#but put it aside for the familiar of bard when the going got tough with the garleans

[impossible-rat-babies]

i dunno if eyrie could even still be a summoner after the redacted fight

[cinebration]

I’ll Tell Him (Geralt of Rivia x Reader) [One-shot]

To celebrate reaching 300+ followers, have this The Witcher one-shot!

Premise: A seriously wounded Geralt finds himself helped by someone with a mutual friend and an ax to grind.

Gif Source: hencavill

Pain.

The witcher had known it before, but something wasn’t right this time. It yawned beneath him with a bloody maw and wrapped him in an iron maiden.

Delirium made for a strange bedfellow. The world warped around him in fever dreams. First Yennefer, then his mother, appeared to heal him, but they weren’t quite right: too short, too tall, wrong hair, wrong eyes.

Sound distorted in his ears. At times he heard singing, quiet and soothing.

Jaskier?

“That’s good to hear.”

Who’s there?

Darkness.

Then the cycle began anew, and he burned.

~~

“You’re awake.”

You let the words hang in the air for a few seconds as the witcher blinked his yellow eyes, adjusting to the light of the fire.

“Who are you?” The gravel of his voice was rustier from lack of use during his convalescence.

“Someone who bothered to put your ass back on your horse and bring you to safety.”

Geralt tried to sit up, grunting with the effort. “Answer the question.”

Sighing, you replied, “I am a bard. Happy?”

He fixed you with a stare bordering on a glare, but you decided it was a byproduct of his pain. Sweat broke out anew on his brow as he tried to remain sitting.

“What would make a bardess stop for a wounded witcher?”

“Good question. Do you want one of your little elixirs?”

“No.” The word hissed through gritted teeth.

You arched an eyebrow before shrugging to yourself. “Suit yourself, tough guy,” you mumbled.

The witcher���s keen hearing heard you. “Answer the question.”

“What question?”

“Why did you help me?”

You laughed, a short sharp sound like a small dog’s bark. “I’m not much of a healer. You might want to take some time to decide whether or not I really helped.”

“Answer. The fucking. Question.”

You leveled a blank stare at him. Geralt’s frown deepened, his dour expression shifting slightly in surprise at your direct, unreadable glance.

“I’ve got to check the trap,” you said, rising to your feet suddenly. “If we’re lucky, we get dinner tonight. You need it.”

Turning on your heel, you stepped out of the firelight and melted into the shadows of the surrounding woods. Geralt eyed you warily as you strode off, trying to clear the fuzziness around his mind. Though the pain of his injury had subsided, it lurked beneath the surface. A deep breath sent a white-hot lance through his side.

Struggling to keep himself upright, he lifted the hem of his untucked shirt, noticing for the first time the massive slash through it. Underneath he found what looked like a torn tunic wrapped around his torso. Faint blood appeared at the topmost layer.

Grunting, Geralt peeled back the makeshift bandage. A nasty gash cut along his ribs, nearly an inch across and several inches long. Uneven stitches sealed it shut. The wound had already begun to heal, he could tell, but blood still trickled from between the stitches. He would need an elixir after all.

Steeling himself to stand, Geralt looked up, flinched in surprise.

You stood a few feet away, a hare dangling from your hand. The firelight cast you in warm, flickering shadows, alternating between friendly and threatening.

He hadn’t heard you return. Alarm bells rang softly in the back of his mind.

“I did my best,” you said, gesturing at his torso. “I was never that adept at sewing.”

Sitting beside the fire, you spread the hare out before you and took a knife to it. From the way you handled it, Geralt decided you weren’t very skilled.

Unless you were deliberating faking it to put him at ease.

Where was his sword?

“It’s eating at you, isn’t it?”

The question cut through Geralt’s heightening paranoia. Tensing, he growled, “What?”

“I haven’t answered your question. I should leave you without answering it.”

The playful tone that had underlined your precious exchange with him disappeared, an edge lining your words. Geralt’s alarm grew, working itself under his skin.

“But I won’t, because maybe telling you is better than making you suffer.” You paused. The fire popped a log as though nervous with the silence. “You should suffer, though.”

Roughly spearing the hare meat onto two sticks, you jammed them into the fire.

Geralt’s fingers began to form a Sign.

“I helped you as a favor to Jaskier.”

Geralt stilled. His yellow eyes fixed on you, trying to read your expression. Feeling his gaze, you glanced aside at him. The sincerity and hard look in your eyes convinced him. He relaxed—a fraction.

“Jaskier,” he said.

You nodded but didn’t offer more.

The quiet sizzle of cooking meat and crackle-pop of the fire filled the silence.

Geralt felt the question dancing on the edges of his mind, trying to find a way out of his mouth. He resisted the urge, but the longer he looked at you, your face dark despite the firelight, the harder it was to keep the question at bay.

Clearing his throat, he finally asked, “Have you seen Jaskier?”

“Yes.”

You pulled out one of the sticks and flicked it over to him. His reflexes kicked in, forcing him to catch it without thinking. Pain flared up his side. Gritting his teeth, he exhaled sharply through them.

When he glanced back at you, he found you staring, a faint smile on your lips. He glared at you, his brow furrowing deeply along familiar lines.

“What?” You shrugged. “Surely you’ve seen others relish your pain.”

“You saved me, but you want me to suffer.” He shook his head. “Decide which one you want.”

With an exaggerated sigh, you said, “I saved you because I know Jaskier would have wanted me to. But you should suffer, after what you did to him.”

Geralt didn’t need you to tell him exactly what he did. He pictured it clearly, Jaskier standing in front of him as he eviscerated his friendship with the bard. The look of hurt on Jaskier’s face…

You read the memories in Geralt’s expression and rocked back on your feet, plucking the other stick out of the fire. “Good,” you muttered. “You’re less of a monster than I thought.”

Geralt’s stomach twisted.

~~

He tried to convince himself that his fever-induced recovery period kept him from falling back to sleep now that he had been unconsciousness for several days, but Geralt knew otherwise. The fever had weakened him enough that he couldn’t compartmentalize, his mind too tired to muster up the energy to fend off the thoughts he didn’t want.

Memories of Jaskier floated up from the depths, keeping him awake.

Sunrise broke too soon. You roused shortly after the sun crested over the distant mountains.

Geralt was already on his feet, limping around Roach to saddle her. You watched with mild amusement for a few minutes before stretching out your legs and slinging your pack over your shoulder.

Geralt’s gruff voice reached you. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” you replied. “Really, don’t.”

You turned toward the east and plucked up a staff you had placed alongside a log, concealing it.

“That’s the wrong direction,” Geralt said. “Those villages have been—”

“I know. But that’s where hope is most needed.” You flashed him a brilliant smile that made him blink in surprise. “A little music goes a long way. Goodbye, witcher.”

Geralt let you walk a few paces before speaking.

“If you see Jaskier…” The words lodged in his gullet.

Glancing at him, you shook your head as you realized the words wouldn’t be spoken. “Sure, I’ll tell him.”

Geralt watched you go until you disappeared around a curve in the trees, wondering why of all the people to help him, it had been you and your guilt-inducing help.

[eponymous-rose]

Talks Machina Highlights - Critical Role C2E98 (March 10, 2020)

Be warned: there are spoilers for the most recent episode below!

Tonight’s guests are Ashley Johnson and Travis Willingham!

Announcements: On Monday at 7 PM Pacific, there will be a special Doom: Eternal one-shot! VOD will be on YouTube on Wednesday. We’re one week away from the release of the new campaign book, Explorer’s Guide to Wildemount!

Episode 98: Dark Waters

Stats! 124 days passed between the Nein’s voyages at sea. It’s been 77 days since Fjord’s pact was broken. Fjord took 40% of the damage taken by the Nein and the crew (Yasha took second-most at 21%).

What’s it like RPing dream sequences with Matt? Ashley: “It gives me the fear.” They both agree it’s a panic feeling first, and then you get excited to see where he’ll go. Travis: “All cognizant thought goes out the window.” Ashley feels like she rushes it sometimes to avoid keeping the attention on her too long, and Travis dreads the open-ended questions: “What do you do?”

This is the first time Travis has had to wait a week to find out if his character will be revived. “Aside from analyzing the fight, it’s been okay, just because we’ve got two dope-ass clerics who feel pretty strongly about Fjord, so I hope we’re in a good place.” He’s mostly concerned about the intangibles and what they don’t know. He didn’t know the orb was still in him---he thought it was destroyed or reset when he threw away the sword. He’s worried that if they try “the normal cleric stuff”, it’s not going to work. He does almost prefer fights that are just dropped on them out of nowhere, because the anticipation is often the most stressful part.

Ashley’s still not sure if she has the feathers or not, since that was in a dream. “Building the character, I didn’t know that would be a possibility for that to change.” It’ll have to come out in the game. “Outside of that, I think-- obviously there’s a lot of healing with the group, but I think in terms of Yasha’s relationship with the Storm Lord, she’s still figuring that out. It’s very tough love, which she’s getting the tough love from the Storm Lord and the familial and kindness and love from the Mighty Nein. So that combo is going to be really good for her to turn things around. I don’t think she’s ever really had a feeling of worthiness outside of maybe being loved by Zuala. So I don’t know what that looks like for her yet, but we’ll see. I think she doesn’t fully know what her purpose is yet.”

Did Travis anticipate a confrontation with Uk’otoa back on the sea? “No, I’m a fucking moron. I didn’t think of that at all! I don’t have anything the ol’ snea snake wants anymore.” Brian: “Yes you do!” Travis: “I didn’t know that!” Dani: “The dark seed of power in you the Wildmother saw?” Travis: “I thought it was metaphorical! Well, now that you say it like that...” He wasn’t upset at all. “More than anything I was just trying to plan my branch narrative for what was going to happen next. More than anything, it became clear that they had just massive intent to come and kill me. I mean, Matt played it beautifully, so even in moments where I was disappointed in myself, like forgetting that enemy characters can hold their turns.”

Cosplay of the Week: a dramatic cape-flaring Fjord! (Ming.of.mings, photo by Rsellos, makeup by Omglobnunu, all on Instagram)

Travis: “The thing that hit me the most was when it came over and it grabs Fjord’s body and starts to walk him off the side of the ship, I was like, Mercer, what the fuck, man! I’m already dead! Give me a second!” He notes that they haven’t done a resurrection ritual yet in this campaign, only revivifies. Losing the two death saves when getting stabbed while unconscious was the moment when he realized how significant the intent was here. Everyone notes how clutch the Counterspell was.

On Jester and Beau showing concern for Yasha’s wellbeing: “I think for a lot of people, sometimes accepting compliments makes you uncomfortable. I’m one of those people. It’s a weird thing for Yasha to hear, because even in her tribe it’s not like that was a normal way of communicating with each other. Only compliments she would have gotten about how she looks or her character as a person were from Zuala. I think, especially with Jester, she’s such an open character that has so much love to give, just bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, just refreshing to be around, they’re all teaching Yasha very, very positive ways to feel and accept that.”

They talk about the way the improvisation can lead to poetic parallels like Yasha and Fjord falling/rising. Ashley: “I feel like so much of that is Matt, and he’s such a masterful storytelling.” Travis: “It’s such a gift, too. He’s giving you something new in the story that you created, and so you have instant ownership of this thing he made just for you.” Ashley: “You just hope you can meet him where he’s at.”

On Yasha’s harp: “Music is a very huge part of my life. I’m using the harp as, yes, for self-care for her, but also I think music can be a form of therapy. There was a moment where I was like, man, it would be so fun to multiclass as a bard, but then I remembered my wisdom is so low... it wouldn’t work. And I actually had talked to Matt about it. There’s more that I want to explore with that, and I don’t quite know what it is yet. I think where it sits right now, it’s a form of therapy for her. I’d been wanting to give her positive things to do to try to pull her out of this place that she’s in, and I think it’s really helpful.”

Seeing the sword again: “I think more than anything, it just unsettled Fjord. There was nothing about that that was easy to adapt to: seeing the sword, and then seeing multiples of the sword, just wondering who is this, what do they have, do they have abilities, what am I missing, how much do I not know about it?” He was initially worried that it was Avantika come back to life.

Fan Art of the Week: Caleb, Caduceus, and Fjord during the fight! (CreativeBleu on Twitter)

On Yasha having a lot of run-ins with creepy people: “I think a lot of that is because of the way I rolled the character, I rolled really low for Yasha’s stats, which is a bummer. She’s very susceptible because of that to being swayed, as we have noticed with Obann and things that have happened in her past. That’s maybe something that she puts out there, where people pick up on that. There’s obviously still and probably will always be a bit of darkness in her. I think people like Icky-thong and Lord Sharpe and people like that can pick up on it. I wanted to play a character like that anyway, I wanted to play somebody with a little darkness in there. I do think it is a source of frustration for her, and that’s where a lot of the guilt comes from.”

Has piecing together Caleb’s past changed Fjord’s opinion of him? “No, not at all. Maybe it’s just me, but seeing how much pain Caleb carries with himself from his past-- if he was flippant about it, that might give him pause, but he’s so fucking tortured about it. He can’t harbor any ill-will or confusion about where his heart lies. He’s full of regret, there’s a real person in there. I think also Fjord is like, I don’t want to be defined by my past, it really, really sucked. Every day since Fjord started with the M9 has been continually the best days of his life, and I think the same is probably true of Caleb. There’s no judgment because that doesn’t help anything. He just want to observe, absorb, acknowledge. You’re making positive changes, and that’s everything. That’s heroic, despite what you think is monstrous. That’s not who I see.” Brian talks about how life can end “when you choose to be defined by your worst moment”. Travis: “People that chain themselves to their past obviously haven’t moved beyond that past, and that process looks different for everyone.” But he believes you should get to define who you are after you’ve moved past that.

On the few new lighthearted moments with Yasha: “I think it’s the comfortability of the people around her. I think it’s just getting more comfortable with everybody, and also it’s just... I don’t know. If I think of something that I think would be funny, I’ll probably say it, but try to keep it in whatever Yasha’s sense of humor would be.” She notes some similarities to Grog. “She’s absolutely a teddy bear on the inside. She sees so much beauty in the world. I love playing those contradictions. She’s always had a sense of humor.”

How does Fjord define being a “good man” now as opposed to the start of the campaign? Initially, it was Vandren: “tough love, not overly emotional, not really available in that way, but conveyed a strong sense of leadership, knows what he wants, is focused, driven, stalwart, dependable, a lot of those bullshit male ideas. Some have value and some are just misplaced. If you try to live up to the idea of somebody else, you’re often going to find yourself going down a path that doesn’t look very familiar. Fuck it, I’m going to be me and see what that is. He’s got the agency. Maybe you just try and be you and hope that’s a good man.”

[frostsinth]

The Bard’s Bounty - Pt. 4

Part 1|2|3

Injured and without supplies, Iara is without options. Only thing she has? One very annoying bard.

This part was fun to write. Its a bit shorter than usual, but I thought it better to end where it is then start feeding into the intro of the next part. Likes and comments for more updates! Tell me what you think so far!

“H-hey!” Came a shout, and I blinked through the fog.

The sensation of falling was abruptly cut short, replaced by warm arms that were both firm and simultaneously soft. I managed to open my eyes again, and as my swimming vision settled, I recognized the goofy, lopsided grin looking down at me.

“I always knew you would fall for me.” Balam teased.

---

I groaned, shaking my head. I quickly stopped, as the movement made my pounding headache even more vicious. I weakly shoved a hand at him, blinking slowly.

“Get off me,” I mumbled, “Put me down.”

“Damn you’re stubborn,” Grumbled the orc, shaking his head. I felt the sensation of movement dully, and tried to turn my head to see what was going on. “Can’t even accept a little help when you’re bleeding to death.”

I snorted, reaching up a hand full of numbing fingers to my ribs. “I’ve had worse.”

My side was slick and hot with blood. My hand shook as I tried to feel the extent of the damage. I groaned again, blinking, and tried unsuccessfully to look around again. It had gotten darker than the pre-dawn light it had been a moment before. And the air smelled damp.

“Where are we?”

“Cave.” Balam said with a sigh, and I felt the cool stone at my back as he slowly put me down. “Beyond that, I don’t know where.”

“Gods, can you do anything useful?” I groaned, trying to sit up.

A big, meaty hand caught my shoulder, pushing me back down. “I can keep you from bleeding out…. Hopefully…” His voice dropped off a bit at the end.

I couldn’t help but chuckle weakly. “Well that’s reassuring.”

“Would you shut up?”

“That’s my line.”

He snorted, shaking his head. “You need to lie still. Try not to make it worse.”

My lips twitched weakly. “Yes, nurse.”

“Creator’s ass, stop sassing me for two seconds you bitch.” He snarled softly.

I sensed him moving away for a moment, and blinked a few more times, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. Cave seemed an accurate assessment. Rock. Rock. Stone. Rock. Something wet and dripping in the corner. It was shallow, maybe a body length or two deep. And probably just high enough to stand in. The faint morning light drew an outline around the cave, and I could just make out the forest beyond the wide entrance. A soft whicker reassured me that Goda was not far. I slowly tried to ease myself up again.

“What did I tell you?” Sighed Balam angrily, returning to the cave with an armful of branches and other assorted things I couldn’t make out.

He dropped them by the wall and dropped down next to me. Catching my good shoulder in his hand.

“Goda,” I breathed, then reached up one hand to press my palm to my forehead.

“She’s fine. There’s water and grass right outside,” He told me, pushing me back gently. “She’s earned a break.”

I nodded faintly, sighing as the back of my head touched the cool stone again. It wasn’t exactly comfortable; about as hard as a rock. I chuckled internally at my own dumb joke.

“Why’d you have to go do something stupid and get yourself stabbed?” Grumbled Balam.

I gasped slightly as he pressed something to my side. “Oh, I’m sorry. Next time I’ll just let Sigi shoot you.”

He laughed incredulously, shaking his big head. His dreads bounced about with the movement. “My life was only at risk because you kidnapped me.”

“Collected, not kidnapped.” I corrected him weakly, then tried to crane my neck down to see his hands at my side. “What are you doing?”

He sighed heavily. “Old Tlaloc trick. This moss is very porous. Works as well as cloth to staunch bleeding.”

“Goody.” I breathed, laying back and closing my eyes.

I felt his hand wrap around mine, his large, warm fingers swallowing my hand whole. They felt firm, and strong, and my hazy mind lingered on the sensation for a moment. He brought our hands to my side, and gently pressed my palm against the moss on my wound.

“Here, hold this for a second. I’m going to start a fire so I can see what I’m doing better.”

I didn’t reply, but did as I was told. My head was still pounding, so I tried to focus on some benign point in my brain that might allow my thoughts to soothe. Balam’s face drifted to the surface of my mind’s eye, irritatingly. I brushed it aside with a silent snarl. I so desperately wanted to sleep, and my eyes, even closed, ached. But the adrenaline was still coursing through me, and the anxiety of my situation left a twisting knot in my stomach.

I listened to the sounds of his shuffling, as he gathered the branches into a pile. It was muted, as the soft sound of rain slowly filled the spaces between sounds. But I heard the soft twang of stone on metal, then the sizzling of flames on wet wood. I frowned, opening my eyes.

“Is that my sword??” I demanded weakly as he bent down to blow on the tiny little embers.

“You dropped it when you fell off the horse.”

“Oh, so you know what it is?”

He snorted. “Of course I do.”

“Great. Then why the fuck are you smashing it with a rock?”

The orc shot me an irritated look. “We are a little short on supplies here, in case you didn’t notice, princess. And I’m not about to spend half an hour rubbing two wet sticks together.”

I coughed lightly. “Rubbing sticks together? Thought that was what bards were all about.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “I never thought I’d say this, but I honestly think I preferred your cold, frigid bitch act.” He came back over to my side, tossing the sword to clatter a few feet away and dropping back to the ground.

“And I preferred you unconscious.” I mumbled, blinking blearily at him.

Sighing again, he took my hand away from the wound, inspecting it under the light. I saw the furrows on his forehead deepen, and his eyebrows pinched together.

“That bad, huh?” I asked with a soft chuckle.

He glanced up at my face. “...It’s not good.”

I closed my eyes, tilting my head back slightly. “You’re free now, you know,” I told him bitterly.

When he didn’t answer, I opened my eyes again. Found him watching me, staring at my face. I smirked a little, then lifted my arm weakly to shake my bracelet.

“You won’t be able to take it off yourself, but I don’t have the strength to use the enchantment,” I turned my head away, looking at the stone wall instead of meeting those soft brown eyes, “So you can leave anytime. The magic only works within a certain proximity.”

He snorted softly. “You seriously think you can manage on your own?”

“Always have.”

I tried to keep the bitterness out of my voice. Tried to keep it flat. I knew what was at stake in that moment. New exactly what would happen if he did choose to leave. Darkness was eating at the edges of my vision, and my breathing was ragged. But I was ready for it, I thought. If this was my time, if I couldn’t fight it. I was ready. I would face death as I had faced life. Alone. And it was better that way.

I felt his hand squeeze mine, and looked at him out of the corner of my eye. There was a complicated look on his face. I didn’t have the energy to think it over too much. But I knew I didn’t want to see it anymore. So I closed my eyes and let out a slow, shuddering breath.

Sniffing, I felt him gently place my hand on the ground near my face. 

“Nah. No thanks.” I heard more shuffling, then felt the sharp stinging pain as he pressed something against my side. “Don’t feel like having your frigid ass haunting me.”

Surprised, I opened my eyes, looking at him. He made a point not to meet my gaze, steadily working on cleaning my wound instead.

“... If I get better, I’m still taking you in,” I told him, my voice a little sharper than I meant it to be. “Nothing has changed.”

He shrugged his big shoulders, a tiny smirk in the corner of his mouth. 

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Not maybe. I’m a bounty hunter. And you’ve got a huge bounty on your head. A payout like that would have me set for a long time-” I narrowed my eyes a little at him- “I’m not passing up that chance.”

He didn’t answer for a moment, simply cleaning my wound. He ripped up some plant with his teeth, and began chewing it thoughtfully as we worked.

“You could’ve killed me.”

“What?”

“You could’ve killed me,” He repeated softly, still chewing, “The bounty is just as good with my severed head. But you didn’t.”

I gave an angry sigh. “I’m not a killer.” I grumbled irritatedly under my breath.

He chucked again, the sound darkly unfitting to his usual jovial nature. 

“Neither am I.”

Then he spit the chewed up plant into his palm. Using two fingers, he scooped some up and began smearing it against my side.

“Oh gods! What in the nine hells are you doing?” I snapped, jerking a little.

“Hold still,” He ordered, still smearing the half masticated goop on me, “Its Threnweed. Good for healing and staving off infection.”

“It’s gross,” I shot back, scowling weakly, “I don’t want your spit on me.”

Balam’s head fell back as he laughed loudly. “Well, the last time we swapped spit, you poisoned me,” he reminded me with his now familiar lopsided grin, “Let’s just say this makes us even.”

My face burned at the memory, but my scowl merely deepened and I turned away from him again. He finished his work, wiping me up as best he could with what he had. Then I felt him pat my good shoulder.

“Get some rest now. That will help the most.”

His hand lingered for a moment, his tough fingers warm against my cold skin. It tingled beneath his touch, and for a moment, I thought he might do more. Stroke my hair back. Turn me to face him again. Strangle me. But he didn’t, and eventually the weight of his hand disappeared.

My whole body quivered from exhaustion, but after a few moments I forced myself to turn and look for him one more time. He was still sitting next to me, surprisingly close, and I blinked stupidly for a moment. I could smell his musky scent, and feel a little of the heat of his body.

“What are you going to do?” I asked suspiciously.

He shrugged. “I’ll find a way to entertain myself, don’t you worry.”

I sighed heavily, feeling the tension in my muscles. Even laying on cold stone rock, I couldn’t fight my exhaustion anymore. I blinked a few more times stubbornly, but my whole body felt like a throbbing pile of lead.

Balam was fiddling with something in his hands that I couldn’t make out. I fought against the sleep, turning my head this way and that. Shifting my legs, rubbing my hands against my face.

I realized suddenly that a soft, gentle humming had filled the air around me. It was distant, like bees in a hive somewhere hidden among the trees. But it was soothingly deep. I swore I could feel it vibrating in the ground beneath me too.

Along with the sound of the rain, it soothed my tattered nerves, and slowly, I relented. Giving in to my absolute exhaustion. I plummeted into darkness like an anchor dropped into stormy waters….

....

UPDATE: Part five HERE

[alvaar-aldaviir]

Movement: Zartheit

Time Frame: Some point after Shadowbringers. No Spoilers.

Notes: Not precisely canon compliant because who can say what happens after current content? I also take liberties with Bard abilities because they are so loosely defined in lore. One day we’ll have some pieces to expand on Alvaar’s bardic quirks, but times are tough so have some fluff.

Cross posted to AO3

 -

Alphinaud had long learned to stop questioning the extent of domestic knowledge the Warrior of Light seemed to possess, but you couldn’t especially blame him if he found ‘novice hairdresser’ a surprising addition to the list.

 -

  “You really need a trim.”

Looking up from his tome, Alphinaud looked back over his shoulder to fix the Bard with a raised brow. He didn’t say anything, but the silent glower made it apparent his thoughts were elsewhere.

Putting his hands up in the symbol of ‘no offense’ for a moment, Alvaar stepped closer and held his hands up with open palms. “If I may?”

Sighing and returning to his research he finished scribbling a few notes. “If you must,” the Scholar replied noncommittally, mind still fixated on his most recent arcane discovery and how it might apply to his own abilities.

“Then I must,” Alvaar replied, carefully smoothing white strands down before delicately removing the hair tie and metal ornament that held the Elezen’s long hair back and setting them aside. Gently freeing long snowy locks and combing his fingers through to loose any snarls.

“You’ve been busy of late,” Alvaar commented simply.

“As have you,” Alphinaud returned placidly, frowning slightly given the Bard was preoccupied and wouldn’t notice. He wasn’t going to say it but the absence had been... quite noticeable. Still, they both had their duties and it wouldn’t do to treat the Bard so dismissively when he was freshly returned from a mission.

Glancing up at the white fringe of hair obstructing his view, he sighed faintly. “I suppose I, may be more in need of an appointment than I’d thought. But Scion work does ever come in droves,” he continued.

“Indeed. ... I didn’t mean any offense Alphinaud, but I don’t know that I’ve ever seen you this unkempt.” Pausing with a snort of laughter at the reflexive tensing of slim shoulders, Alvaar patted his arm. “Your bangs have gotten too long, and your braid isn’t lying sleek. You know I’m a fop at heart I just have an eye for this.”

“Well not all of us are so privileged as to have an aesthetician on call,” Alphinaud shot back with notable cheek.

“If you knew what I had to put up with to keep that man equipped in scissors and glitter every time he misplaced them you would think I got the short end of the stick. If I have Jandelaine on call, then he’s got a Warrior of Light as a personal errand boy for every lost implement disaster. Not that anyone else might know such privileges right Alphinaud?” Alvaar mocked sweetly. “Now shut it and tilt your chin up, I need to see how bad this is.”

Huffing and dropping a blank sheet of parchment in his book he snapped it shut loudly and offered a smirk when he complied.

Predictably, the Bard hissed out a laugh and smoothed his hair down to inspect the length. “Little shit.”

“If I have learned anything of being a particular thorn in others sides it must have been from you, dear friend.” Even so there was only amusement in the words.

It was the sort of barbs and banter he’d been missing with Alvaar and Alisaie both on a long expedition for Urianger. For while he certainly got along well with his fellow Scions, there was a natural sort of ease to the taunts thrown back and forth with his sister and, once the Bard became more talkative, Alvaar as well.

The man in question just offered his own faint smile of amusement before amethyst eyes were studying his face intently for things Alphinaud couldn’t begin to understand. In fact, he opted to just shut his eyes and wait patiently through the inspection lest he get caught up staring into that jewel toned gaze longer than was appropriate. It wasn’t enough that he’d been dealing with people insinuating an ever-growing crush on the Bard for the last few years, he didn’t need to be teased about it by the man himself too.

Even if it was true...

“Do you want me to trim it for you? If you want a style change, I’d recommend an appointment but I can at least clean up the split ends and I know your hairstyle probably better than your own hairdresser. Up for it? I’ll even let you keep reading.”

“You know how to cut hair too?” Alphinaud asked with minimal surprise. At this point, Alvaar could say he had experience in about any profession and he’d likely believe him.

Another amused snort. “Anyone can cut hair... it takes study to be able to style it and not butcher it. But yes, I know enough to do all the touch ups in my Free Company. And if I should somehow manage to offend, I’ll pay for Jandelaine to fix it myself. Now please, I beg you. Let me trim it. Unless you’re dedicating to a longer style I don’t think I can tolerate this mop nearly as well as you can.”

“It’s not that bad...”

“..... Technically no, you’re still better styled than the bulk of adventurers I travel with but... this is weird for me so let me fix it. Alphinaud Leveilleur I beg of you, gift unto me the privilege of saving you from the pox that is untamed growth of one’s own hair. For King and Country I won’t rest until I’ve slain that which offends mine senses.”

“Oh just shut up and do it Aldaviir. You’ll just hound me until I let you anyway,” Alphinaud shot back, pausing and flushing faintly at the flow of words he’d most definitely picked up from the Bard.

“Ahh,” Alvaar sighed, a blissful smile in his words, and the rustle of fabric as he put a hand to his heart. “As my Prince doth proclaim, so must I attend.”

“You’re an insufferable Bard when you’ve been reading romance novels, you know that?”

A long pause.

“I don’t deserve these call outs Leveilleur.”

A faint click caught his attention and he opened his eyes to regard the Bard. Seeing how prepared and serious Alvaar was as he started summoning and laying out tools, Alphinaud took one look at the spray bottle that was set down and quickly cleared his research off the table. Let him read... ha.

“If you’re that serious I’ll just go take a bath Alvaar. It’ll be easier.”

Pausing, the blond tapped a fine-tooth comb to his jaw in thought. “True. I should probably join you. Much as I love them, the smell of chocobos tends to cling...”

“In that case after you! Long travels are terrible and my hair isn’t going anywhere. I’ll just clean up in my room,” he chirped, quickly up on his feet and actually pushing the Bard towards the door.

“Wh- hey what the...” Alvar griped but let himself be shoved out the door by the shorter Elezen regardless.

“Go forth, take your time, I’ll be in my quarters when you’re ready.” Shutting the door behind the Bard, Alphinaud turned to lean his back against it and sigh. Not his most subtle of misdirects but in the panic it was all that he had.

“You realize you could just ask to use the bath after me if you’re that sensitive to modesty...” Alvaar reminded him from the other side of the door.

Oh. Damnit.

“Nerd.”

-

For as much as he’d fidgeted and worried about further teasing, Alvaar had done the Scholar the courtesy of leaving it at that. In fact, he’d almost forgotten about any potential embarrassment until he opened the door to his room and found Alvaar sitting at his desk, studying the desktop carbuncle calendar Alisaie had bought him as a gift.

But then the Bard rose up to his slippered feet smoothly, dressed in a well-tailored green tunic nipped close at the waist and gray khakis that accented his tall physique, and one embarrassment was probably just going to be replaced with another. In common clothes Alvaar didn’t look anything like what people pictured as the Warrior of Light, but it certainly did even less to hide that effeminately handsome face of his when he wasn’t wearing his hat. Framed with still damp green accented blond, once again cut and feathered to a medium length that complimented him well, he could start to see why people had a hard time recognizing him in his craft clothes. In his battle gear there was something unaffected and inspiring to him, a remote calm and surety that made even enemies give pause.

Dressed in his house clothes however Alvaar was just... normal. Still handsome and graceful but far less intimidating. He was approachable... touchable even...

If Alphinaud hadn’t spent the bulk of the last three years with Alvaar during the brunt of his ‘bisexual awakening,’ he probably wouldn’t be able to handle it. Instead he just steeled his nerve and tried to resume his thoughts on his research. What sort of adjustments would need to be made to the arcane geometries of his moonstone carbuncle summon to make it more efficient with aetheric flow and-

“Park it Leveilleur. You can think about your nerd shit while I’m working,” Alvaar huffed with a knowing look and bless him but the return to normal sass made it easier to handle.

Taking the offered seat he lifted his chin proudly, letting Alvaar tuck a sheet around him for cover before the Bard started into his task. Easing his fingers through damp strands he plucked a comb off the table and set to straightening with patient care.

“Well if you had any interest in being an Arcanist then perhaps I’d talk about it instead,” he remarked lightly, already knowing how this would go and taking comfort in the familiarity.

“Aetheric Magic isn’t my thing. I pull enough miracles out of my arse as a Bard as is, I don’t need the effort of more expectations of miracles scholars can filtch. I turn a volcano into a temperate climate and clear a blizzard for a small contingent of warriors with the power of song alone and no, you sots just want a different colored carbuncle. Fuck that I’ll leave the discoveries to you and pick up spare change playing requests on harp in bars.”

Okay, maybe not so familiar...

“Difficult trip?” he asked lightly.

“Just annoying. Not much for discovery and an endurance trial on my patience. If Alisaie hadn’t been around I’d hazard it would have been downright dull.”

“Is that so? I had been led to believe it involved Allagan technology,” he continued, leaving the statement hanging and waiting for the Bard to take the bait.

An annoyed huff answered it. “Nothing new. Allagan cruelty knows no bounds it seems. Heartless bastards, I’m glad they’re all dead. I don’t see much purpose to arcane advancement when it comes at a cost of feeling and reason,” Alvaar griped bitterly.

Tipping his chin up so he could meet the Bards gaze he studied him a moment. “Your statements are fair. Still, thank you for going anyway. I felt much better for my sister’s safety knowing you were along.”

Staring back a moment, Alvaar sighed slowly, tension finally easing out of his shoulders and running the comb through his bangs.

“As if she needs the help... your sister is a hellcoeurl when you get her going. Now stay still. If you move like that when I’ve got my scissors I’m liable to snip an ear off and then I’ll be obligated to dock the other one for balance,” Alvaar remarked flatly before giving a slight grin at the faintly horrified look on his friends face. Fingers lightly gripping the Scholars jaw he centered his head and grabbed his scissors.

Holding still, Alphinaud shut his eyes again and let Alvaar work, the soft hiss of scissors working away as gentle fingers slipped through his hair. It was... nice. He’d thought it might be a bit more awkward but there was something soothing about the attention and touch.

He was roused a bit by a thumb trailing under his eye once the Bard had finished trimming his bangs back to their standard length. Blinking his eyes open cautiously he raised a brow at Alvaar’s assessing stare.

“You’re working too hard again. You need to be careful with that or-”

“Or I’ll end up possessed by an Ascian. Yes, I recall. You fret like a maid Alvaar,” he interjected calmly, using the old phrase that had caused him no end of grief once and now was some old inside joke between them.

Something in the Bards gaze softened at the words, rising back up to his towering height and pacing back around to start cleaning up any split ends on the long whip of white hair he’d yet to fuss with. Setting his scissors aside he again set to untangling silken strands, tutting under his breath.

“Someone has to or your sister would have an absolute fit. I would rather not invoke her wrath over something so preventable. ... going to need to trim this back an inch, that alright?”

“Whatever you think is best, I trust you,” he replied automatically, probably a bit more heartfelt than was necessary but... no less true.

Again, a change of implements and the sharp rasp of scissors snipping away carefully. Focused and methodical and the Scholar almost found himself falling asleep but that mock threat kept him stubbornly upright and still. In fact, a small part of him was sad when Alvaar finally put comb and scissors away, brushing any loose trimmings free and reclaiming the sheet with a quick efficiency.

But it wouldn’t be polite of him to further monopolize Alvaar’s time so shortly after he’d returned. Even so, he didn’t rise from his seat, instead sinking a bit farther in and tipping his chin up so he could let his hair hang off the back of the chair to dry a bit more.

“Much better,” Alvaar hummed as he finished cleaning up, tossing the swept-up clippings and pausing as he turned to regard his friend and ally. Studying him quietly a moment he stepped back over, nearly startling the Scholar as his fingers slipped back into white hair.

“Tataru says you haven’t been sleeping,” Alvaar commented stoically, combing through his hair with his hands this time and letting it slide through his fingers.

Well, that was the double-edged sword of being good friends with a gossip...

“There’s been,” he paused, dragging in a deep breath as he pondered it, “much to do my friend. Where the summoning of Primals may slow, other problems take their place. Many have come seeking aid from the Scions of late and as the de facto leader, it’s been on me to meet with them all. I’ve made what arrangements I could but, as you know it is nearly impossible to help everyone...” the Scholar trailed off with a sigh.

He gave a faint start as Alvaar slid fingers up along his jaw, gently encouraging him upright with a soft, “Straighten up. Relax.”

“Alvaar?” the Scholar asked, a note of genuine concern mixed in his puzzled tone.

“Hush.” Soothing his palms out along Alphinaud’s neck the Bard set into a massage, humming something softly under his breath and hands warming up noticeably. A casual display of the potency of his skill in Bardsong that would have startled if Alphinaud hadn’t seen such effortless works before. “What sleep you are getting isn’t very restful. You’ve too much tension in your neck,” Alvaar chided grumpily even as his fingers worked their magic with gentle care. “You need to take better care of yourself Leveilleur.”

Perhaps. But a small part of him would miss the attention if he didn’t give the Bard something to fuss over. He also suspected (and maybe hoped) that on some level Alvaar needed such things too regardless of what he said. If he didn’t, then his mother hen attitude wouldn’t have him fussing over almost anyone given half a chance.

Alvaar certainly seemed at his most relaxed when he had mundane things to worry about, though given how many world scale problems were thrust on him it could have just been a product of perspective. Fussing over someone’s appearance and fixing it was a far cry from smiting world evils after all.

But to say any of that would probably be too much so Alphinaud elected to say nothing at all. He merely settled a bit firmer into those hands and soaked in the comfort of another person’s touch.

Bit by bit his thoughts quieted, worries and concerns falling away now that Alvaar and Alisaie were back safe and sound. Things would quickly return to the routine he preferred and found the most comfort in.

And his Warrior of Light was back home. Here at his side once more, stalwart companion to the bitter end. Focused on him and giving off that familiar feeling of safety and support he’d come to depend on through the years.

He didn’t doubt that tomorrow he’d look back over those petitions for aid and be able to find new solutions. If Alvaar could make doing the impossible seem effortless, then he could do no less in the matters he was suited for. He could only ever rise to meet that challenge. Pull together various resources and people to find a solution that they could follow-

Thumbs hooked over the back of his ears, work-worn hands covering them and in the wake of the last few weeks of constant meetings and stress the abrupt narrowed silence was disorienting. Even as his feet shifted on reflex for balance, he was already unconsciously reaching for Alvaar’s hands.

The movement had the Bard starting to shift away, a half-formed apology on his tongue before Alphinaud pulled him back. Slender fingers gripped against Alvaar’s hands and held them back in place, leaning into the contact without saying a word.

He hadn’t ever been one for silence in a world with so much that needed to be said. But that brief listless moment had pointed him towards something he’d forgotten that he needed. A brief reprieve held safely in the hands of someone he trusted, though it was not generally so literal...

It was the same sort of soulful quiet he often found with his twin. The comfortable air of safe silence that tended to have them both asleep leaned against one another. The reassurance of knowing you weren’t alone and whatever happened someone would be there with you to face whatever you awoke to.

But here...? After so long he found that here? Whose heart was he hearing beat a staccato then, his or Alvaar’s? Snapping out of it he let go, quickly leaning forward to break the contact.

“My apologies,” he murmured hastily. “I... it’s been a difficult time these last weeks. You likely have much to attend to given you just returned. I believe your retainers have also been checking in regularly the last few days so they must be-”

“Shut it Leveilleur,” Alvaar snarked flatly, making the Scholar jump a bit at the tone. “I’m not done. Besides, there’s another summit in two days isn’t there? I’m not showing up with the Leader of the Scions sporting unkempt hair and bags under his eyes. If we’re going to have to sit at the same table as those backstabbing little heathens then we may as well look fucking fabulous while we do it. So, sit up, I’ve still got work to do given you’re still a damn mess.”

Looking over his shoulder at him, Alphinaud stared at Alvaar in stunned surprised.

Putting a hand at his hip and shifting his stance to one of cocky annoyance, Alvaar raised a brow. “You’ll make me look bad Alphinaud. I’ve got a reputation to uphold as the best-looking Warrior of Light Eorzea will ever know and I’m not letting you jeopardize it. Let’s go.” Holding his hand out a bottle dropped into it from the aether with a puff of smoke, tossing and flipping it nonchalantly. “Leave in conditioner doesn’t apply itself.”

A delayed snort of laughter escaped the Scion, quickly having to turn around to stuff his hands to his face to try and quiet it.

“.... What, you think fashion is funny?! It’s fucking suffering now quit laughing and get over here!” Alvaar bitched, swatting lightly at his friends’ shoulder but even without turning to see it the Scholar knew he was smiling. Especially when Alvaar finally started to laugh and then gave an unflattering snort, and that set the both of them off again.

“Thank you,” Alphinaud murmured softly, but no less heartfelt as the Bard massaged whatever floral scented cream into his hair once they’d both collected themselves.

“It’s fine. Just another part of my job as your personal errand boy,” Alvaar returned cheekily.

Lifting his chin with a frown the man couldn’t see Alphinaud huffed. “I mean it Alvaar. Thank you for helping me.”

The Elezen paused, studying the snowy strands threaded through his fingers a moment. “.... You’re welcome. But you’re not the only one who needed a reprieve Alphinaud. I like doing things like this. It’s... relaxing,” he answered, tone quiet and even. That sign that he felt he was revealing too much even with so little a detail.

It was as he’d expected then...

“Still,” he insisted anyway.

“... You know if you grew this all out and we feathered it for body you’d have some truly amazing hair,” Alvaar carried on with a subject change. “I think it would even put Aymeric to shame. Very dashing, like some storybook prince. Everyone would swoon.”

Shutting his eyes, the Scholar just smiled a touch wider and leaned the faintest bit further into that gentle touch. Did that mean Alvaar as well? “Maybe.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“I’m afraid my sister hoarded my half of it.”

“Tch. Blasted Leveilleurs. You need to learn to share.”

-

“Alphi?” Alvaar asked untold minutes later once he’d noticed the Scholar had been silent for some time.

The hands that had been working over his shoulders stopped, and though Alvaar called his name again Alphinaud didn’t want to respond. Perhaps it was a moment of selfishness but he vainly hoped that perhaps the Bard might stay for a bit more in this peaceful quiet. At least until he actually fell asleep...

A gentle hand ruffled his hair with another attempt at calling him though this time it was softer as the man shifted to see if he was awake or not. It took a bit to not smile under that scrutiny and give himself away but if he couldn’t manage at least that he would never have made it so far in politics. A haggard sigh left the Bard and then he shifted back behind him. Whatever he might have been hoping for hadn’t expected Alvaar to lean down and slip his arms about his shoulders, hugging him gently.

“What am I going to do with you... my friend you work yourself much too hard if you can fall asleep sitting up like that,” Alvaar whispered, squeezing him the faintest bit tighter and settling his cheek to satiny strands.

It was enough to make his heart skip a beat in panic.

It had been some time since Alvaar had last hugged him. While the Bard tended to come off as physically distant and stoic, at least at first; it was the furthest from the truth once he was comfortable with you. Really it was probably because Alvaar knew how embarrassed it made him. There had been a few times he’d caught Alvaar giving him a tight look of empathy, but he’d generally refrained from moving closer unless things were particularly dour.

It wasn’t that he disliked such things, but part of his pride hated to come off as weak. After all he had done for Shards and Source he didn’t think it much to ask that people stop treating him as a child because of his height. Where flustered pride would have him pull away, now he had no excuse but to stay. To feel that warmth and comfort folded around him and soak it in. A part of him almost wished to reach back. To bury himself against the Bards chest as he had a few times before and relish in that protective strength.

But that would be too much.

It was one thing to accept comfort in a moment of weakness. Wholly another to just ask for it because your closest friends had been away too long. A silly distinction perhaps, but then few had ever asked so much of a friend as he. From the time his youthful arrogance had callously brandished the Warrior of Light as one would a blade to now when invariably something would happen that only Alvaar could attend and he would have to summon him to battle once more.

It would be too much to place the burden of his loneliness on the man as well; especially when he knew Alvaar would likely do most anything he asked. Even if he didn’t genuinely want to… a thought that bothered him to no end.

Instead he would just accept what the Bard gave freely, as he did now silently soaking in this chance comfort. Letting his friend fuss over him because Alvaar also found relief in it. And he’d hold on to those favors one would need to ask of friends for when they needed them most.

A knock at the door startles them both, and though he’s upset to feel Alvaar quickly pull away it at least spares him the quandary of how he was going to slip out of that ruse without giving himself away. Instead he lifts his head after a moment to stare at the door with a falsified tired blink.

“Alphinaud are you in?” Alisaie calls, and he almost frowns but the relief to hear her voice again after so long gets the better of him.

“Yes, come in,” he answers. He glances at Alvaar as the Bard shakes out the sheet for a third time fussily before he busies himself with cleaning his scissors and comb, but he’s pointedly not looking at him.

Curious.

“Ah, there’s the pair of you. I had thought you would be off for that nap you kept complaining about Alvaar not hiding away in my brothers room,” Alisaie remarks as she lets herself in, an amused quirk to her lips that the Scholar isn’t quite sure he likes the look of and when they lock eyes he knows for a fact he doesn’t. He would be hearing about this later no doubt. Few enjoyed teasing him more than his sister.

“Well, I do like the peace and quiet,” Alvaar returns drily. “It beats the nonstop chattering of our contact… Besides, Alphi needed a trim and you know I can’t very well let enough alone once something has bothered me.” It gets a soft snort of amusement from her before she studies her twin expectantly and he pushes himself up to his feet.

“Welcome back. It’s good to see you Alisaie. I’ve heard your travels were uneventful and for that I am glad even if you found it boring,” he supplies in proper greeting, offering his arms out and hugging her tight once she accepts.

It’s a nice feeling. An affirming that things are once again back to a routine he prefers even as she squeezes him a bit harder than he likes in that continued display of strength she was so fond of. It was something Alisaie had picked up after her many travels of Eorzea, and a new habit he would be remiss in chiding her for when it’s become habit to him as well.

“.... Alphinaud, do you mind telling me why your hair smells like a perfume stall?” Alisaie accused more than asked, a flat look on her face as she pulled back from their greeting embrace.

He’d barely felt his cheeks begin to flame before a sharp admission of, “Hey!” cut between them.

Snapping his fingers, Alvaar gripped a pair of scissors and pointed the handles at her as he leaned against the desk. “That’s it. You’re next Alisaie. I’ve had to tolerate that mop of flyaways and split ends for almost a month! And scorched ends! SCORCHED ENDS! I’m fixing this travesty today! Park it!”

It was nice, the way things always seemed to settle back into place when they returned. A bit less quiet and not as suited to study, but watching the pair argue while he was trying not to laugh was still preferable to the silence.

[borderlandscast]

discworld au

i covered rythian in this post, with a hint of someone’s mystery origins in the previous post. chances are that this au is looking to be a very weird crossover. xephos and nilesy are up next!

lomadia:

her family owns a farm that provides most of the crops and produce for the small town she lives in. her family resides in the ramtop mountains. it’s a very insular mountain town, where everyone tends to leave their doors unlocked. no new face shows up without a good bit of gossip following. everyone has a horseshoe hammered to the top of their doorframes.

she became a witch when she was young; about ten or so. her family noticed her lack of childishness, her no-nonsense sensibilities, and the fact that she rarely cried, even when she got hurt. that, and the below incident.

when she first attended what passed as school, one of the rowdiest boys (a year or two older) pulled on her hair. the teacher ran out when the two didn’t return to the classroom after lunchtime. she found the boy meekly pulling up flowers and turning it into a flower crown for lomadia, who was quietly sitting on a nearby rock, merely watching. the rest of the children fell into line. new children quickly learned this hierarchy. rarely had schoolchildren been so well-behaved.

her family had reservations about lomadia becoming a witch. that is, until an injured hawk crash landed in the garden and viciously bit everyone who tried to go near it. lomadia gently wrapped it in a tea towel and took it into her room, whereupon the hawk let itself be bandaged and fed bits of raw meat (leftovers from a butchered hog). she let the hawk go once it recovered. until then, her family had to put up with lomadia’s stubbornness to let anyone see it and the hawk’s demanding nature.

an apprenticeless, elderly witch who shared lomadia’s familiarity with animals accepted her into her cottage. lomadia grew up learning a witch’s practical magic, with a grand heaping of veterinary mixed in. the old witch looked after lomadia like she was a beloved grandchild; sternly and fondly, with tough love.

for lomadia, whose family had been torn about whether to treat her as a child or as a miniature adult, this came as a wondrous blessing. she flourished under the witch’s guidance and teachings.

lomadia eventually inherited the steading and cottage. she feels a lot of the time that she’s not up to the gargantuan task, since her mentor was (and still is) regarded as one of the best witches to consult about animal health. her mentor rarely left the mountains unless it was an emergency concerning multiple herd/flocks/gatherings.

she knows about mythical animals. it’s one of the biggest secrets her mentor impressed on her.

the hawk that lomadia healed as a child? moved into a large tree next door to the steading as soon as lomadia became a witch. she hasn’t named it, and it accompanies her on her daily flights around the mountain. other hawks seem to flock to her if they’re hurt or need a place to safely rest.

lomadia’s understanding of animals, their handling and care is not without its cons or dangers. when lomadia treats horses, she is still vulnerable to being kicked in the head, or be gored by a gassy bull that refuses to be seen. sometimes she can’t always save an animal, but she definitely tries.

lomadia’s hobby is falconry. a lot of the birds of prey living around and on the mountain are persecuted for their fierce reptutations. she accepts orphaned, wounded and elderly birds into her aviary. only the able ones are released back into the wild. the rest, she cares for. it’s a demanding job on top of her regular witch duties, and thus, it’s well known to the locals and the other witches that lomadia will only deal with animals.

she only ever deals with people in a crisis. rare, but it’s happened, especially if it’s in relation to an injury.

she’s a very proud person, if a little haughty at times. she’s fiercely independent, and while she attempts to project a mature and worldly manner at all times, it tends to fall apart when her temper flares up. her temper can be on the short side, especially if she’s dealing with idiots or simple minded people.

she’s somewhat emotionally immature, and can be childish at times. she acknowledges this, and that she can’t help it sometimes, she still tries her best to do better.

her dealings with people can be rather abrupt, and she prefers most of her relationships with others to be ‘cordial, you know my name and what i can do, but nothing else about me’, which is funny considering her home town has known her since birth. she considers respect as something to be earned, especially when it comes to wizards.

ravs the nac mac feegle

ravs moves in when she ‘saves’ him from being eaten by one of her hawks. ravs is in no real danger since pictsies are practically indestructible, but the hawk thought he was a strange looking squirrel.

ravs wants to pay her back, and when lomadia gently turns him down, he decides to look after her, claiming that a hag’s always in need of a helping hand, and that nac mac feegles never forget a debt, whether drunk or sober.

as to why he’s wandering on his own, he claims that he aspires to be a gonnagle (a nac mac feegle’s version of a war poet/bard). he also heard of the ‘bachelor’ lifestyle from the bigjobs (aka, humans), and wanted to try it out. so far, it’s pretty lackluster, but maybe it doesn’t apply to pictsies.

he is very tiny, about the size of a closed fist, if the fist was very meaty and stocky. he wears a kilt, and is bare footed. he’a also ripped, though nobody can tell given his size, kilt and speed. he can also drink booze like it’s water, and make his own. his strength and hardiness are also pictsie standard. his blue tattoos indicate his clan. his hair used to be orange until he dyed it using archival ink in pursuit of the bachelor lifestyle.

he maintains and carries around with him miniature bagpipes, which were lovingly hand crafted from mouse bones and other discarded oddities. he’s actually pretty good at playing them, which is considered something of a quirk to other nac mac feegles. by lomadia’s request, he’s not allowed to play the pipes unless he’s deep in a mountain cave, owing to how far carrying and enthralling it is.

he has never recited a single bit of poetry or song in front of lomadia. it’s the one thing he’s deeply embarrassed about, despite his lifelong aspiration to become a gonnagle. he has surprisingly detailed knowledge of bigjob instruments and music, though (most of them pub songs).

he can read and write. lomadia taught him on the basis that it would benefit him, and especially more so if he wanted to be a gonnagle. ravs conquered his superstition about written words. he refuses to learn math however, and draws a line at it.

ravs looks after lomadia’s steading when she’s gone, and also helps her maintain her aviary. he’s her live-in handyman of sorts. it helps that people who visit think that her cottage has a very literal spirit residing in it. most animals also fear ravs, and submit to being handled by him readily. it must be the bagpipes.

he lives in one of lomadia’s dirt filled flowerpots, in a broken teapot. the flowerpot resides on a windowsill in the kitchen. ravs considers it prime real estate, and the dirt helps him feel like he’s closer to the ground than he actually is. he’d prefer to have a mound of his own, but really, that’d defeat the ‘bachelor’ lifestyle he’s trying to achieve. the spout of the teapot acts like a chimney, and he’s built himself a pictsie sized residence inside the teapot using junk and castoffs.

he does not like being seen by any bigjobs aside from lomadia, who is the sole exception due to her being a witch. he makes an exception every now and again though.