#c: delucius

[spiteweaver]

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(Note: this story takes place in April of 2020!)

--

“About time you showed your ugly mug ‘round here again!”

Monroe fell into the chair opposite Delucius with a heavy sigh, his hat tipping down to hide his face from view. Castor thought he looked a little worse for wear, but decided it may be best to hold his tongue. Not wishing to turn their reunion into an impromptu bar brawl, he instead drank deeply from his mug.

“Good t’see ye in one piece,” he mumbled by way of greeting.

“Likewise,” Monroe responded gruffly, and flicked the brim of his hat up to glare at Delucius. “Now what’s this nancy doin’ at my waterin’ hole?”

Delucius feigned offense with a hand over his heart. “I heard you were back in town,” he replied, “so I made sure I would be as well. It’s been eons since we were all together like this. C’mon, cowboy, lighten up; drinks are on me.”

“Get fucked.”

“Fuck me yourself, coward.”

Monroe looked to Castor, who gave a helpless shrug. “Fuck ‘im yerself,” he said, “coward.”

Delucius’ grin widened until even Monroe, ornery as he was, couldn’t help an amused snort. The smarmy little git was right; it had been too long since the three of them had sat ‘round the table and had a proper chat. So, kicking back in his chair, Monroe lit up one of his noxious hand-rolled cigarillos.

“When’d ya get back, Cas?” he asked.

“Few weeks ago,” Castor replied. “I figured I’d just missed ye, but Delucius told me ye’ve been abroad since the clan woke.”

“Eeeeyup.”

“Well?” Delucius leaned forward, his eyes shining with mischief. “What’s the word? You’ve gotta have something juicy for me after a trip like that; preferably something Sinclair’ll pay top dollar for.”

Monroe scrambled to appear presentable as a glass of whiskey came down in front of him. “Welcome back, stranger,” Sitri cooed, and pressed a kiss to the Fae’s cheek before bustling off to see to his other customers. Delucius and Castor exchanged a knowing glance.

“Damn,” Monroe said dazedly, “he’s one helluva drake.”

“Ye’ll never get anythin' out of 'im now, Delucius.”

Delucius slammed his hand on the table. “Stop staring at Sitri’s ass and spill it!”

“I’ll stare at whoever’s ass I damn well please.” That being said, Monroe reluctantly returned his attention to his tablemates, and settled for sneaking glances at Sitri between sentences. “I’ve got yer juice all right,” he said, “but I ‘dunno if ya’ve earned it, pal.”

“I said drinks are on me, didn’t I?” Delucius countered.

“A single round’a drinks ain’t enough to get’cha so much as a hint,” Monroe retorted. Taking a particularly lengthy drag off of his cigarillo, the Fae leaned in to meet Delucius and blew a cloud of soupy smoke in his face. “Yer ten cycles too green fer this scoop, so take yer ‘generosity’ elsewhere. This’s fer Dreamweaver’s ears only, unless you can come up with an offer I can’t refuse.”

“Drinks and my ass aren’t good enough?!” Delucius cried through a fit of hacking coughs.

“Drinks ‘n Sitri’s arse maybe,” Castor muttered into his ale.

Before Monroe could think of a suitably witty comeback, the door to the tavern swung inward, and a pair of strangers sauntered up to the bar. With their arrival, all thoughts of lighthearted banter leaked out of Delucius’ brain like egg yolk. He clamped his mouth shut, so tight that his teeth ached, and did what he always did when he was scared dead to rights: tried to disappear in plain sight.

Now this, Monroe thought, might be worth more than a hint.

“What’s got ya pissin’ yerself, pardner?” he asked, examining the newcomers from beneath the wide shadow of his brim. “A couple’a yuppies like them ought not t’ bother ya none. I’ve seen ya go toe-to-toe with drinks scarier’n them two.”

“Would you shut the fuck up?” Delucius hissed.

“Talk t’ me like that again,” Monroe warned, “and I’ll invite ‘em over fer a round—on you, a’course.”

“Not more immigrants, eh?” Castor said. “Had our fair share of ‘em in recent months.”

“No,” Delucius replied, “no, I don’t think they’re immigrants, Cas.”

“Back again, Miss Cymbeline?” Sitri asked one of the newcomers, a pretty dam with hair the color of sea fog and eyes shrouded by cloth. “You ought to give Phoebus a break now and again, you know? If he spends too long hanging 'round with this lot, he might just—” Sitri gasped— “have fun!”

The dam laughed demurely behind a raised hand, much to her companion's displeasure. He shot her a look, but kept any harsh words he may have had for her to himself.

“Tavern Master,” the drake, presumably named Phoebus, began.

“Haven't I told you to call me Sitri?” Sitri cut in. “Oof, you're so awfully stiff, honey. Let me mix you up a little tonic.”

“As I have informed you on more than one occasion,” Phoebus went on, “neither myself nor Lady Cymbeline are permitted to drink. We have come for the atmosphere only.”

“Sure you didn’t come for me, Phoebus?” Sitri all but purred, eliciting another round of stifled giggling from the dam. 

Monroe had to admit, the color that rose in Phoebus’ cheeks then was certainly attractive. He and Sitri had been cut from a similar cloth. They liked their drakes one of two ways: suave and sultry, or pricklier than a porcupine. Phoebus looked the part of the first, his angular face clean shaven, his ensemble pressed to perfection, but acted the part of the second, all work and no play. For Sitri, he was a rare treat indeed.

So, of course, Monroe instantly despised him.

“Looks like ye’ve got competition,” Castor noted.

Monroe gave another snort, this one derisive. “I could run circles ‘round that greenhorn.”

Unfortunately, it was at that precise moment that the tavern’s characteristic clamor fell into a lull, and Monroe’s distinctive voice cut through the resulting murmur like a hot knife through butter. Delucius sunk lower in his chair, but it was too late. He could feel eyes on the back of his neck, burning and stinging with what he could only describe as malicious glee. It wasn’t much consolation, but at least Monroe appeared suitably remorseful. He was chewing hard on the butt of his cigarillo, his grip tight on his glass.

The sound of approaching footsteps sent a chill racing up Delucius’ spine. His tablemates remained seated, but he saw each of them reach below the table—Monroe for his six shooter, Castor for his dagger. Neither of them bothered to play nice when Phoebus eventually came to a halt behind Delucius’ chair.

“Somethin’ we can help ya with, holy man?” Monroe inquired.

“No,” Phoebus replied, “I am merely here to deliver a message to Mr. Shadowheart.”

A hand alighted on Delucius’ shoulder, and all at once, he was there again, in that accursed church. Warmth seeped into him from the place where two bodies met, causing an uncomfortable sheen of sweat to blossom across his forehead. He could hear choral laughter ringing in his ears, smell rich, heady incense burning nearby, taste blood from a bitten lip on his tongue, sweeter somehow in his memory. It tasted of the tea he’d been offered upon his arrival.

“The Archbishop sends his regards.”

Then Phoebus stepped back, and the present rushed in to fill his absence. Delucius blinked to clear his vision. There was blood in his mouth again, but it was bitter. He washed it down with the rest of his drink.

“Tell him I said to go fuck himself,” he spat.

“Such language,” Phoebus tutted, but said nothing more to the trio. “Cymbeline, come along.”

“We only just got here,” Cymbeline protested. Something in the tone of Phoebus’ voice must have unsettled her, however, as the next moment, Delucius sensed her eyes on him as well, staring from beneath her shroud. “I’m sorry,” she added once she had joined her partner at their table, “for Phoebus, detective. He doesn’t mean any harm.”

“Cymbeline!”

“Former,” was all the response Delucius could muster, “I’m a former detective.”

Cymbeline hesitated at his back, but presently began to drift after Phoebus. He almost felt bad for giving her the cold shoulder; unlike her peers, her kindness seemed genuine. Whichever one of the Archbishop’s mad schemes she’d gotten tangled up in, he was certain she was unaware of her part in it, another lamb to the slaughter. Still, as long as she stuck by that drake she’d come in with, Delucius intended to keep his distance. The bastard smelled too much like the Archbishop to be anything but one of his most trusted acolytes.

“So—” Across from him, Monroe relaxed, once again kicking back in his seat with the crumbling remains of his cig between his lips— “ya gonna tell us what that was all about, prettyboy?”

Delucius ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah,” he said, “but it’s gonna cost ya.”

[spiteweaver]

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“--and that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

Sinclair mussed his hair, downed the remainder of his coffee, and then promptly dropped his head into his hands. The clan’s Valentine’s Day celebrations were in full swing, but he wasn’t in much of a mood for romance. Actually, he felt sick--sick enough that Delucius was visibly concerned for the sanctity of his clothing.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Sinclair groaned, “but I’ve gotta tell Dreamweaver.”

“Hey now,” Delucius said, “it’s only theories.”

“You wouldn’t be talking to me if you weren’t relatively certain it was more than that,” Sinclair replied. Delucius had no comeback, and so he merely shrugged. “They’re gonna rub it in my face,” Sinclair went on miserably. “I’ve spent years poking and prodding at them, dragging their private life into the public eye, and now they’ve got an excuse to make me look like a damned fool.”

“Shouldn’t that be the least of your worries?” Delucius asked.

“Yes,” Sinclair conceded, “but I can’t do anything about Clan Imperator. They can. That’s what pisses me off.”

“They aren’t so bad, you know?” Delucius said.

Sinclair was about to respond that, yes, of course he knew that, but that it was the nature of a journalist to be at odds with authority, when a small tap at his knee distracted him. He looked down, expecting to find one of the clan’s hatchlings...

...and was greeted instead by a familiar smiling face.

“Er, thanks, Iilene,” he said as the little courier scurried off to her next assignment. He could feel Delucius watching him, and suddenly remembered that he’d just received a package in the middle of the town square. “Don’t--”

“A gift from an admirer?” Delucius asked.

“Dammit, Delucius.”

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” Delucius reminded. “What else am I meant to assume it is? Here I thought you and I had something special, one nosy miscreant to another.”

Sinclair sneered. “You’re not my type.”

“Ah.” Delucius leaned back in his seat. “You’re a bottom then.”

Sinclair decided that he wouldn’t dignify that remark with a response, and tore open the letter with what he hoped was a casual air. In actuality, his heart was racing. There was only one dragon from the mysterious Clan in the Mists who would write to him, and that dragon was a fascinating one indeed--perhaps even more so than the clan itself.

This letter could contain anything, from small talk to just the breakthrough Sinclair had been waiting for. His hands trembled as he removed it from its envelope, setting aside the attached package for later. (Though what may lie within tempted him greatly.) As expected, it was from Darnell; even if the Spiral hadn’t signed it, his handwriting was unmistakable.

The first thing he noted was that Darnell had referred to him as “ever-sweet.” He was infinitely grateful that Delucius couldn’t snoop with a table between them, because he was certain the rat bastard would have had something to say about that. His eyes flicked up to check Delucius for any signs of a reaction. Delucius waved.

“It’s nothing,” Sinclair insisted, “it’s just an informant checking in.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, I guess he’s a friend too.”

“Yup.”

What was he doing? He didn’t need to justify himself. After all, there was nothing going on between them; he’d never once considered Darnell anything more than, at most, a very good friend. Friends could call each other sweet. Friends could send each other packages on Valentine’s Day without it meaning--

“You oughta see the red in your cheeks,” Delucius teased, but Sinclair didn’t need to see it. He could feel it, a hot blush creeping across his face the more he read of Darnell’s letter. “What’s he saying? That he misses you? Wants to see you again?”

“Die,” Sinclair hissed.

“Are you gonna write him back?” Delucius asked.

“Of course I--” Sinclair took in a deep breath. He was giving Delucius what he wanted by getting riled up. It was the same tactic he used on Dreamweaver; to think he’d fallen for his own ruse. “Of course I am,” he said coolly. “When a friend wishes you a happy holiday, it’s only polite.”

“You blush when all your friends write you?”

Sinclair groaned again. “So what if he’s more than a friend?” he snapped. “Is there something wrong with me having a romantic relationship with someone? If you wanted me to yourself, you should’ve asked me out sooner.”

“Nah,” Delucius said, his grin widening, “you’re not my type.”

@avalonianrising

[spiteweaver]

Phoebus: The Archbishop sends his regards.

Delucius:

[spiteweaver]

previous | next

“Didn’t figure I’d be seeing you ‘round these parts again.”

In stark contrast to their last meeting, Atsushi appeared almost childlike. He shuffled into Delucius’ office without a word, wrapped up in a heavy, weather-worn traveling cloak and smelling of the bottom of a bottle. When he walked, he teetered, and every breath was ragged. He didn’t do much walking, though; only over to the nearest chair, where he sat and buried his face in his hands.

Delucius hated to admit it, but he felt for the guy.

“You serving a new dark master now?” he asked, making a stab at a joke. Atsushi’s head whipped up, and there was such righteous indignation in his face that Delucius actually sank down in his seat. “I’ll take that as a no.”

“Don’t...” Atsushi grit his teeth. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Your sensitivity regarding your past actions is duly noted,” Delucius assured. “So why are you here?”

Atsushi opened his mouth to respond, but all that came out was a strangled sob. Delucius gulped. He was no good at emotions, and he knew Atsushi wasn’t either, which only made their current predicament all the more uncomfortable. Atsushi may as well have been an infant, experiencing pain for the very first time, and Delucius--well, that made Delucius the bumbling adult.

“Stop that,” Delucius demanded, but Atsushi only sobbed harder. “You can’t just come into my office and start bawling! What the hell’s wrong?! I can’t help you if you don’t--”

“Have you seen Carnelian?”

The hair on the back of Delucius’ neck rose. He knew the answer, and he thought Atsushi did too. “Atsushi--”

“You have to have seen him,” Atsushi persisted. He stumbled back to his feet, practically throwing himself in Delucius’ direction. Delucius sank down in his seat again as Atsushi loomed over his desk. “You’re an information broker. It’s your job to know where everyone is and what they’re doing.”

“C-come on, Atsushi, I don’t know--”

“How does a drake like Carnelian simply disappear, Delucius?!”

“I don’t know, I don’t know!”

Atsushi collapsed, this time into the chair across from Delucius. Now that he was closer, Delucius could tell that he was more of a mess than ever before. There was dirt underneath his nails, or what remained of them; he’d chewed them all down to nubs. He couldn’t even begin to guess how long the poor bastard had been searching on his own, but judging by the dark circles under his eyes, he’d known something was amiss for a good while.

“It’s that serious, huh?” Delucius crossed his arms over his chest pensively. “How long’s he been gone?”

“Ah, two--two eons,” Atsushi mumbled, “maybe longer. I don’t exactly get out to Aphaster often, and--and I didn’t want to make him feel pressured to see me, so--”

“Gods, Atsushi,” Delucius said, “you’re shit at coping, y’know that?”

“I know what it means when someone disappears,” Atsushi replied. “I made--I made so many people disappear, Delucius. There’s been talk of a seer in the Ruins; they’re why Thunder’s March was shut down, I’d wager. We’ve got the Warren breathing down our necks. That isn’t even to speak of the Shade, or--”

His breath hitched, and suddenly, he was staring through Delucius, his eyes clouded with realization. “The Shadowling,” he whispered, “he’s still out there somewhere. If he wanted to get back at me for betraying the nightmare and costing him his mark, he’d take Carnelian.”

“Simmer down,” Delucius said, “you don’t know Carnelian’s been taken anywhere by anyone or anything. The dumbass probably got drunk on a bender with Arcanus and ended up halfway across the Continent. Those two’ve been hitting the drinks together an awful lot since you came ‘round to our side.”

“Arcanus...”

Then it was as if that Atsushi, the one who had come tripping into Delucius’ office mere moments prior, had never existed. He rose with all his usual grace, his jaw set in rigid determination, and turned to leave.

“Wait,” Delucius said, “where the hell are you going?! Don’t you need my help?!”

“I’m going to Aphaster,” Atsushi replied simply. “If anyone knows where Carnelian is, it’s Arcanus.”

“What if he doesn’t?” Delucius asked.

“Then I’ll find Carnelian myself,” Atsushi replied, “and I’ll kill anyone who stands in my way.”

[spiteweaver]

Delucius and Sinclair work together frequently, but Delucius honestly cannot stand him.

“He’s too...cheery.”

[spiteweaver]

It’s canon that Delucius has referred to himself as “Delicious Delucius” at least once in his life.

[spiteweaver]

Interview #3: Phantasos

[ From the private files of Delucius Shadowheart ]

How does one describe the clan heir?

When he first came to me expressing interest in being interviewed, I turned him down. “You’re a kid,” I said. “Get back to me when you’re old enough to have something interesting to say.”

To tell you the truth, I’m still not 100% on how he managed to talk me into this, but here we are. He’s sitting across from me, smiling like a tom cat, and I’m shuffling my papers like I always do before a big interview--and this is going to be a big interview, because everything Phantasos does, I’ve noticed, is big.

So, if I had to pick a single word to describe him, it would probably be “ambitious.”

But describing him in just one word doesn’t do him much justice.

“Are you gonna write down everything I say?” he asks.

“Well, yeah,” I reply. “That’s generally how interviews go.”

“Dede told me you’re sneaky and untrustworthy,” he says, “so I just want to make sure you don’t leave anything out to make me look bad.”

“I’m not that kind of journalist,” I assure. “I won’t deny that I’m sneaky and untrustworthy, but I’m not trying to make anyone look like anything. I’m just trying to fatten up my files.”

“Why?” he asks.

“You know I’m supposed to be asking the questions, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

He’s still looking at me expectantly, so I sigh and resign myself to a fate worse than death: babysitting. “It’s my job to gather information on other dragons,” I explain. “Interviews are a good way to gather a lot of information quickly. That information goes into my personal files, and I refer to them when I or one of my customers needs to know anything in particular.”

“What if someone tells you something really personal, though?” he asks. “You won’t sell that information to anyone who pays, will you?”

“I will.”

“That’s mean. I don’t like it.”

“Tough.”

“You’ll think ‘tough’ when you’re dead, mister.”

The scariest thing about Phantasos is that you can never know when he’s being serious. He got his father’s friendly disposition, but he’s got plenty of Dreamweaver in him, too; by which I mean, most of the time, he’ll be your best friend, but if you do or say something that doesn’t gel right with him, he’ll threaten you with a smile, and you won’t know whether to laugh or piss yourself.

I didn’t learn that until after this particular interview.

“Anyway,” he says, “what d’you wanna talk about? Papa and dede told me you asked them about me ‘n Faded. I can talk about them if you want. I like talking about Faded.”

I consider it for a moment, because, let’s be real, no one knows anything about Faded that Faded hasn’t made public knowledge--except for, maybe, this kid, this single little boy who somehow managed to worm himself right into Faded’s cold enigma of a heart. This is the opportunity of a lifetime, probably the best shot I’ll ever have at unraveling some of the mysteries surrounding Clan Aphaster’s most secretive member.

Then I think about what they’ll do to me if Phantasos tells me a little too much.

“I’m good,” I say. “This interview’s about you, not them.”

I can see it in his eyes, in the way his smile grows just the slightest bit wider: he knows I’m afraid of Faded, and that tickles him pink. “Ok,” he says, “I like talking about myself too!”

“What’s it like being the heir?” I ask.

Phantasos doesn’t hesitate. “Boring!” he cries. “It’s super boring! Dede makes me study all the time! History, language, politics; and they make me sit in on diplomatic meetings sometimes too, and it’s so, so, so, so, so--” I’ve cut out a few of the “so’s” for my own benefit. Just a note, to future me: he said “so” twenty-three times. “--boring!”

“You aren’t excited about your future as a diplomat?” I ask.

“No, I am!” he replies. “I like meeting new people and learning new things, but not, like, not in books! I wanna go out and learn from experience, but dede says I’m too young! I’m already three eons old! Don’t you think that’s old enough?! Most dragons are grown by then!”

He has a point. Faust and Holloway’s children, born just before the Jamboree, have already left Feldspar and joined other clans across Sornieth--yet Phantasos, born three full eons before them, still has the mind and body of a child.

“You aren’t growing at a normal rate,” I note. “Any clue why that is?”

“Dede says it’s ‘a shape-shifter thing,’” he replies sullenly, then crosses his arms over his chest and slumps down in his seat. “We don’t grow as fast as dragons. They said they didn’t ‘reach maturity’ until they were in their hundreds.”

“You’ve got a long way to go, huh?”

“No.” He perks up a bit. “I’m half-dragon, so dede said I’ll probably be fully grown sometime this cycle! I hope it happens before Brightshine Jubilee! Then I can start looking for a mate! Papa and dede were married during Jubilee, so I think it would be nice if I could get married around their anniversary!”

“That’s...” A smile tugs at the corners of my lips. “That’s really cute.”

“You sound surprised!” Phantasos says. “I’m always really cute!”

“So you’re eager to find a mate then?” I ask. “Any candidates thus far?”

“I told Faded I wanted to marry them when I grew up,” he confides, “but they weren’t interested! It’s ok, though, because I’m happy being friends with them!”

“You wanted to marry Faded?”

“Yeah! Who wouldn’t wanna marry Faded?!”

“...Any other candidates?”

“I thought about asking Junior,” Phantasos says, “but Zo got to him first! I thought about asking Zo too, actually! I wonder if I could marry both of them...”

I’m beginning to think “ambitious” might be too mild a term.

“What’s your dede think about all this?” I ask. “They’re pretty protective of you.”

“Dede wants me to marry someone like papa,” he says. “I love papa, but he’s not very good at political stuff. I want a mate who can hold his own in court. Also, someone really strong. Maybe I’ll ask Crucis...”

“Don’t ask Crucis,” I insist. “I shudder to think what would happen to your clan with him at the helm.”

“I guess he is kind of bad at dealing with people,” Phantasos concedes.

“Speaking of people who are bad at dealing with people, what does Winter think of you being the heir?” I ask. “He’s your older brother, so, traditionally, the title would fall to him.”

“Papa and dede asked him if he wanted to take over for them when he was younger,” Phantasos says, “but he turned them down. Winter doesn’t like politics, and, well, like you said, he’s no good at dealing with people. I think he’s really glad I came along; it kind of takes the guilt of refusing the title off of him.”

“I don’t suppose Silas and Samuel mind?”

“Gosh no!” Phantasos exclaims, as if the very idea is laughable at best, completely mad at worst. “They told me one time that if papa and dede had asked them to take over, they would’ve buried themselves all over again!”

“That sounds like them.” I glance over what I’ve written down thus far. “All right,” I say, “let’s get a little more personal.”

“Mmm, I ‘dunno,” Phantasos says. “If you’re gonna sell my secrets to strangers, I don’t think I wanna share them with you. Talking about mates and heir duties is one thing, but...”

“I was just going to ask about your journey of discovery,” I inform. “Dreamweaver is a genderless, sexless being of dreams--at least, that’s what we’ve all been told. They don’t identify as any one gender or sex, but you identify firmly as male.”

“Oh!” Phantasos pops a sugar cube into his mouth. I don’t know if he just has a powerful sweet tooth or if he honestly doesn’t realize it’s meant to go in his tea. “That’s ok then!” he says. “You can ask about that, and I won’t mind so much if you share it with a customer--though I ‘dunno why they’d pay you for it when they could just ask me!”

“How did you decide you were male?” I ask.

“I didn’t ‘decide,’” he replies. “I just am.”

“Ah, right, sorry. I’m not too well-versed in things like this.”

“It’s ok.”

“How did you know, I mean? What tipped you off?”

“That’s kind of tough to answer,” he says. “It was a lot of things. I hated taking on female forms, for one thing. Dede encouraged me to try out lots of different ones, for practice and to see what I liked best--and any time they told me to change into a girl, I hated it. It made my skin crawl. I even hyperventilated one time, when I was really young, because it felt so wrong.

“I didn’t like being called ‘she’ either. Dede doesn’t care what people call them. Most of us use gender-neutral pronouns for them, but if someone calls them ‘he’ or ‘she,’ they don’t care at all. I did. I didn’t like being called ‘she,’ or even ‘they.’ I wanted to be called ‘he.’

“The thought of not having a gender or a sex was really upsetting too. For dede, it’s liberating; they can be whatever they want, whenever they want. For me, it was scary. I knew what I was, and what I was wasn’t supposed to change. It wasn’t supposed to be so vaguely defined. I was really jealous of normal dragons, because they were always one thing or the other--they were male, or female, or neither, or both, and they were always male, or female, or neither, or both. I didn’t have that.”

“Sounds complicated,” I say.

“Yeah, it is,” he replies, “but it’s not so bad now that I’ve figured out I’m a boy.”

“How did Dreamweaver and Banrai take it?” I ask.

“Really well!” Phantasos beams at me proudly. “They weren’t upset or confused at all! I was really afraid they would be, but dede told me this sort of thing happened sometimes, that beings like us don’t always have to be genderless! It’s not weird or unnatural, it’s just uncommon! That helped a lot!”

“What about Holloway?” I ask. “Did he have a hand in it?”

“Yeah! Dede asked him to come over and talk to me, and he did, and a lot of my experiences lined up with his! Holloway acts like he’s above everyone, but, really, he’s super nice! Faust too!”

“Really?” I raise a brow. “I wouldn’t have guessed. They kind of keep to themselves.”

“That’s just how demons are,” Phantasos replies. “It’s hard for them to relate to dragons, so if there are other demons or half-demons in a clan, they tend to form groups! That’s what dede told me anyway! Trust me, if you put in the time and effort to get to know them, they’re great!”

“Well...” I give my notes another cursory glance. “I think I’ve got enough to go on for now,” I say. “If I need to know anything else, I’ll be sure to invite you back. That probably won’t be until you start taking over some of your dede’s duties, though.”

“That’s fine!” he says. “I was getting kinda hungry!” He drains the tea in his cup (it’s more like milk, he’s put so much cream in it) and stands. “Oh, by the way...”

It is at this moment, this exact moment, that I realize how much like Dreamweaver Phantasos really is. I look up, and for a split second, I think I’m staring into the founders’ eyes, not their son’s. “If I ever catch you selling really, really personal information to strangers for a quick buck,” he says, “they won’t find your body.”

Then he’s gone, and I don’t know if I should be relieved or petrified.

[spiteweaver]

Interview #2: Dreamweaver

[ From the private files of Delucius Shadowheart ]

They can tell I’m nervous, and them knowing I’m nervous only makes me even more nervous. Sweat beads on my brow. I clear my throat and shuffle my parchment into place (an action that is commonly used to set the scene). The atmosphere is heavy. Describing they and their husband as “night and day” strikes me as, perhaps, the most apt description of a pair of mates I have ever penned.

I look up.

Dreamweaver smiles.

“I don’t always approve of your snooping, Delucius,” they say, “but I wouldn’t have agreed to this interview if I wasn’t prepared to answer uncomfortable questions.”

It’s not asking the questions I’m worried about, I think.

“Or perhaps you’re afraid I’m using this interview as an excuse to get you alone and ‘bully’ you some more,” they add. I force a smile. It is the single most pitiful smile I have ever forced. “I must admit, you’re awfully fun to tease, dear. You give the best reactions.”

“That’s--”

“You get so indignant!” They chuckle behind a politely raised hand, then drop another sugar cube into their tea. “I’m only so hard on you for the good of the clan, though. I promise, I’ll behave myself today. If you don’t give me a reason to put the fear in you, I shan’t have to put the fear in you.”

“You’ve already put the fear in me,” I grumble.

“Good! Let’s begin then, shall we?”

“You’re way too giddy about scaring the hell out of me.”

“I’m someone who believes very strongly in justice,” they say. “All actions have consequences. The consequences may be more or less severe depending on circumstance.”

They then fix me with a stern look. I feel my innards drop into my feet.

“You, Delucius,” they begin again, “are in full control of your actions. You know that what you are doing is a gross breach of individual privacy, and you continue to do it, anyway. That’s why, for you, the consequences are so much more severe.”

“As opposed to, say, Seaglass.”

Dreamweaver frowns. “Yes,” they say, “as opposed to Seaglass.”

“I don’t suppose you’d object to me asking about him?”

“I would not,” they say, “but it’s certainly not a topic I enjoy discussing. It’s been months. I would like to lay it to rest.”

“There are still those who would call what he did worthy of punishment,” I say, “regardless of circumstance. He destroyed half the village and nearly drowned one of its founders.”

“The drowning bit was as much my fault as his,” Dreamweaver insists. “I opted to stay with him, to try and quell the anger in his heart. I knew going in that I would very likely fail, weak as I was at the time, but there was a chance I may not, and I felt I had to take it. If it could save even a small part of what we’ve built here, it would be worth it.”

“Your life for some buildings?”

“My life for the continued livelihoods of my people,” they clarified. “If he had succeeded in destroying our village entirely, we would have had to rebuild from the ground up. Those who survived the flood may not have survived the winter. Their businesses, their farmlands, their homes; we would have lost everything. Feldspar can live without me. It cannot live without this village.”

“The fact remains that he did cause significant damage,” I persist, “and he could have caused much more.”

“But he didn’t.”

“But he could--”

“But he didn’t.” Dreamweaver stirs their tea. I can’t tell if they’re agitated or contemplative. “I don’t punish people for what could have happened,” they say, “I punish them for what did happen.”

“He wasn’t punished at all,” I reply.

“He is punishing himself,” they say. “He will always remember that day, and it will always be his darkest. He lost his mentor, his lover, and he caused the village a fair amount of strife. We have forgiven him, but he will never forgive himself.”

“Guilt isn’t a very satisfying punishment,” I say.

“You can say that,” they reply, “because you have never experienced guilt.”

Ouch.

They’re right, but it still stings. They have a way of speaking that drives harsh words like nails through a drake’s heart.

“Anyway,” they continue, “it was an accident. It’s unfortunate, but magical mishaps do happen when you live in a world as unstable as ours. If he had flooded the village intentionally, I would have punished him severely, perhaps even killed him in my rage--but that simply isn’t what happened.”

“What if someone were to accidentally kill your husband or son?” I ask.

“I can’t say what I would do then,” Dreamweaver replies. “If someone harms me, I can forgive them. If someone harms my people and those close to me, well, I find it much more difficult to look past their transgressions. I like to think I’d keep a level head and act accordingly, but death and flooding the village are two very different matters.”

“I suppose so,” I say. “I was just wondering how you might react to an extreme magical mishap, like, for example--”

“You’re going to ask about Clan Aphaster, aren’t you?” They sigh and pour themselves another cup of tea. “I knew you would,” they say. “Clan Aphaster didn’t handle the exodus optimally, and, again, I’d like to think I’d keep a level head--but there are times, even in recent history, where I have panicked and very nearly made terrible mistakes. That’s the price I’ve paid for living among dragonkind.”

Now this is interesting. As far as I’m aware, Dreamweaver has never spoken much to the nature of their being. We know what they are, shape-shifter, dreamwalker, but the finer details of being Other, as they term it, have always been murky.

I’ll have to come back to Clan Aphaster. I can’t pass this opportunity up.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

They chuckle again. “I shouldn’t have said that,” they say. “Now you’re going to ask me all sorts of questions I simply cannot answer.”

“Surely you can answer some.”

“This one isn’t too bad,” they concede. “Before meeting Banrai, I wouldn’t say I was particularly well-settled here in Sornieth. I had been under the Lightweaver’s banner for a good long while, but dragons and all of their subtleties continued to baffle me. Emotions were not something I naturally possessed--at least, not in the way dragons possess them.”

“Really?” I ask. “Why is that?”

“That I cannot say,” they reply, “or, rather, will not.”

“Well, how did you come to possess more, er, draconic emotions, then?”

“The nature of my magic is to be ever-changing,” they explain. “I adapt. I shift. I am molded by my surroundings as much as I am by my own imagination. Once I became more involved in draconic culture, it only followed that I become more draconic in nature.”

“Is Holloway the same?” I ask.

“Oh, no,” they reply, “Holloway is a demon.”

“But he’s a shape-shifter.”

“His shape-shifting stems from a different place.” They tap their chin in thought. “If I had to say, I would guess that Faded and I share a similar makeup. We are beings made of nebulous things--dreams, concepts, ideas. That is where our nebulous forms stem from. Holloway is not nebulous, he is firmly rooted in the physical.”

“This is...” I stare hard at the information I have gathered. It is a veritable treasure trove. “Honestly, this is fascinating. I never expected to get this much out of you.”

“Mmm, well, these aren’t exactly secrets,” they reply. “I just rarely have need to discuss them. If others wish to know more about my nature as a being of dreams, I’m happy to elaborate. It’s my past I prefer to keep to myself.”

“So you won’t take any questions regarding it?”

“I’m afraid not,” they say. “Anything pre-Banrai is off-limits. You can ask, but I won’t answer.”

“Back onto the topic of emotions then.” I pick up my quill again. I’m sure they can sense my eagerness, but I’m too deep now to bother hiding it. “Banrai mentioned during his interview that he ‘helps you sympathize.’ I didn’t ask for elaboration at the time, as I didn’t think he meant it quite so literally, but--”

“But now that you know about my funny relationship with emotions,” Dreamweaver cuts in, “you have to ask.”

“Yeah.”

“Experiencing emotions in the way dragons do is still difficult for me at times,” they say. “In the beginning, the only person I felt anything for was Banrai. As I adapted further, I began to feel strongly for others--our son, Winter; Boggart and Vigrid; Isaiah; Bellerophon. Slowly, this love grew until it encompassed all of my people.”

“That sounds normal to me.”

“The problem is that I haven’t quite come to grasp sympathizing with outsiders,” they confess, “and my inability to trust and feel compassion for them would have lost us a great many good friends and powerful allies. Abaddon would not be here, nor would Faust or Holloway. Our village would look very different if I didn’t have Banrai to teach and guide me.”

“Would you say he’s been a major driving force behind the alliances with Clan Aphaster and the Nebula Guild? Among others?”

“I certainly would. It is because of what he has taught me that I was able to form those alliances, to put my faith in outsiders.” Like their husband before them, Dreamweaver seems to go soft when they speak of the drake they love. It’s a side of them I’ve never seen. “He’s too good for me,” they say. “Ah, how did I end up married to such a flawless being?”

“I’m asking the questions here,” I joke.

“Sorry, sorry!” They wave a hand to dismiss their honeyed thoughts. “When you’ve been married as long as we have, your mind tends to wander to your other half!”

“How long have you been married?” I ask.

“It will be forty-eight eons this Brightshine,” they reply, “four cycles of marital bliss. We were wed right here, in Feldspar territory--before we knew it would one day be Feldspar territory, that is.”

“You didn’t initially intend to found a clan,” I say.

“No,” they reply, “we wanted to live a peaceful life in the mountains, myself in particular. I was more adventurous in my youth, but I’ve grown weary as I’ve aged--and Banrai met me when I was already very, very old. That said...” They stare down into their tea, lost in thought. “I don’t regret founding this clan,” they say. “It has been such a great honor and privilege to nurture it into the fine thing it has become.”

“You don’t regret it,” I say, “even with all that’s happened?”

“Not at all,” they assure. “This is where I belong. I am proud of what we have accomplished together.”

“What are your plans for the clan’s future?” I ask.

“Too many to expand upon here and now,” they reply, “but I can give you a basic idea. For now, I’d like to focus on aiding and strengthening clans in need. The peoples of Sornieth are scattered, disorganized, and our enemies are both many in number and great in power. The more we band together, the stronger we will be. Alliances aren’t just for making friends after all.”

“What enemies do you think we’ll have to defend against?”

“Hostile Beastclans, for one,” they say, “and the Shade, should it ever regain its footing in Sornieth. If not even the gods could do away with it entirely, perhaps we can be of some assistance the next time it rears its ugly head.”

“Speaking of the Shade, you’ve welcomed the clan’s first Shade-touched dragon into the village recently.”

“Yes.” Dreamweaver clasps their hands in front of them. They look pensive. “Once again, my husband’s soft heart swayed me,” they sigh. “Penumbra is an interesting case. I sense no malice from them, but the nature of Shade-touched dragons is obscure. They are rare--growing less so, but still rare enough that we haven’t gathered much information on them.”

“Do you think Penumbra poses any threat to the village?”

“I would not have granted them residency if I believed they did,” Dreamweaver replies, “or if I thought I couldn’t, at the very least, handle them.”

“You mean fight them and win.”

“Yes.” They shake their head. “I’m optimistic that such harsh action won’t be necessary, though. They’re certainly odd, but their mind remains sharp despite how the sickness has spread.”

“I suppose they and Silas might have a bit in common.”

“They might,” Dreamweaver agrees, and smiles warmly. “I should introduce them. Thank you for the suggestion, Delucius.”

“You can thank me by talking about Lutia.”

“Oh dear.”

Dreamweaver’s smile fades again. They stand and walk over to peer out the window. I watch them tensely. This is a sensitive line of questioning, and I damn well know it.

“I asked Banrai his opinion,” I say, “so it’s only fair I ask yours.”

“Lutia and I--we’re like Silas and Penumbra.”

“You have something in common with her?”

“Yes.”

They are silent for a long while. I check my watch. Five minutes have passed, and they show no sign of elaborating. “Yes?” I say. It’s the gentlest nudge I can give.

“I know what it means to be responsible for someone else’s pain,” they say simply. “I know what she must be feeling now. I know how devastating being left alone with your own guilt and bitterness can be. I could never think ill of her--not when I--”

I see their hands clench into fists. A lump forms in my throat. I’ve either pushed them too far, or I haven’t pushed them far enough. I’m not sure I want to find out which it is.

“I will speak no more on it,” they say at last, and the dark aura that has begun to gather around them dissipates in an instant. “You’ll have to get by on what I’ve given you. I understand Lutia. I’m afraid that will have to suffice.”

“It, uh, it will.” I shuffle my parchment again. “So you have no intention of calling for her punishment, then?”

“Of course not,” they say. “That’s Clan Aphaster business. If one of my own was harmed, I might have a say in things--but no Feldspar blood was spilt. Abaddon and Junior suffer greatly, but they live and they will recover.”

“What about Junior?” I ask. “He’s not going to receive any formal punishment?”

“Gods, no,” they reply. “He’s a boy. If we punished every child for their catastrophic mistakes, we’d have no children left.”

“As I said during Banrai’s interview, people died.”

“Yes,” they say, “and I blame Opal for that. He’s already being punished, in the most wonderful, devious way imaginable.”

“So Lutia and Junior are absolved of responsibility for their actions?”

“No,” Dreamweaver replies. “Just because they are not receiving punishment does not mean they are not still responsible for their actions. Like Seaglass, they are punishing themselves. Junior saw the results of his curiosity directly. He was there when Shard the Radiant began to fall apart. He watched his siblings disappear into the Arcanist’s realm. He hurt his own father deeply, perhaps irreparably. The boy is traumatized. To punish him any further would be cruel.”

“What of Lutia, then? She doesn’t seem particularly remorseful.”

Dreamweaver’s eyes narrow. Once again, I’ve said the wrong thing, and they are far, far less likely to forgive me for it than their husband. “Who told you she does not feel remorse for her actions?” they ask.

“My sources--”

“Your sources are foolish and ignorant,” they say. “You cannot possibly grasp the depth of her sorrow.”

“I can’t,” I say, “I know I can’t. Still, this is the second incident in as many months--first Seaglass, then Lutia. Aren’t you worried people may start to fear magic users at this rate? They receive no punishment for their ‘catastrophic mistakes,’ and they’re prone to mass destruction when under emotional duress. Sounds like a political disaster waiting to happen.”

“Do our people appear fearful of magic?” they ask.

“Well, no, not at the moment--”

“If they do not already fear,” they say, “so soon after the incidents themselves, I doubt they ever will. If there comes a time when they do, however, I will do whatever I must to reassure them. That is my duty as their leader.”

“I’d think, if such a time comes, they’d fear you most of all.”

“That would be wise,” Dreamweaver says. “Though I don’t believe I possess the anger and grief to cause the sort of mindless destruction other magic users could, I am certainly the most powerful being in our territory.”

“Have you ever lost control of your magic?” I ask.

“Mmm, I wonder,” they reply.

“I suppose that pertains to your past, doesn’t it?”

“If you have no other questions, I’ll be going.”

“What happened during the meeting with Zo and Techne?” I blurt out. “Techne’s from House Xanna, isn’t she? I’m guessing it was about that mysterious machine of theirs.”

“Neither House Xanna nor their creation are any worry of ours,” Dreamweaver replies. “They pose no threat to us, so I am content to let them keep their secrets. I won’t be pushing Telos or Techne for further information, and if I find out you’ve been doing so behind my back, Delucius, I’ll torment your dreams for a full cycle.”

As they turn to leave, I am already steeling myself for a cycle of nightmares. House Xanna is a juicy pork cutlet, and its being dangled right in front of my nose. There’s no way I’m not going to look into it.

...But maybe that can wait until after I’ve interviewed Clan Feldspar’s many colorful residents.

[spiteweaver]

Interview #1: Banrai

[ From the private files of Delucius Shadowheart ]

“Thanks for taking the time to chat with me, Banrai.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble.”

As I shuffle my parchment into place, I glance up briefly to meet Banrai’s gaze. I am pleased to note that he appears sincere--this interview really isn’t a bother, and judging by the gentle, relaxed slope of his shoulders, he’s perfectly comfortable in my presence. I don’t know what I was expecting. He’s the clan’s emotional core for a reason.

It does make me question how someone so good-natured ended up with a terror like Dreamweaver, though--and not for the last time.

“Have you ever been interviewed before?” I ask.

“No,” he replies. “No one’s ever asked to interview me.”

“Huh.” I tap the tip of my quill against the inkwell. “Feldspar is a major hub for trade in the east,” I say. “I’m shocked my colleagues didn’t beat me to you. You and Dreamweaver aren’t exactly nobodies in Sornieth after all.”

Banrai laughs. It’s that deep, fruity laugh, like a late-summer afternoon, that he’s so well-known for. “Surely you’re exaggerating,” he says. “Our clan isn’t even that large. I could understand Dreamweaver being somewhat of a celebrity abroad--they’re old, powerful, and one of the Lightweaver’s most trusted disciples. I’m just a common tailor, though.”

“You...” I catch his eye and feel my brows furrow. “No offense, but you’re a little on the oblivious side, aren’t you?”

“None taken!” Banrai laughs again, then takes a long, thoughtful sip of tea. “Business doesn’t take me out of the village often,” he explains, “and Dreamweaver is so much more politically experienced than I am that I rarely have anything to do with official clan matters. They don’t like to talk about work when we’re together either; they’d much rather hear what I have to say, for some unfathomable reason.”

“So you don’t get info from outside often,” I conclude.

“Yes,” Banrai says, “I suppose that’s what I’m getting at. If I feel I need to know something, I make an effort to know it. Otherwise, I’m more interested in affairs here at home.”

“Well,” I say, “you’re just as popular 'abroad’ as Dreamweaver.”

“Really?” he asks. “I can’t imagine why.”

“People admire your kindness and generosity,” I reply. “You may not be a political genius, but you’ve got one hell of a heart.”

“That’s...” Banrai’s cheeks turn a shade darker, and he averts his gaze shyly. “That’s good to hear,” he says. “I’m honored. I hope I can live up to their expectations.”

“You already have, if they’re out there singing your praises.”

“O-oh.”

I’m beginning to understand myself why everyone I’ve interviewed has spoken so highly of Banrai. Not only is he pure of heart, but he’s humble to boot. Once again, I find myself wondering how in the Arcanist’s good name he fell for a hellion like Dreamweaver--but I’ll save that question for last.

“So,” I begin again, “let’s talk about your life before Feldspar.”

“Goodness...” Banrai touches a hand to his cheek in thought. “There’s not a whole lot to talk about,” he says. “My world didn’t expand much beyond my birth clan until I met Dreamweaver. I learned a great deal in my travels, about history, and language, and culture, but I didn’t experience it.” He smiles uncertainly. “Does that make sense?”

“You were an outsider looking in,” I supply. “It makes sense.”

“Meeting and falling in love with Dreamweaver sparked something in me,” he goes on. He’s staring into his tea now, his once unsure smile melted into a warm, giddy grin. “I was happy with my family before they came along, but after--after, I felt I needed something more. I had a life before Feldspar, it just wasn’t nearly as full as this one.”

“How would your parents feel,” I say, “knowing that you feel fuller away from them than with them?”

“It’s not a matter of being or not being with them,” Banrai is quick to assure. “If my parents were here with me, my life would be even fuller. It’s more about what new opportunities founding a clan opened up for me. My mother and father never did anything to stifle me, but, as you’ve already pointed out, I’m a simple drake, so I wasn’t even aware there were options other than staying with them and tailoring.”

“Dreamweaver made you aware of those options?”

“Yes.” Banrai nods his agreement. “My childhood was warm and full of love,” he says, “but it was limited. Now that I’ve grown, looking back on my youth is like--like staring at the tiny figures in a snow globe. They’re happy, their world is comfortable and safe, but they know nothing beyond it. It’s not a bad life, it’s a very good one, but there’s no growth, there’s no change.

“My parents--they prefer a more static existence. It’s less complicated, and neither myself nor they have ever been complex dragons. They’re also much older than I am, however--and I was even younger when I met Dreamweaver. They were comfortable where they were, they had grown enough, they had changed enough; I was not, had not, have not.”

“Hmm.” I look between Banrai and the parchment, scribbling frantically to keep up with his impassioned speech. “That’s unexpectedly profound,” I say, “for a simple drake.”

“I’ve had a long time to think on it,” he replies.

“I guess that answers my other question then.”

“Hmm? What might that be?”

“I was going to ask what you see in Dreamweaver,” I confess. “The two of you make an odd coupling. Dreamweaver is more cautious, more reserved, more prone to weaponizing their status--”

“Dreamweaver does not weaponize their status.”

I know I’ve said the wrong thing. Banrai, who, for as long as I have known (and observed) him, has been nothing but forgiving and compassionate, is now looking at me with anger in his eyes. His serene smile has been replaced by a frown, and he’s drumming his fingers on the table rapidly.

I’ve touched a nerve.

“You have to admit, Banrai,” I continue tentatively, “that they have a bad habit of intimidating anyone who disagrees with them.”

“They don’t intimidate others over mere disagreements,” Banrai insists. “They use fear only when they feel it is absolutely necessary. Delucius, I’m simple, I’m oblivious, but I’m not an idiot. I know that I’ve convinced them to grant residency to a good number of potentially dangerous people. Those are decisions I will have to live with should any of them ever succumb to the darkness within their hearts, and I made those decisions, because I really and truly believe everyone deserves a second chance, everyone can be a good person.

“Dreamweaver is doing what they feel they must to ensure that they do not succumb to that darkness before it has a chance to be quelled. If that means reminding them that they could never hope to stand against the might of their founder, so be it. In the meantime, I and the rest of the clan will do our best to bring light into their hearts. Dreamweaver is protecting us.”

“So they’re not just in it for the rush?” I ask.

“That you would suggest that is grossly offensive,” he replies. “You must not know Dreamweaver well if you think so ill of them.”

“I don’t think ill of them,” I say. It’s a half-truth, and Banrai knows it. His eyes narrow. “I don’t think that ill of them, anyway. You’re right, though, I don’t know them very well. My brief meetings with them have not been pleasant, and I’m not ashamed to say I hold a nasty grudge.”

“Delucius...” Banrai sighs. His smile returns. It’s weaker than before, but still genuine. “That’s because you’re constantly causing trouble for the clan,” he says. “They’re wary of you, that’s all. The dragons here have painful secrets to keep, and you--well, not to be rude, but you’re a gossip hound.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“They’re just worried you’ll dig a little too deeply one day.”

I purse my lips. I can’t argue with his reasoning. In fact, I’ve very likely already dug a little too deeply. The image of a certain necromancer flashes through my mind.

I am suddenly very glad Dreamweaver declined to be interviewed.

“Okay,” I say, “I guess it’s good to know that they aren’t as power-hungry as I thought they were. I ‘dunno if we’ll ever get along, though. We’re just too different, they and I.”

“That’s all right,” Banrai says, “not everyone has to get along with everyone else. I’ll settle for setting the record straight.”

“So what do you see in them, beyond the part they played in broadening your horizons?” I ask again. “The two of you may as well be night and day, even if they aren’t a power-hungry tyrant who gets their kicks bullying poor, defenseless investigative journalists.”

“I never said they didn’t get their kicks ‘bullying’ you,” Banrai says with a chuckle. “They do like watching troublemakers squirm.”

“Would they, uh, appreciate you sharing that information?”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t mind,” he replies, “and neither would the clan. They aren’t particularly shy about it; it’s common knowledge by now.”

“You see?” I say. “Night and day.”

“Opposites attract,” Banrai says with a shrug. “We complement each other. They help me stay logical. I help them sympathize. They’re brilliant, beautiful, wise. They are--” He pauses, his grip tightening on his mug. “They are so full of light. They are so radiant that I sometimes have to turn away from them, fearing I may go blind.”

I have been an investigative journalist for cycles of my life, a detective for even longer, and never, in all my eons, have I seen a drake look more in love than Banrai looks right now, sitting in this cramped room, talking about how wonderful his mate is. It strikes a chord deep within me.

“There’s no one in this world I love more,” he says, “and it’s because of our differences that I love them so.”

“Your relationship is inspiring,” I say. “I’m not one for such things, but even I can see that the two of you are something special. It isn’t any wonder young dragons from all across Sornieth consider your marriage ‘relationship goals.’”

“Ah, do they now?” His smile becomes strained. I can tell that he doesn’t quite grasp the concept. “Well, that’s very kind of them,” he says. “I’m happy to know that Dreamy and I are good, er, role models.”

“On a more serious topic...” I lean forward slightly. Banrai’s smile grows tighter. “How do you feel about the direction the clan is going?” I ask. “There’s been a great deal of turmoil around here lately. Dreamweaver’s in charge of that mess, but, well, I’d like to hear your opinion.”

“I can’t speak on it in the sort of detail Dreamweaver can,” Banrai says, “but I think things are going as well as they could be, given the circumstances. The appointment of our Flight Representatives went smoothly; they’ve been accepted by the clan, and that’s the best we could have hoped for. Clan Aphaster is settling in well after their ordeal--”

“Let’s talk about Clan Aphaster for a bit,” I suggest. “How do you think relationships with them are now, with the Shard line discontinued?”

“The same as they’ve always been,” Banrai replies. “They may no longer be Clan Shard, but they are still our friends and allies. Telos is doing a bang-up job of things, the reconstruction is coming along, there haven’t been any major incidents. Their move to Light opens up greater opportunities for both clans too; but, again, Dreamweaver could speak more intimately on that than I ever could.”

“You don’t think there’s any hard feelings between your clans?” I ask. “They’re Arcanites, and they don’t seem particularly keen on assimilating.”

“That’s between them and the Lightweaver,” Banrai says. “They have their traditions, and I like to think She will accept that. We’ll do our best to help them adjust in a way that preserves their culture and identity.”

“Even if the Lightweaver disagrees?”

“I don’t think it’s our place to say what the Lightweaver agrees and disagrees with,” Banrai says. “Dreamweaver seems satisfied, and they’re in direct contact with Her. If the Lightweaver takes issue with anything Clan Aphaster does, I’m sure Dreamweaver will speak with Telos on the matter and come up with a solution that benefits both parties.”

“You really don’t seem worried,” I note.

“I’m not,” he replies simply. “Telos is a bright young dam, and Dreamweaver has the experience of an ancient. They’ll be able to figure out most anything, if they put their minds to it.”

“What about other tensions?” I ask. “Lutia remains a part of Clan Aphaster. You don’t think her presence might cause some upset?”

“I’m sure it will,” Banrai says, “but this isn’t her fault. She’s a victim in all of this, as much as anyone else. What happened was a tragedy, and it took her son from her.”

“People died.”

“Yes, and Dreamweaver and I still mourn their loss.”

“Doesn’t that deserve some sort of punishment?”

“Is the guilt not punishment enough?” he asks. “Is the loss of her son not punishment enough? Is the fear she sees in her clanmates’ eyes not punishment enough? She is suffering for what she did and from what she lost. Anything more would be insult to injury.”

“There are those in both clans who disagree.”

“That’s their right.”

“You’re surprisingly stubborn.”

“I try not to be,” he says, “but Lutia is one of our oldest friends. We know what caused all of this, and it wasn’t her. She isn’t the root of the problem; punishing her more than she has already punished herself would accomplish nothing positive.” He smiles again, wryly. “Can we go back to talking about how much I love Dreamweaver? That was nice.”

“Sorry,” I say, “but you’re a founder. I’ve gotta ask the hard-hitting questions.”

“I understand,” he says with another sigh, “but political talk is so exhausting.”

“Are you worried about other inter-clan clashes?” I ask. “The Smoke Gyre frequents Clan Aphaster. Your Beastclan Ambassador, Fiver--won’t he have something to say about that when he returns from the Volcanic Vents?”

“If he does,” Banrai says, “he’ll go through the proper channels. Fiver isn’t a rash drake. I trust him to handle any bad blood with dignity.”

“How do you think Clan Aphaster feels about Shard?”

“The Radiant?”

“Junior.”

“Oh.” Banrai casts his gaze down. For the first time since the interview began, he looks anxious. “I hope they won’t hold it against him,” he says. “He was manipulated, just like Sliver and Fragment. He’s also a victim, and I feel he suffers more terribly than anyone.”

“More terribly than those who lost their loved ones?”

“It’s a different kind of pain,” he says. “It’s a kind that not many in either of our clans can fully comprehend. If Lutia ever forgives him, they’ll have quite a lot to talk about.”

“You think they suffer in similar ways?”

“Yes,” he says, “and in different ways as well.”

“If Clan Aphaster shuns him,” I say, “what action will Clan Feldspar take?”

“Dreamweaver and I will stand by him,” Banrai assures. “We will do what we must to help our allies see that he isn’t their enemy. I don’t think it will come to that, though. Clan Aphaster is made up of many wonderful people. Junior is barely old enough to be called a drake. They won’t shun him for his mistakes.”

“You seem confident.”

“I am. I trust our friends implicitly.”

“Final topic.” Banrai seems relieved. His shoulders slump, and he lets out an inaudible sigh. “How do you feel about Phantasos spending so much time in Aphaster territory?” I ask. “He’s your son and your heir by blood, and rumor has it he’s been consorting with a certain being of unknown origin.”

“Faded?” Banrai says. “I don’t think their relationship is anything to worry about. Faded has their own way of doing things, but I’ve never known them to be malicious without need. I think Phantasos can learn a great deal about being Other from them.”

“‘Other?’ What does that mean?”

“It’s a word Dreamweaver uses to describe non-draconic beings,” he explains. “Phantasos has my draconic blood running through his veins, but he’s still fundamentally different from a dragon. Having an Other friend in Faded may help him grow and adapt to life among dragonkind.”

“You don’t worry about Faded’s nebulous nature?”

“No,” he says, “Dreamweaver is the same. Neither of them are natives of this world--not strictly speaking. Just because we can’t possibly understand everything about them doesn’t mean we can’t trust them. Trust comes from who you are, not what you are.

“Besides that, Dreamweaver would never let Phantasos associate with a dangerous Other. If they trust Faded, so do I. They know more about Others than I do.” He smiles again, bright and warm. “Phantasos adores Faded. He thinks they’re fascinating. It’s really quite cute.”

“Cute...”

I don’t know if I’d call two beings of incomprehensible power and unfathomable origin getting together to talk otherworldly phenomena “cute,” but Banrai’s married to one of them, so I guess I just don’t get it.

[spiteweaver]

previous | next

“Tomorrow, you said?”

Atsushi was not smiling this time around--a rare and oddly unsettling occurrence. His left arm was wrapped in a sling, and he was walking with a limp, favoring no leg in particular, which suggested the injury causing it was elsewhere on his person. Even with how dark his skin was, the bruises on his neck stood out like ink on parchment.

It was safe to say the necromancer was in a bad way, and Delucius was positively giddy about it.

“I was delayed,” Atsushi replied, “obviously.”

“What the hell happened to you?” Delucius asked. His grin widened. “Get in a fight with a flock of harpies and lose? I’ve heard tell that the ones out near the border between Earth and Plague aren’t too fond of Wildclaws. Never have been able to parse out why, though.”

“What happened to me isn’t important,” Atsushi insisted. “Do you have the information I asked for?”

“You’re real lucky I’m a neutral party, Atsushi,” Delucius said, “because if I wasn’t, I would’ve gone straight to Dreamweaver about this. Actually, I’m still considering it. You’re about to make a powerful enemy, and I don’t wanna be the guy who helped you do it.”

Their gazes locked, and all of the air seemed to be sucked from the room. Sweat beaded on Delucius’ brow. He reached for the hidden blade strapped to the underside of his desk as Atsushi moved closer. There was a strange and terrible light in Atsushi’s eyes--not entirely unlike Dreamweaver’s, yet, somehow, more frightening.

Then the air returned, and the moment passed.

“There are beings with far more power than Dreamweaver in this world,” Atsushi said, “and if you do not wish to make enemies of them, you will breathe not a word of my comings and goings to anyone.”

“Don’t suppose I will.”

“Good.”

Delucius cleared his throat and pulled open the drawer to his right. “I already had pretty detailed info on some of the dragons on your list,” he said. “Others, I had to really dig for. All things considered, it’s a good thing you took a week to get back to me. I wouldn’t have had nearly enough to satisfy you in only a day’s time.”

“Mmm, well, I’m in a bit of a hurry,” Atsushi replied, “but I’ll keep that in mind should I require your services again.”

Delucius slapped a lavender-colored folder down on the desk and tapped it. “I’ll let you copy down the information,” he said, “but you aren’t taking this folder out of my office.”

“And why not?” Atsushi asked.

“Rules of the trade,” Delucius replied. “You won’t find another gossip in Sornieth that does it any other way. Hell, most of ‘em wouldn’t even let you copy the info down, but I’m a nice guy, and you’re doing some shady shit. I know you won’t let it fall into the wrong hands--by which I mean, hands that I’ll catch if their owners find out I’ve been snooping.”

“You’re right,” Atsushi said, “I won’t. If it will put your mind at ease, however, I’ll commit it all to memory instead.”

“Oooh, that’d be great.” Delucius leaned back in his chair as Atsushi began to flip through the folder’s contents. “Saves me some sleepless nights,” he said. “I’d be saved a few more if you’d tell me what you’re scheming.”

“Sorry,” Atsushi replied, “rules of the trade.”

“Cheeky.”

They sat in silence for a long while, Atsushi devouring the information he’d requested and Delucius trying not to think about the consequences of what he was doing. He knew for a fact that Atsushi was dangerous. There were too many coincidences surrounding his lengthy trips out of the village for him to be anything but a villain.

Then, of course, there was the matter of his “subjects of interest.” Delucius had figured out what they all had in common--they were useful, at least potentially. Some of them had exploitable weaknesses, others had only tenuous grasps on their magical abilities, and Mergo--

God, he didn’t want to imagine what Atsushi had in store for poor Mergo.

Now isn’t the time to grow a conscience, he thought. Now’s the time to save your own sorry skin. Atsushi’s working for someone nasty. Best to stay neutral. After all, you warned Dreamweaver when they let you set up shop here that you didn’t take sides. You have zero obligations. They agreed to that.

Unfortunately, he didn’t think that would be enough to stop them from ripping him limb from limb if anything came of his dealings with Atsushi.

Finally, Atsushi pushed the folder away. “About my payment--”

“No refunds,” Delucius said quickly.

“I included a bit of extra gold, did I not?” Atsushi asked. “Something has come up. Two dragons joined Feldspar this past week, both Pearlcatchers. I want their names and as much information on them as you can gather.”

“I can do that.”

“Also...” Atsushi’s demeanor shifted suddenly. It made Delucius nervous, to see him go from confident to completely and entirely uncertain. “The Head Witch,” he said, “I need information on him.”

“No.”

“No?”

“You’re on your own for that one,” Delucius said. “There’s not enough gold in the world to make me go digging into his past--not willingly, anyway. He’s almost as bad as Faded.”

“Who is Faded?”

“Forget I even said their name.” Delucius shivered. “I don’t want that bad juju on me. Take my advice: whatever you’re planning, make sure it doesn’t include the Head Witch.”

“Well...” Atsushi sighed. “I had a feeling that would be your response. Very well. I’ll do it myself. I’ll return tomo--” He paused, pursed his lips. “I’ll return in a week for your report on those Pearlcatchers.”

“Great.” Delucius stood. He was trembling very slightly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to cleanse my office of that aforementioned bad juju.”

[spiteweaver]

previous | next

“I figured I’d be seeing you round my neck of the woods pretty soon.”

Atsushi did not seem unduly worried by this. He took his sweet time approaching the desk, his ever-present smile never once wavering. As he walked, he swayed his hips in that sensual way only a bombshell like him could--natural enough to look accidental, but hypnotizing in a way that many found simply irresistible.

Unfortunately, Delucius wasn’t buying it.

“It’s always a pleasure, detective,” Atsushi said, leaning casually against Delucius’ desk. Delucius frowned. He didn’t like others touching his things. “I do hope I haven’t come at an inconvenient time.”

“There is no convenient time,” Delucius replied with a shrug. “I’m always up to my eye sockets in work.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Atsushi cast his gaze around the room. It was cramped naturally, made more so by the collection of bulky filing cabinets shoved into every available space. “I’m also surprised to hear you were expecting me,” he went on. “I haven’t made my need for an informant public, after all.”

Delucius snorted. “An informant always knows who’s looking for an informant,” he said. Then he leaned forward with a wicked, saw-toothed grin. “You’ve got more eyes on you than you think.”

This seemed to shake Atsushi, but only for a moment. As quickly as his smile had faltered, it had corrected itself--but Delucius had seen what lied beneath, and he could tell that Atsushi wasn’t about to forget that. If he was smart, he’d cut his losses here and now.

If he was really smart, he wouldn’t.

Atsushi chuckled and ran a teasing finger along the edge of the desk, eyes downcast, looking coy. “How naughty,” he murmured. “Have you been spying on me in the bath, detective?”

“I’ve been spying on your little ‘business trips’,” Delucius clarified, tipping back in his seat and lacing his fingers behind his head. “Where have you been off to so often, my friend?”

“I’m afraid I am not as forthcoming with personal information as some of our kin,” Atsushi replied coolly. “I have not come here to fatten your personal files. I have come seeking what already lies within them.”

“You want information,” Delucius clarified.

“Who better to seek it from than a detective?” Atsushi asked.

“Former detective,” Delucius was quick to remind him, “for the last time. These days, I’m just a humble investigative journalist. I’m also in the big middle of sifting through Micolash’s clan history records, so if it ain’t good, Atsu, I ain’t interested.”

“Oh?” Atsushi shifted his (admittedly shapely) backside onto the desk and crossed his (equally exquisite) legs. “What if I promised to make it worth your while? I think you’ll find the information I seek quite, ah, titillating, and I can reward you handsomely.”

“You know I’m not that kind of drake, right?” Delucius asked.

Atsushi blinked once, twice, thrice. “Ah, you aren’t--you aren’t interested in, er, other drakes?”

“Oh, no, I’m gay as a summer’s day,” Delucius said, “I’m just not a top.”

“Oh.”

“Oh, indeed.”

“Well, then.” Atsushi cleared his throat and slipped off the desk. Delucius breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. “I can pay in cash,” Atsushi said, and dropped a bag of coins in front of Delucius. “I know your services aren’t cheap. There’s enough for everything I need and a few extra favors on the side. You can count it if you’d like.”

“You’re a swindler and a cheat, Atsushi,” Delucius said, “but even I know you’re not dumb enough to try and con me. If you say it’s all there, it’s all there. If you’re lying to me...” He grinned again. “Here’s your one chance to fix it.”

“Fortunately, I’m not lying to you,” Atsushi assured. His expression was unreadable. It made Delucius intensely uncomfortable, though he couldn’t rightly place why. “These are my, ahem, subjects of interest. I’ll come back tomorrow for your full report.”

Delucius watched him go--not because he enjoyed doing it, but because he wanted to be sure the bastard had really gone before delving into his request. When he was certain he was alone again, he reached for the paper Atsushi had left beside his payment and unfolded it.

Winter

Faust

Holloway

Tau

Akira

Pale

Wolf

Glamour

Kite

Mergo

Aoba

Vellichor

Priyanka

Vladimir

Branwen

Avery

Beleth

What did all of these dragons have in common? They were all from different Flights, different breeds, with vastly differing skills and magical capabilities. There was nothing tying them together, save for their association with Feldspar.

What was Atsushi planning?

[spiteweaver]

previous | next

“What in the eleven hells was that?”

Tarragon thought he had been asking that question an awful lot lately; too often for his liking, if he was being perfectly honest. If it was worldly magic, he could tell you everything there was to know, from conception to technique. The problem was that no one in Clan Feldspar seemed to use worldly magic; or if they did, it was of the impossible sort that never should have been placed in the hands of the common folk.

So when he felt a surge of distinctly unworldly energy, he at first thought nothing of it. He merely asked the question he always did, to no one in particular, and then continued on toward the market.

It wasn’t until everyone around him began to react, flocking toward the town center like rats fleeing floodwaters, that he realized something was amiss...

...and quickened his pace.

The square was already full to bursting when he arrived, and above it all was Dreamweaver, barking orders from the steps of their own home. It was a poor stage; their voice was barely audible underneath hundreds of others, growing weaker by the second. “Please,” they called hoarsely, “please, everyone, calm yourselves! We won’t get anything done by panicking!”

“What was that surge?!”

“It came from the Hewn City!”

“Have you heard anything from the Wardens?!”

“It’s those Arcanites, I’d wager! They’re the ones in charge of Thunder’s March!”

“They closed it down, you know? What a mess that was!”

“I heard Omen was there! My cousin saw her with his own two eyes!”

“Your cousin’s a drunkard, he didn’t see anything but the bottom of a bottle!”

“Be silent!” Dreamweaver demanded, and for a brief, blessed moment, all was still. Then another surge rolled over the square, and the clamor began anew. “Solaire,” they groaned, “will you please see to it that the Wardens begin their evacuation procedures, if they haven’t already? I want every settlement east of Weaver’s Crown emptied.”

“I’ll see to it,” Solaire assured. “Shall I route them here?”

“Yes. Feldspar Proper is the safest place for them.”

“I’ll go,” Abaddon offered. “You need Solaire here to oversee our defenses. They could use a bit of shoring up.”

“Junior--”

“I can’t sit on my ass to keep Junior happy.” Abaddon spread his wings wide, pushing back the throng around them, and lowered his immense head to meet Dreamweaver’s gaze. “Just watch after him,” he requested. “Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. If Aphaster’s involved, he’s liable to go running off in search of Zo.”

“Very well.” Dreamweaver placed a hand against Abaddon’s cheek. With furrowed brows, they drew the symbol of the Lightweaver upon his forehead, blessing his mission. “Be careful.”

“When am I ever anything but?”

“Solaire, I want a tight watch on the borders,” Dreamweaver commanded over the roar of Abaddon’s take-off. “No one leaves. If Aphaster citizens must flee the territory, I want them brought directly here. Prioritize the sick or wounded.”

“Do you think it’s another exodus?” Solaire asked.

“I certainly hope not,” Dreamweaver replied, but they didn’t sound convinced. Solaire did not press them for their theories; he had his orders. “Winter,” Dreamweaver went on, “find Juneau. If push comes to shove, we may need his black ice. Come straight home once you’ve found him.”

“I’m not Phantasos,” Winter scoffed. “I don’t go looking for new and inventive ways to die.”

“Eat me,” Phantasos spat.

“Only if whatever’s out there doesn’t do it first.”

“Ozymandias...” Dreamweaver inhaled deeply, and Ozymandias, who was far more accustomed to their temper than even their own mate and children, took a cautionary step back. “Does this have anything to do with you abandoning your post?” they asked. “Because, if it does, I’m going to--”

“It may,” Ozymandias answered honestly, bowing his head in contrition, “but the fault does not fall to me alone. There are other forces at work; dark ones. They may have taken advantage of my noted absence to enact this plot.”

“Don’t say that,” Phantasos pleaded, “it’s my fault you’re here in the first place!”

“I learned long ago never to lie to your progenitor,” Ozymandias replied. “The fact remains that had I not abandoned my post, this very likely would not be happening. I would have never allowed anyone black of heart into the Hewn City.”

“We could always go and smoke them out,” Thalassinus suggested, “like old times, yes, oh, how nostalgic it would be!”

“Absolutely not,” Dreamweaver said. “As if I’d let the two of you go gallivanting off at a time like this. Thalassinus, you’re with Seaglass. I want our border with the Sea of a Thousand Currents secure and prepped for--for--”

“For the worst case scenario,” Banrai concluded.

“Yes.” Dreamweaver toyed absently with the raised gold patterns in their robes. There was noise all around them; they couldn’t think clearly with so many voices speaking all at once. “The worst case scenario,” they whispered, “another exodus, our clan uprooted, my pact with the Lightweaver dissolved--”

“Dede.” Phantasos took their hand in his and squeezed. “It’s fine,” he said firmly. “We’re going to be fine.”

Somehow, his conviction was soothing to Dreamweaver. They gave a stiff nod. “I have an important job for you,” they said. “I need you to gather those among us with strong ties to Aphaster. Specifically, I want Tau, Junior and Jorah, Asura, Xerxes, Almond, Yọmí, Rue, and Atsushi brought to me. None of them can be allowed to leave, least of all alone.”

“So you’re gonna play babysitter?” Phantasos snorted with laughter. “Sounds about right. How do you know I’m not gonna run off, though?”

“You know where you are needed most,” Dreamweaver replied, “and I trust you.” They turned to their son then, clasping his hand in both of their own. “I know you’re worried about your friends; but you must know that Telos will protect her people, and that I will be there to aid her should she falter. Trust us as I trust you.”

“I do,” Phantasos said, “I do trust you, dede--and Telos, too.”

“Then go.”

Before Phantasos could leave, however, Delucius arrived, out of breath and very red in the face. He was a rare sight this far west, especially after the unwitting part he’d played in the nightmare’s schemes, so Dreamweaver gave him their undivided attention.

“What’s happened?” they asked. “Do you have news from the east?”

“No,” Delucius panted, “nothing out of the ordinary to report on my end. But, Dreamweaver, Atsushi’s--he’s gone to Aphaster--”

“What?!” Dreamweaver’s hair unfurled around them, their eyes beginning to take on a tell-tale golden glow. They seemed to close the distance between themself and Delucius in a single step; the Wildclaw shrank back against the crowd behind him. “When?!” Dreamweaver cried. “When did he leave?! Why has he gone?!”

“C-Carnelian’s been MIA for two eons,” Delucius stammered. “He went to talk to Arcanus, not--not long before the surge--”

“I’ll go and fetch him,” Dreamweaver said.

“That would be unwise.” Ozymandias swept his arm out over the square, over the hundreds of dragons gathered there in search of guidance. “The nature of this threat remains unknown,” he reminded. “Additionally, you have duties to tend to here.”

Much as they wanted to, Dreamweaver could not argue. The square was still packed with panicked faces, all of them turned upward in anticipation of their founder’s next decree. The fact of the matter was, Atsushi was one, and the people of Feldspar were many--and although it pained them greatly, they could not abandon their post for the sake of a single dragon.

“No one tells Seaglass,” they said, “and that’s an order. We’ll just have to trust that Telos will ensure Atsushi’s safety. I’m not going to risk any of you, and I cannot go myself--”

“I could do it,” Phantasos said. “Dede, you know I could.”

“I need you here,” Dreamweaver insisted. “You and I are dreamwalkers, Phantasos. We have power beyond that of our people. We must remain. We must preserve the integrity of these walls. It is our duty as leaders.”

Phantasos opened his mouth to respond, then cursed under his breath. In a flash of golden light, he was transformed. “I’m going to find the others,” he said. “Ozymandias will be with me, so I can’t talk myself into doing anything reckless.”

“Do not let him out of your sight,” Dreamweaver said to Ozymandias. “If anything happens to him, I will hold you responsible.”

“As will I,” Ozymandias replied.

“Now...” Dreamweaver took in another deep breath, and returned their full attention to the crowd at their feet. “Listen!” they shouted. “Listen, all of you! As of this moment, I am declaring a state of emergency! Those who wish to leave the territories must do so by way of our western borders--but I encourage you to remain in Feldspar Proper, where I can ensure your safety! Those who wish to remain, be ready to evacuate at a moment’s notice! Have essentials packed and transportation organized!

“Healers, report to the hospital! Magic-workers, accompany Isolde and Petros; you will aid them in strengthening the magical barriers around the city! I want our Flight Representatives front and center! Everyone else, remain in your homes! Do not go beyond the walls!”

“Dreamweaver,” a voice hollered out, “what is it? What’s happening?”

“I...” Another surge of magic engulfed the square. Dreamweaver let out a hiss of pain; their temples were throbbing from the noise and the magical pollution. “I don’t know,” they confessed, “I haven’t the foggiest. That’s why, until I can ascertain the source of the surge, I need you all to remain calm.”

There was a murmur of uncertainty and a great many skeptical glances exchanged; but perhaps the sight of their founder in such great pain, and their worry for their people despite it, was a strange comfort. The crowd began to disperse, and soon, they were welcoming evacuees from the eastern settlements into their homes.

“It’s humbling,” Banrai said, “the goodness of dragons in times of crisis.”

“Banrai...” Dreamweaver stumbled and collapsed into their husband’s arms. “Banrai, whatever happens, promise me you’ll watch after them all; our people, our children, Telos.”

“You’re talking like you’re going to try and sacrifice yourself again,” Banrai noted. “I don’t like that.”

“I’m not,” Dreamweaver said, “but you know that’s always my last resort. Besides that, I feel like my head may just split in two, and not even I could survive that.”

“You should rest.”

“Don’t start that again.”

Another small crowd had begun to form around the pair. Each of the eleven Representatives had arrived, and while their founders sought solace in one another, they exchanged farfetched theories. Levi suggested aliens; Silhouette countered with mole-people; Dahlia insisted that it was somehow Crucis’ fault, to which Crucis took great offense.

They were all so busy joking that none of them noticed Isaiah shoving past them. “Hate to interrupt,” he said when he caught sight of Dreamweaver cradled in Banrai’s arms, ��but I thought you ought to know that Penumbra’s woken up--and you’re going to want to hear what they have to say.”

[spiteweaver]

22 and 37 (those numbers were not picked deliberately, what could possibly give you that impression :P)

(you cheeky bastard)

B A S I C S

full name: Euler

gender: male

sexuality: gay, polyamorous

pronouns: he/him

O T H E R S

family: unknown

birthplace: unknown

job: genealogist

phobias: agoraphobia, atelophobia, autophobia, kakoneirophobia

guilty pleasures: H O A R D I N G

M O R A L S

morality alignment?: neutral

sins - lust/greed/gluttony/sloth/pride/envy/wrath

virtues - chastity/charity/diligence/humility/kindness/patience/justice

T H I S - O R - T H A T

introvert/extrovert: extrovert

organized/disorganized: disorganized

close minded/open-minded: open-minded

calm/anxious: calm

disagreeable/agreeable: agreeable

cautious/reckless: reckless

patient/impatient: impatient

outspoken/reserved: outspoken

leader/follower: leader

empathetic/unemphatic: empathetic

optimistic/pessimistic: optimistic

traditional/modern: modern

hard-working/lazy: hard-working

R E L A T I O N S H I P S

otp: Euler + Ashes (shh, shh, let it happen, @shardclan)

ot3: Euler + Ashes + Amonix (LET IT HAPPEN, LENNE)

brotp: Euler + Techne + Telos (the abomination gang)

notp: Euler + Crucis (don’t pester him, Crucis, let him live)

B A S I C S

full name: Mergo

gender: male

sexuality: gay

pronouns: he/him

O T H E R S

family: unknown

birthplace: Forum of the Obscured Crescent

job: diviner of truth

phobias: none

guilty pleasures: none (he feels no shame)

M O R A L S

morality alignment?: chaotic neutral

sins - lust/greed/gluttony/sloth/pride/envy/wrath

virtues - chastity/charity/diligence/humility/kindness/patience/justice

T H I S - O R - T H A T

introvert/extrovert: extrovert

organized/disorganized: disorganized

close minded/open-minded: open-minded

calm/anxious: calm

disagreeable/agreeable: agreeable

cautious/reckless: reckless

patient/impatient: patient

outspoken/reserved: outspoken

leader/follower: follower

empathetic/unemphatic: empathetic

optimistic/pessimistic: optimistic

traditional/modern: modern

hard-working/lazy: lazy

R E L A T I O N S H I P S

otp: Mergo + Delucius (Mergo loves picking on him)

ot3: Mergo + Yarrow + Blisterwort (the lazy gang)

brotp: Mergo + Betelgeuse (magical mystery pals)

notp: Mergo + A Certain Evil Entity Who Shall Not Be Named