggest reach, but I think Hosea and Silver Dollar could be Death. It's Hosea's death in particular that really sets Dutch over the edge and causes his psyche to unravel more rapidly. He's never given the proper time to grieve, and it clearly takes its toll on him. It's far from the only cause of Dutch's decline, but it certainly didn't help. Hosea is also the one most aware of his impending demise right from the start. He knows he doesn't have much time left, and he wants to make sure people are taken care of before he's gone.

Conquest rides a white horse. For horses, just because a horse has a white coat doesn't necessarily mean it's a white horse. The white Arabian by Lake Isabella for example definitely looks white, but their muzzle and eyelids show more grey skin, so it's not a true white horse. The Count, on the other hand, has a more pink muzzle and eyelids and thus would be a true white horse. A count is also someone in a position of power who owns a sizeable amount of land. That's actually where the word "county" comes from. In a way, they've conquered that land for themselves. Dutch and his gang kind of conquer the land for their camps especially in regards to Shady Belle and Beaver Hollow when they had to take out the Lemoyne Raiders and Murphree Brood respectively.

War rides a red horse. In the game files, there's a liver chestnut Hungarian Halfbred with high stats that looks pretty red to me. Many fans, including myself, interpret this to be Boadicea. The Hungarian Halfbreds are war horses, and Boadicea was a red-haired celtic queen known for her prowess in war. Though it's unconfirmed, it makes sense for this horse to be Arthur's Boadicea. Arthur is Dutch's most trusted senior gun. He's the man of action. He's the one Strauss gets to collect the debts because no one else will. He's been raised to be a soldier for Dutch ever since he was first picked up by them. Arthur is War. That is, until his status starts to change within the camp. Micah worms his way in and starts manipulating Dutch into thinking maybe Arthur (among others) isn't what he used to be.

That brings me to the last horseman. Famine. Late in the game in either Chapter 5 or Chapter 6 depending on the order you decide to do things, Arthur gets diagnosed with tuberculosis. After this point, it becomes nearly impossible for him to gain back any weight he's lost because that's what TB does. It ravages the body. That's why it was commonly called consumption back then. He can't eat heavy meals anymore, and he can't even eat a lot of small things all at once without getting into a coughing fit. In chapter 2 when the stables are unlocked, Hosea gives Arthur a black Shire he can either stable or sell. Famine rides a black horse.

[yaoi-life96]

Monsters Within

Summary: After complete radio silence from nosy Reporter and informant Freddie Lounds and a mysterious email, Detective Will Graham is sent off by his boss to investigate her disappearance. The investigation leads him to the Murkoff Corporation and their involvement in the Mount Massive Asylum, which has been shut down before being reopened to house the criminally insane. Will heads to the asylum in the hopes of finding the missing Reporter. If only he knew what monsters lie inside...

CHAPTER 2

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Staring at the address on the paper, Will looks up to the two story building with a raised eyebrow. Apparently, Freddie's 'apartment' is a room at a very cheap and seedy motel.

Then again, she was always moving about, following the trail of a big story anywhere. Like a damn bloodhound.

Walking to the building, Will climbs to the second floor and arrives to the room. He pulls a copy of the key out of his pocket, ignoring the fact Jack had it. That's a whole can of worms he doesn't want to open.

The door unlocks and the dark haired man enters to immediately trip and fall on his face.

Groaning, Will lifts his head to see he tripped on a stack of magazines. Kicking the door closed, he examines the knocked over stack, noticing a theme.

Every issue was about the Murkoff Corporation.

Turning his attention to the rest of the room, stacks of papers were everywhere, some even tapped to the wall with images.

"Murkoff huh, what were you chasing, Lounds." wondered Will.

He spots a laptop on the bed and heads right for it. If he recalls, Beverly mentioned Freddie usually keeps a journal or something to write down her thoughts. What better place to keep it than her laptop?

Opening it, Will fixes his glasses to turn it on. Password protected, it was to be expected but he was prepared.

Taking out a small device, Will connects it to the laptop and types in a few words. Laptop unlocked, thank you Jimmy.

"Let's see what we ha- of course her background would be of herself." sighed Will, rolling his eyes.

Why was he helping look for her? Because its the right thing or a Jack thing, it was blurring together.

He opens her documents and looks through the files. Eventually, he finds one marked 'current scoop'.

Clicking on it, he finds her unfinished article, and it was all about the Murkoff Corporation.

'The Murkoff Corporation, started in 1946, one year before the Cold War, is stated to be a charitable business that looks to the future for mankind. However, I got the details that paint a different picture, a much darker, bloodier one. While Murkoff was started a year before the Cold War, hidden documents found at former Murkoff buildings show details of human experimentation. Devices drilled into skulls, military sleeper agents, chemical enhancements, and even cybernetics. All seems like it could arguably be volunteers, but the documents show each subject was dragged against their will to these tests. Experiments that never showed up anywherw, not even in military files. Though it seems Murkoff is still to this day experimenting with human lives. In 2009, they reopened the Mount Massive Asylum as a rehabilitation for the criminally insane and people with mental illness, but reports show nothing comes back out. Once inside, the patients are never heard from again. Even visitation is restricted, and oddly enough, any attempt at getting a signal by the asylum is impossible. What exactly are they hiding? I have gone deep inside the asylum to reveal the truth. And the truth is a dark and damning pit from which no one can return from whole again. '

That was all that was written, Freddie never returned to finish it.

"Mount Massive Asylum, isn't that the old building deep in the mountain, didn't even realize they reopened it." said Will.

Grabbing his phone, he speed dials Jack. The tone goes on, seriously, he never picks up right away. Serious and important his ass!

"Will, tell me you got something, we have no luck getting info on her cell." said Jack.

"You won't, I got her laptop and her latest article, she was looking into Murkoff and Mount Massive Asylum, my guess is she went there." said Will.

"Mount Massive, they reopened that old shit hole?" asked Jack in confusion.

"Ya, Freddie's article is all about Murkoff's involvement in human experimentation, as for her cell, according to her paper, no signal can be reached up there now, they blocked it, as well as restricted visitation so no one can go in." said Will.

"I see, you found some good stuff, listen, we're going to keep looking into Murkoff here then, Will, I need you to go to the asylum and find her." said Jack.

"What, me, Jack, I'm just your profiler, Beverly is your agent." said Will.

"I'm going to need her here, especially if I need a quick in and out at one of their locations, just think of this as a promotion." said Jack.

"Can I skip the promotion and go home to my dogs?" asked Will, exhausted.

"No, I want you at the asylum tomorrow night, so get some rest and get supplies, I'll talk to Brian and Jimmy about getting passed the signal jam." said Jack.

Before he could even protest, his boss hangs up. Will groans to close the laptop, leaving the room. Why did he want this job again?!

Great, now he has to go the the asylum tomorrow.

Will hates asylums, due to his empathy disorder, many people wanted him admitted just so they could study his brain. See what made him tick. Thankfully his father loved him enough to keep him out of them.

Getting into his car, Will backs out of the parking lot and starts down the road to the agency. He'll drop off the laptop and head home to his dogs.

He'll need all the doggy love and cuddles to make it through tomorrow.

Damn Jack and his crusade of self righteousness. He'd rather take up Alana's offer of therapy sessions.

[bronze-bell]

The room freezes, and burns, and god, Aesop can feel the moment when the accusation hangs heavy. He is not accused, but the weight is too present, the weight of Victor completely shattering, freezing, closing in on himself, everything clearly becoming too much all at once with the pained sounds reaching Aesop's ears too closely.

His methods and murders were planned. He didn't do messy, or emotional, or impulsive. And yet, here Edgar was. Accusing Victor of something Aesop was sure the postman would never do. A hand reaches the postman's back, moving slowly, uncertainly, as Aesop's other fusses with whatever's nearby, occasionally digging nails into his palm. As he glares at the painter with a very, very clear intent.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Edgar hears the sounds, and can't tell whether the postman is admitting to something or if... oh god. Oh god. That's worse. And now he's really being attacked, if he wasn't before, with how the embalmer glares at him. Why was he even there? If he didn't know, why would he—

The painter can't tell if he's lucky for Frederick's presence within the room. And yet, the composer nearly fades from his mind entirely as he's nothing but prey trapped within Aesop's gaze. As he backs further away to the edge of the bed, arms guarding himself, breaths accelerating. He's going to die, he's sure of it, there's nowhere to run.

Edgar can't see much, in his blurry, tear stained vision, as Frederick moves in between to attempt to act as a physical barrier. He can't see much, but he has to keep alert.

His ears catch Aesop's words, words that mirror the glare in how they burn and pierce while being kept as quiet as the embalmer can still manage. Still, the pacing shows a clear anger within the fear, what Edgar is sure is burning hatred. (This was what everyone really thought, wasn't it?) "Victor would n-never. If you're going to say something like that, back it up."

Edgar's been provoked, and he needs any way to get out, to run, to retreat to his studio and lock the door and never look back. As he all but rants, his voice slowly increases in volume, in pace, matching his heartbeat screaming in his ears. "Then tell me, what do you know? Why are you here— why did you come to the postbox? What were you really waiting for? Why the hell was I asked to come with, when I am nothing to y—"

Then, he hears tapping on the door, and he freezes. They really do know. Perhaps everyone knows. He wouldn't know what he'd have to do if that were the case. He's defenseless, he's shaking, and he can't breathe.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In seconds, Frederick can tell the situation has gone past what he can handle. But he doesn't know what he can do. Not when he can hear the situation escalating further, longer, when he can tell Victor's completely gone (really, he shouldn't have asked, not until Edgar was alone, not when Victor had clearly known the fear of secrets unkept too closely). And yet, he's afraid of being seen, of anyone finding this, of anyone seeing what fell apart here.

Then, the tapping on the door comes, and he doesn't know how much his legs can hold him up. He's even less sure as the creak nearby indicates the door is unlocked.

It's dead silent, as Frederick registers that Eli Clark has opened the door, owl snapping its head to stare at the seer. But within seconds, Edgar is sputtering, half-formed sentences to the effect of "why are you here" and "what do you know" and "who told you". Frederick, barely propping himself up on the nearest surface he can find, looks to Edgar, then to Victor and Aesop, and then to Eli as he puts his hands together before separating them. Hopefully, the message is clear. He can't do this alone, and he can't keep these three together.

Victor's ears are ringing, and it feels like smoke is curling around his lungs as a voice unused for years speaks up once again, babbling and stuttering and panicking in a plea of please, please don't hurt me. Not here, not now, not again.

There are words worming into his brain, the tones of it all setting him off to curl into himself even tighter, angry and cold and scared as they are. He tries to keep quiet, something like him should never interrupt, but he's not sure he's succeeding.

Then, it all goes silent. A creak of the door inspires a wave of terror to shoot through his bloodstream, but he's so terrified and incoherent already that he can only hope that the intruder has come to save him. To pull him out of this box he is trapped in, to keep him somewhere softer where he doesn't feel like gagging on his own pleas for mercy.

He listens, because it's all he can do, even though that sense is failing him quite severely. He recognises the voice, distantly, but he's too scared to move from his position, too scared to look up and potentially see eyes looking back at him.

He is frozen, still, curled up like a doll as he waits for safety, or terror, anything for the tension to release. Oh, and like a doll, it seems he cannot move without outside assistance.