#carrots ascending

[aubdrewanchel]

Benno: If they don’t listen to you, hit’m with a stick. If they listen to you, give them a reward

Myne: I don't know...

Also Rozemyne: *uses it quite literally everywhere, even when dealing with nobles*

[jonesthebonelord]

I ate a couple baby carrots... I can feel the power flowing through my body, my muscles being enhanced beyond human, my eyes becoming that of a mighty eagle...

[aurumalatus]

𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 [𝟓]

pairing. kinich x fem!reader

word count. 3.1k

genre/warnings. childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, fluff and angst, drabble collection, reader is mentioned to be wearing a dress, descriptions of blood and injury

summary.

in which kinich learns the value of all things: lives, friendship, and, of course, you. or, in which kinich realizes that you are the only priceless thing in this world.

author's note. the slow burn is burning... kinich is a little slow to the punch though LOL. this chapter talks about turnfire night, i took a lot of ~artistic liberty~ with the banquet and such so don't hate on me pls. there's a bit of angst in the next few chapters, i'm sorry HAHAHA. pls lmk what you guys think, it's very motivating! i hope you enjoy <3 reblogs/interaction highly appreciated!

↢ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 | 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 ↣

𝗦𝗜𝗟𝗘𝗡𝗖𝗘 𝗜𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗦 𝗥𝗢𝗢𝗠 (𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗗𝗘𝗔𝗧𝗛 𝗢𝗙 𝗠𝗘)

At some point, the flowers start to speak your name.

Kinich isn’t sure when the idea took root in his mind—it had been slow for sure, a snail crawling over a branch. Living together makes you a perpetual presence in his life, a certainty like the rise of the sun and the glint of the stars. He finds comfort in that knowledge, but rarely thinks on it more than that.

The day he realizes it, the sun is a bright yolk in the sky, honey-yellow and shining dutifully upon his back. A layer of sweat plasters itself to his forehead, and he scrubs it away with his wrist, panting. For as many years as he’s been a farmer, the work hardly gets easier; it still leaves him sore and aching every day.

Across the field, the front door of your home swings open—it’s you that peeks out, waving. Kinich nods back in reply, gathering the vegetables in his basket and jogging back over to you. He frowns when he notices a dark spot on one of his carrots, vaguely noting that he should toss that one out later.

“I ran you a bath,” you offer, leaning halfway out the doorway. Kinich extends a half-smile in gratitude.

“Thanks,” he replies, holding the harvest out to you. You take the basket with a small ‘thank you’, placing it down on your feet. Usually, you would take the vegetables inside right away to wash and cut them, but today, you’re lingering—there’s something on your mind.

But Kinich is nothing if not patient, so he merely waits, arching a brow.

“It’s Turnfire Night,” you finally admit, hands clasped behind your back. “Elder Leik invited us to the banquet, if you’re keen on going.”

Surprised, Kinich glances over his crops. He’s just about done here for the day, and he doesn’t have anything on the to-do list for tonight anyway.

“Do you want to?”

You’re hesitating, likely out of shyness—he watches you rock back and forth on your heels.

“I think it’d be nice,” you reply, short. 

You’re trying not to force him, he realizes. You know how much he hates crowded things like that. And usually, you would be right, but he thinks back on the last time he’d visited the village. It’s been long enough, he decides, and one day wouldn’t kill him.

“Sure, we can go.”

Your disposition brightens instantly, nearly ascending with joy. 

“Really?” you squeak, hands drawing to your chest. He smiles and nods, shaking his head with amusement when you disappear back inside, cheering. You’re easy to please in a lot of ways.

Kinich takes you up on your offer of a warm bath, then prepares one for you as well. Gone are the days that the two of you washed up in the river—a nicer bathtub had been one of your earlier investments, and Kinich had grown to appreciate the blessings of a warm place to wash at the end of a long day. It does wonders for his aching muscles.

Over the years, Kinich’s house had slowly grown into a home, right under his nose. Your presence had been a driving force in that process.

While his hair dries, he’s in the kitchen organizing a few of the cupboards when you emerge from your bath, footsteps quietly padding against the floor. You call his name, voice thin and uncertain. When he turns, his heart squeezes.

You’re wearing a lovely dress, a forest green with golden accents—he briefly notes that it matches his eyes, then wonders if you had chosen that on purpose. The thought leaves his head foggy.

“What do you think?” you ask shyly, giving a small twirl. Kinich’s gaze follows the flow of your skirt, the liveliness of it. He’s never seen you dressed up like this in all his years of knowing you, and the sight makes something take root in his chest. “I bought it at the market a while ago, just in case.”

There’s a beat of silence, but it doesn’t sit for long.

“It looks nice,” is all that crawls from his throat, thick. The words sound awkward from his lips, he thinks harshly. A heated flush surges up his neck, curling around his ears and resting there. You practically glow at his response, clapping to yourself. 

“I got something for you too,” you sing, disappearing into the bedroom. Kinich waits patiently until you return, gesturing for him to close his eyes. He indulges you, and it’s a few seconds before something soft brushes at his forehead, pushing his bangs aside.

A bandana.

When his vision returns, you’re standing inches away from his face—his breath hitches at the proximity. Your gaze is searching as it meets his, your lip twitching at the edge. The excitement nearly pours off of you in waves. 

You’re staring.

Kinich’s fingers brush his own cheek, self-conscious. “What is it?”

You lean impossibly closer.

“Nothing,” you hum, happy as a clam. “I just think it makes your eyes look even prettier.” 

You’ve always told him how much you love his eyes, the starburst of jade and gold. You have a tendency to notice things about him that no one else does.

“Does it look nice?” he asks quietly, thumbing at the cloth. He would recognize a product of your weaving anywhere—you must’ve been working on this for a while now. He wonders when you found the time, or even how you managed to do it without him noticing.

You nod, a fond smile gracing your face. “You look really handsome.”

Kinich feels a touch of jealousy at the ease with which the words seem to fall from your lips. Sometimes, he wishes he could speak his mind the way you do. He doesn’t usually hold back in his words—most people he interacts with can attest to that—but when it comes to you, his tongue grows heavy in his mouth.

Still, the idea that you think he looks handsome is…nice.

“Thank you,” he breathes.

You turn and skip back into the bedroom, calling over your shoulder about how the two of you should leave soon. He watches you leave, the dress flowing like silk over your form. He swallows.

It’s really, really nice.

Later on, Kinich holds you close as the two of you grapple toward the village, mountains and trees racing past you. Your giggles are warm against his ear; you love traveling like this, the adrenaline that pulses through your veins. Winking dots of light are already visible in the distance, a rousing cheer reaching your ears—the festivities have already started.

He lands neatly on one of the wooden walkways, taking in the scenery. The village is decorated with bright streamers and vases of blooming flowers, crowds of people maneuvering around the party. You maintain your grip on Kinich’s hand, unwilling to lose him in the crowd.

Two taller figures emerge from the swathe of people, greeting you by name. 

“Have you two been taking care?” Elder Leik asks warmly, Chief Wayna smiling at his side. The elders are concerned for the two of you, Kinich knows; they’ve tried many times to convince you to move back to the village. Their efforts slowly ceased as the two of you grew older—you’ve always been steadfast in your independence.

You nod enthusiastically. “We’ve been doing really well! Everyone’s seeking out Kinich’s work.”

Your compliment makes him feel a bit embarrassed—he feels an urge to deny it, but the elders only laugh and congratulate him, ruffling at his hair. He does feel a bit satisfied that they recognize his strength.

“That’s great,” Chief Wayna replies, genuine. “Just remember you can always come to us if you ever need anything. But also make sure you enjoy the party!”

He leaves the two of you with a wink, fading into the crowd, and you take the opportunity to grasp at Kinich’s hand, pulling him along. You’re the most excited person there, truly in awe of everything.

Kinich indulges in some of the food, laughing at the gusto with which you scarf down your own—he chuckles as he wipes crumbs away from your cheeks. Everyone’s spirits are high; the music is loud and roaring, an electrifying song that Kinich can feel in his veins. You perk up at the sound.

“Kin, can we dance?” you beg, eyes bright and lips pouted. 

He glances around. Really, he doesn’t want to, especially not in front of all of these people. But the music is slowing, and Kinich can never say no to you, so he sighs, pulling you close and placing a cursory hand at your waist.

“Is this good?” he asks, a murmur. You hum in content, resting your head at his shoulder.

“It’s great.”

A permanent grin seems to have plastered itself over your lips. Kinich absently thinks that it makes you look so much more beautiful—a flower in bloom.

“You’re really happy today,” he comments.

Your eyes flutter shut, delighted.

“I’m happy you wanted to come with me. And I was happy that you liked my dress, and that you liked the headband I wove for you. I’m just happy.”

A deep yearning fills Kinich’s chest at the feather-softness of your voice—he feels an urge to hide you away. Somehow, he wants this side of you to only be for him.

“I did really like it,” he confirms. “The headband, and…everything else.”

He likes spending time with you, he likes your dress, and he likes the warmth that permeates his body when you hold him like this. Everything else seems to fade into nothingness.

For a while, the two of you talk about nothing and everything. It’s a truly peaceful existence. Kinich tries to remember if he’s ever been to a Turnfire Night like this before; the last time he’d attended, he’d likely been too young to even remember the event. You just have a way of replacing his darker memories with pleasant ones.

The beat of the music picks up again, and Kinich feels an instant chill when you lift your head from his shoulder. Still, he sways to the music with you, smiling when you start to sing along to the energetic song.

“You’re a good dancer,” you observe, in awe. Kinich shrugs, smoothly spinning you again.

“It’s not that hard.”

Dancing with you is actually fun, he realizes despite his initial hesitation. Your laughter fades with the passing wind, dissipating into the night, and he can’t help but stare at the way the torchlight glimmers against your skin.

The two of you celebrate until the music dies to silence, until people start to yawn and retire to bed. By this time, the sun is already peeking in the distance, barely a whisper of light reaching you. 

Kinich carries you home, soft snores echoing from your place on his back—he decides he won’t tease you about it later.

Instead, he promises himself that he’ll keep taking you to Turnfire Night every year after.

(Then, he promises himself that he’ll always protect your smile.)

/

By the time he cries for the first time, Kinich is fifteen.

He feels that he knows the way the world works now—those with strength, with value, survive. It’s not that he has any interest in being one of the rich ones with towering houses that line the cliffside. Really, all he needs to be satisfied is a comfortable life with you at the foot of the mountain. And his needs—things like clothes and food—come with Mora, so he makes Mora. It’s a simple existence.

He spends more time with you. Slowly but surely, he starts to bring you on jobs and hunts with him. You’re eager to learn about the work he does, and even more excited to help—your medical knowledge does tend to make things go faster. Still, he feels extra layers of anxiety whenever he knows you’re coming along, his grip drawing tighter around his sword.

It comes on a day like any other.

At first, it doesn’t seem like a particularly difficult job—it’s a run-of-the-mill request, to subdue a Saurian that’s been attacking travelers near the village. Even still, Kinich is as thorough as always in the days leading up to the job, and you let him take the lead. He’s strict about these things when you come along, and you know better than to distract him.

The day of, the two of you encounter the Saurian in a clearing adjacent to the road. It’s sick, you mention quietly, hidden in the foliage nearby—it’s foaming at the mouth, erratic in its movements. Kinich mumbles back his agreement.

It starts to peck at the poisoned berries he’d left for it, movements slowing. He counts down the minutes—at this point, it should be incapacitated enough for the kill.

It’s only when Kinich creeps up behind it, greatsword in hand, that he realizes he’d been wrong. The Saurian seems to switch at the last second, beady eyes burning as it poises to strike. Kinich barely blocks the attack with the flat of his blade, teeth gritted.

“Kinich!” you cry out, running to his side. The Saurian perks up at the sound, tense.

Kinich’s eyes widen. “Wait, don’t come—”

It’s too late. The Saurian’s claw catches you in the stomach as it whips around, sending you flying.

A sickening crack echoes when your back smacks against a rock—you crumple to the dirt, hunched over. A cold breath hisses between Kinich’s teeth as he screams your name.

The Saurian doesn’t last much longer than that, not that he really remembers any of it. He swings his sword, cutting and slicing, sounds of battle piercing the air. It’s only when he sprints to your side that he returns to his senses.

A harsh gash is ripped through your shirt and the skin beneath, a pool of crimson already gathering on your stomach. The sight brings bile crawling up his throat.

“Kin…”

Your voice is weak, and Kinich hushes you quickly, an urge to save your strength. A striking fear has his blood freezing in his veins—he remembers his father’s corpse. Terror hovers over his body, leaving him breathless. He intertwines his fingers with yours, pressing the back of your hand to his lips. 

“That hurt,” you mumble, a touch of humor in your tone even now. “I’m tired.”

Your eyelids are heavy, stare unfocused. 

“Don’t close your eyes!” he demands. He palms at your cheek lightly, willing you to stay awake. It’s unlike him, the desperation in his voice. “Didn’t you say you’d always be by my side?”

You chuckle, a line of blood dripping down your chin. Kinich thumbs it away.

“I said that when we were kids, silly.”

He swallows, throat bobbing. Your eyes follow the motion unconsciously.

“We’re still kids.” 

His voice cracks as he says it, like his words can’t bear the brunt of their meaning. Your heart pulses, a burst of adrenaline coursing through you at his rare show of emotion. It’s only a moment, because the pain returns milliseconds later and a groan escapes your chest. 

Quickly, Kinich pulls his headband off, sliding it between his teeth to hold while he pulls the flask of water from his belt. He sets about cleaning your wound, gentle, but the stress is evident in his expression. His hands are shaking; you can feel the tremble against your skin as he eases your shirt up.

“It’ll be okay,” he breathes. Even he is unsure if he’s speaking to you or himself. You nod weakly.

“It’ll be okay, Kin.” You cough, and something in Kinich’s chest snaps when a spray of blood splatters over the hem of his shirt. A spray of your blood. “Don’t worry, okay?”

He can’t even really hear you anymore. He’s staring at the crimson mist, wondering how this had even happened. He’d assumed he was strong enough—strong enough to do this job, strong enough to protect you—and he had been wrong. There must’ve been an error in his calculations, or maybe he hadn’t prepared enough. 

He fastens his headband around your wound, stemming the blood flow. It’s almost an out-of-body experience—he hardly even recognizes the hands as his.

He’d gotten too comfortable, and you had paid the price.

Those with strength survive, but that day brings a sobering realization—Kinich is far weaker than he thought.

A cold tear slides down his cheek as he carries you home. 

You’re sniffling in pain at each step, the movement irritating your wound, and Kinich feels truly helpless. All he can do is whisper promises and apologies, that he’s sorry it happened and that he promises everything will be okay. It almost feels worse that you don’t seem to blame him at all—you’re apologizing too, telling him you’re sorry for being a burden on his job.

“You’re never a burden,” he spits. It comes out harsher than intended, so he sighs, softening. “You could never be a burden to me.”

You don’t reply.

A thick lump lodges itself in his throat as he feels your blood soak through the back of his shirt. It all almost feels unreal—he feels like he could return home to your warmth and smile and everything would be okay. You have a way of making everything okay.

“We’re almost there, okay?” he murmurs. You’re sweating from the pain, sticky against his skin. “Just stay with me.”

The house feels unnaturally cold when he kicks the door open. 

By the time he has your wound properly wrapped, the sun is gone, a distant memory. He sets you down in bed, pulling the blanket up to your chin—you’re already asleep, but your expression is unpleasant, tortured. You must be in pain, even in your dreams.

The thought makes him sick.

With a sigh, he stumbles out of the bedroom, collapsing onto the couch. His hands are still shaking from overuse and exhaustion. He’s not used to the tedious movements anymore like you are—you’re always the one patching him up these days.

A vase sits on the table. It’s full of Saurian Claw Succulents—you’d planted them yourself, cheery at the prospect of decorating the house a bit more. Kinich plucks one of the flowers from the vase by the thin stem, vacantly inspecting each petal.

He wonders what he has to change.

Those with strength survive. Kinich wants to survive. He wants to survive and live his days out with you.

But he’s not strong enough. If you can’t smile at his side, what good is he at all?

Your labored breathing is audible from the other room, the sound grating against his ears. If he had a Vision, or some other kind of power, things might’ve been different. If he had just been stronger—

He thinks back on his younger self, on his innocence, on his weakness. He’d discarded that side of himself long ago in favor of something more powerful, in favor of someone who could protect and take care of you.

There’s no turning back now, he thinks.

The stem snaps under his fingers, under the weight of it all, previous gentleness gone.

[fangsandfeels]

I've seen the "Non-ascended Astarion ending is bad for him because you have to persuade him to reject the ritual" opinion...

..implying that he never really wanted not to ascend, it's you the player who selfishly forces him to give up on his goal. To prove their point, they state that you can get a good ending out of all other companion's quests without using Persuasion at all, except for Astarion.

And boy did I want to talk about this...

(In fact, everything I wanted to say has already been told in this amazing meta post, but I still gotta ramble)

First of all, Astarion was going through an intense PTSD. The game gave him a debuff to show how badly going back to the place of his torment was affecting him. Larian couldn't make it more obvious that he wasn't thinking clearly.

Second, there is one thing all abusers have in common: they destroy their victim's feelings of self-worth to the point, the victim no longer wants or knows how to ask for help or have relationships outside their abusive circle.

Who would want you like this? Look at yourself, you think you're better than me? You're nothing. Who would want to waste their time on you? You think somebody else would treat you better?

Since entering the Cazador's palace, Astarion is reliving his worst moments. Initially, he takes it in stride, hiding his discomfort underneath performative and emotional expressiveness. He talks about how he spent time in the bedrooms where he never did any sleeping, about the kennels where he was tortured, about the barracks where he was sent to when he "deserved neither carrot nor stick". Bad memories, but he shares them with Tav because he trusts them with his scars already. They might as well know the rest.

But after descending into the dungeon, Astarion starts spiraling into self-loathing at a break-neck speed. He used to think that all Cazador victims he ever brought to him were long gone, drained, and discarded. A horrible, undeserved death, yet the thought of them not having to suffer for too long was a small consolation, one of the threads holding his sanity together.

But then it turns out that they weren't dead. They were turned. Locked away deep underground, alone with their new selves, with the hunger and isolation. They did suffer. All these years, they suffered, buried in this tomb - because of him. Cazador may have turned them, but it was Astarion who brought them to him. And they remembered it. They recognized him. The monster who stole them from their home. The monster who ruined their life. Monster. Just like Cazador.

So, as if his PTSD wasn't enough, this revelation was another blow to his grip on himself, his perception of himself. His confident facade was shattering - and in his head, he was starting to think that Tav's idea of him, of who he is, was shattering as well. He tried to warn them before. He said he couldn't be what they saw in him. Whatever person they believed him to be had never existed - and Tav was finally coming to realize that as they walked through the gallery of his sins, looking his victims in the eyes and hearing out what they had to say. Of course, Tav hated him now. They had to. How could they not?

So, at the end, he is scared. Terrified. He bit off more than he could chew by walking into the manor and thinking he had only six fellow spawns to deal with. He saw their lives as a small price to pay because Cazador made sure to erase any solidarity between them. He made them torture each other and compete with each other. He twisted the very meaning of family bonds to his perverted liking, and he knew that by doing so, he would make sure every single one of them would get a whiplash from anyone trying to mention family in a positive connotation. Astarion takes no issue with getting rid of his "brothers" and "sisters" because he is fully aware that had the roles been reversed, they would have sacrificed him without a second thought. And he was certain that Tav would change their mind once they learned more about his brethren.

But the spawns in the dungeon...All the faces he remembered. All the lovers he lured. They did nothing wrong. They never hurt him. They never tortured him. Their only mistake was to trust him.

The revelation horrifies him. His first response is to be shocked, overwhelmed with emotion - and then he has to remind himself that sacrifices must be made. He feigns indifference. He tries to cover his internal conflict with gallows humor. But his flippant mask keeps slipping as he lapses from indifference to anger, to guilt, to begging Tav not to hate him as his greatest crimes glare back at him and claw at him, shouting out threats and seething with hatred.

He can't bear the thought of dealing with all the people whose lives he helped to destroy. He can't do anything for them. Just killing Cazador won't undo what he did to them. He will never be anything but a monster in their eyes. And this is what he deserves to be. He will always be reminded of what he is.

He has no choice but to do the Ritual.

He has no idea what will happen to him after he is done - he isn't a planner. He has never been. But at this point, he doesn't see his soul as something worthy of preserving - and by association, he extends that to other spawns. He knows it all too well because he remembers how it felt. He dissociates, projecting everything he hated about himself onto Cazador's victims, trying to rationalize why he should live and why they must die while he actively avoids the truth.

Completing the ritual is no longer about being free. Or protecting himself and his lover. It's about running away. Even when Astarion has Cazador at his mercy, he still thinks of running away. Getting lost forever. So nobody could ever hurt him.

A part of him even realizes that it means running away from Tav too. But Tav can leave, he naively thinks, not knowing the full consequences of the ritual. Tav will leave to find someone else, someone better, and he will start everything anew, a king of his castle.

So, of course, Tav has to reach out to him through that thick haze of fear, anger, and self-hatred. Persuasion isn't about strongarming someone into doing what you want. It's not subjugation or emotional blackmail. It's reasoning with someone. And that is exactly what Tav does - reasons with Astarion after watching him mentally struggle, after seeing his genuine shock and fear, after understanding that he isn't fully on board with the idea.

It's true, vampire spawns tend to gravitate toward power, especially if nothing is pulling them back. A vampire spawn is a feared and scorned creature - it no longer matters whether they were an unwilling victim, forcefully taken and turned. They are seen not as an individual but as the extension of their master - and the only natural transition for them is to get on the top of the food chain. The only way to make a name and become treated as something more.

Astarion saw power as the mean to safety and freedom, first and foremost. Ironically, he never planned beyond securing these two priorities. He never saw himself after accomplishing his goals, and it's kinda amazing how people can make conclusions about his hedonism because he misses petty vanities, wants to drink blood from a goblet, and sleep on silken sheets. The man who was held and tortured in the kennels, fed rats, and had to stitch and fix his only set of clothes over and over to keep it presentable, the man who has never felt happy for most of his conscious non-life is called hedonistic for wanting nice things. For still wanting to take care of himself for once.

He wasn't harboring any grand plans, conquests, or schemes. Even his idea of taking control of the Absolute was abstract and shapeless because he didn't care about getting control over the most influential people as much as he was afraid of breaking whatever protected him from Cazador's domination. He never really knew what to do with power aside from keeping Cazador and the likes of him at bay.

The way Astarion behaves in a relationship also speaks tons of how controlling he really is...or how he isn't controlling at all. When his romance with Tav transforms into something real, and he enters a new territory, Astarion is empowered to make decisions and think about what he wants instead of pleasuring others. It's clear that he and Tav don't have sex after they come clear about their feelings. Tav respects his comfort and boundaries, gives him all the time he needs, and lets him take the lead. Whether they will have sex again or not is entirely up to Astarion. Whatever he decides, it won't change Tav's feelings for him. He doesn't have to do anything he doesn't want to do.

Astarion enjoys this new autonomy. He is playful, affectionate, outspoken...and afraid of messing everything up. If Tav mentions breaking up, Astarion thinks he is the problem. If there is another potential love interest showing they have eyes for Tav, Astarion encourages Tav to be with them because he believes they can give Tav everything he can't. When Tav says "I choose you," Astarion is taken aback, needing a moment to hide his genuine confusion at Tav actually wanting to be with him rather than Gale, Karlach, or Halsin.

For all his talks of control and dominating others, once Astarion finds himself with a lover who values his autonomy more than getting power at the cost of his dignity, who makes it safe for him to be honest, and who listens to him, he almost stops mentioning control. He merely lives in the moment, happy not to know, not to pretend, not to manipulate. Just to be.

What Astarion truly craves - not wants on a superficial level, not conditioned to want - is not to be a vampire lord. He wants the freedom to be anything. Anything he wants. Little does he know that true vampires rarely get to be anything they want, even if they gain the ability to walk in the sun -- we see it in his Ascended path as, instead of acting up on his supposed freedom to be anything, Astarion repeats Cazador's rules step by step. Just like Cazador did. Just like Verlioth did. He isn't anything he wants. He is the replica of his former master.

Astarion never had the luxury to explore who he wanted to be outside what Cazador made him. He only makes his first steps once he is free. We see glimpses of that deep-seated aspiration to be seen as a person. Treated like a person. Loved like a person. To be reflected in someone's eyes. He wants to know if there is someone beneath his usual mask, something his, not tainted by Cazador. Someone real. And at the same time, he dreads to know the answer. Because that part of him knows regret. Knows shame. Knows guilt. Confronting it posed the risk of realizing he didn't deserve love, kindness, or a future. What if real him truly doesn't amount to anything? What else for him to do?

So, he tells himself that he has no choice, and he expects Tav to affirm it -- not because he wants them to, but because he believes that Tav has seen enough to make the same conclusion. However, Tav objects, trying to be louder than all the inner demons hissing into his ears. Tav speaks to the Astarion, who asked them what they saw when they looked at him. The Astarion, who thanked them for standing by his side when he said "No" to Araj. The Astarion one who stood frozen in their hug before returning it tentatively. The Astarion who diligently, dedicatedly, caringly kept pulling himself together instead of letting himself unravel completely.

Tav reminds him that this Astarion, right here, right now, is worth fighting for. That he didn't survive all these years of torture, pain, humiliation, and dehumanization to give himself up now. He already has the power to avenge himself, avenge all Cazador's victims. He can end everything right here, right now - and this is the only power to free him. He has the power (and responsibility) of having a choice.

Tav empathizes with other spawns as victims not because they're more "innocent" than Astarion, but because associating with them doesn't brand Astarion as weak or broken. These spawns aren't horrible wretches, and neither is he. They don't deserve this, and neither did he.

The only one who deserves to die today is Cazador - the vampire, the monster, the pathetic piece of shit.

Astarion Ancunin deserves to live.

[whoopsyeahokay]

October Sun

summary: it had been settled. everything had gone to shit and then everyone had had front row seats to watch how that'd happened. back in the theater, no one had known what to say, how to describe what they'd seen, how to reconcile that whoever had been behind the circumstances haunting Split River High could've been anyone.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: eventual smutty smut smut. mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

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OCTOBER SUN pt.27

"Love this for me."

Charley scanned the area, confused, disoriented, nervous. We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto, he shuddered, wrapping his jacket tighter around himself as he began to trek in the direction he hoped would take him back to civilization.

This wasn't how he imagined finally being free from the school. Lost in the middle of nowhere, dense trees as far as the eye could see. There weren't many wooded areas around Split River. A couple of parcels here and there, wilderness parks, but not like this, and he had to wonder if the forest was actually native to the land.

Finally, he found a trodden path in the dirt and decided to follow it. What did he have to lose? There was no danger. He couldn't die twice. Food, sleep, shelter weren't required despite he and the others keeping up those habits in the afterlife at Mr. Martin's guidance. Still, what you'd mentioned on the rooftop the night before—about how your great aunt or your mother could blast his soul into oblivion—made Charley paranoid.

What if he'd landed here just for an evil witch to use his ghost for some nefarious plan to make her young and beautiful again? He'd seen Hocus Pocus. And it didn't matter that he was technically too old for that spell to work. He was stuck at 17 until he moved on and he wasn't keen on having a wicked witch absorb him for the sake of vanity.

Which, okay, Charley reasoned, sounded ridiculous, but one couldn't blame him. After a tornado had manifested in the theater and he'd been transported to some creepy, dark forest alone; he wasn't going to criticize himself for the insane theories his brain churned out.

He followed the path until it brought him to a winding, unpaved road. Turning left, he trailed down the edge of it for what felt like hours. It'd started raining halfway through his journey to wherever the hell, and night had fallen before the road widened into a bare plot of land stretched in front of a dilapidated farmhouse, its shadow a fanged monster raking toward Charley's ankles.

"Oh, that's not freaky at all." Charley muttered, quickly glancing over his shoulder and debating whether or not to go back the way he'd come. The darkness blurring the unpaved road seemed to push toward him as if discouraging him from turning around. He groaned in despair, "I hate everything about this," wanting the universe to take pity on him and return him to—God help him—the safe and familiar halls of Split River High.

It was Movie Night, he winged internally, and Wally had agreed (with conditions) to watch Ghost—shut up—and Katelynn and Bernadette were in charge of snacks which meant there'd be a smorgasbord of good options because Mr. Martin always filled the table with carrot sticks and his homemade tuna salad ("Just like my mother's! Doesn't it taste like home?"—"Why is it encased in jell-o?"—the 50s were a heinous decade, Charley thought, green around the gills at the memory).

Today was supposed to be a good day. A day of progress. A day of togetherness. He and Rhonda and Wally, and now Maddie, a united front against the mystery of Maddie's.....well, not "death", Charley supposed, because you'd debunked that. But against the mystery of Maddie's situation, nonetheless. Except he was here, wet and cold and lost; an Addams Family-esque farmhouse towering in front of him like a bad omen and no one to turn to for answers.

"It can't get worse," Charley sighed, about to ascend the first of the front steps.

As his foot set down on the wood, the screen door creaked and someone emerged, using their back to push the door open so they could exit. When they turned around, Charley nearly jumped for joy. He knew that face! That was your face! Your face... Charley reeled back. Your face was coated in blood. You were coated in blood. Hair, hands, jeans.

"What happened!?" He questioned, pitching toward you to scan you for injuries. You didn't seem to be in any pain, not favoring a leg or curling over a gut wound. Beneath the thin red film on your face, Charley couldn't spot a gash, a cut, a scrape, nothing. He panned to the front door, speculating in startled flashes what lay beyond it. The color drained from his face as he thought about it and he decided, no thanks, he didn't want—didn't need—to know.

The most unnerving part, however, wasn't the Evil Dead amount of blood on you. It was how your eyes stared ahead, completely blank; the same dissociative gaze Charley had witnessed on Emilio's face in the wake of Charley's death. Like Emilio's mind had evaporated while his brain repressed every bad thing that'd ever happened just to keep him upright.

Charley wanted to ask if you were okay but the words lodged in his throat when he finally noticed that you had something—someone—bundled in your arms. Small, child-sized (probably because it was a child, Charley, he chided himself), wearing Spiderman rainboots and a Looney Tunes sweater. A queasy sensation flushed through him as he watched you fumble down the stairs, gaze fixed ahead, arms fastened around the little body.

When Charley shifted to follow you, the screen door creaked again then slammed closed. Another person hurried out, clomping down the steps to chase after you. Small. Child-sized. Spiderman rainboots and a Looney Tunes sweater. Charley's expression twisted with sorrow. He bit the inside of his lip as he turned and walked beside the little boy who contemplated his boots as he squelched through the mud.

"Where are we going?" The little boy asked you, stomping into and out of a puddle.

You answered, "I'm taking you home," your voice light as a feather and far, far away.

"Will mommy be mad at me?" The little boy paused, big green eyes on your back, worried that he'd be in trouble for...for what? Charley couldn't discern. For dying?

"No." You said, dragged your feet with effort, your Converse not made for soft, sinking ground. "She'll know what to do. She'll make it all better, Aiden, I swear." On the last word, your voice cracked, but your face didn't change, your gaze still distant.

Charley kept pace with the little boy, Aiden, until you came to the end of the unpaved road. You were shaking, probably freezing, soaked to the bone and in shock. The unpaved road intersected a tarred section of old, narrow highway, a rusted mailbox keeping vigil in the tall grass that lined the shoulder. Part of the name was scraped away by time and weather. Still, Charley could make it out: Meheive. A name Charley had had hammered into his skull in Grade 7 History. The name of one of the four industry men who'd founded Split River in 1850.

"Oh," He commented mildly, "It gets freakier. Fantastic." Then, as he lifted his foot to continue after you, he simply couldn't. He tried again, again, again, walked in place as if on a treadmill while an invisible force kept him at bay. "Never mind," He gulped, "Now it's freakier." At least he wasn't being shot back to the cafeteria at speed, he mused glumly when he took the time to feel the identical vibrations he felt when he got too close to the one around the school.

Slanting his attention to the side, he saw Aiden standing alone, face pinched, lower lip trembling and eyes filled with tears. "Sissy May, wait... I can't follow you..." He stuttered several breaths, hands balled into fists at his sides. "Sissy May!"

You didn't turn around. "It'll be okay, Aiden. Mom will fix it. She'll know what to do." Charley heard you murmur, dreamlike, detached, as you began to walk along the shoulder of the highway, adjusting Aiden's weight in your arms. "She'll fix it..."

Charley came up beside Aiden, watching you blend into the dark the further away you got. Aiden sniffled, squeaked before he coughed out a sob. He craned his neck to look up at Charley in devastation. Briefly, Charley was surprised though that settled into sympathy the longer Aiden blinked those green eyes up at him.

"I don't want to be alone," Aiden whimpered and took Charley's hand, his grip limp, his fingers tiny.

There was nothing to say to that. Charley didn't want Aiden to be alone either, and if he had to stay with Aiden for eternity, he would. He knelt down and pulled Aiden into a hug, his voice wet as he said, "You aren't alone, buddy," the way he would've comforted his younger cousin, Luca.

Unfortunately, the moment the words slipped out of him, Charley was snatched away and dragged through the farmhouse door.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Where Charley couldn't follow, Ajay did. Down the shoulder of the unlit highway, stomach rolling as he observed how you swayed and stumbled as you pressed onward, Aiden's dead weight becoming more and more difficult to manage. A car had stopped, a woman had called out to you, and Ajay had heard her on the phone with the police, asking for help.

It was as if you hadn't heard her. Ajay doubted you had, the state you were in, mumbling gentle promises to your brother as you carried him home. "Mom will know what to do, Aiden..."

Twenty minutes came and went before an ambulance and two squad cars screeched to a halt meters in front of you, lights flashing, red blue, red blue, red blue. When the EMTs tried to take Aiden from you, you put up a fight; kicked, gnashed, snarled, screamed. Not words, just noise, like a provoked animal. Deputy Baxter managed to get you in a submissive hold so an EMT could sedate you before he helped settle you into a stretcher. Strapped you in, just in case, the corners of his mouth severely turned down and his eyes shuttered to conceal the heartbreak Ajay had caught a glimmer of.

"Take them to St. Vincent's." Deputy Baxter instructed the ambulance driver. "I'll call their mother." He moved on to order the second unit that'd arrived with him to follow the ambulance, that he would check the road, "For anything that'll tell us what the hell happened here."

"Noah, are you sure you want to do it alone? If someone's responsible, they could still be out there. They could be armed." Deputy Hayes voiced her concern through the passenger-side window. She was new, too new to understand a protocol had been established between Deputy Baxter and Sheriff Stallow when it came to your family. A grandfathered in whatever it takes that often involved doing things off-book.

Deputy Baxter shook his head and reassured, "I'm just going to see what I can find along the road. If anything comes up, I'll call it in." He straightened and peered down the highway in the direction you'd obviously come from, a deep-seated foreboding frosting beneath his skin.

He was at a crossroads, his gut told him. Something terrible waited for him in the dark and whatever choice he made to deal with it would change his life forever. Damned if he did, damned if he didn't. He just prayed to God that he'd still be able to be there for his own little boy in the after. That he'd have the chance to hug Xavier and tell him the world might not be safe, but his dad will always be there to protect him.

In the side mirror of his vehicle, Deputy Baxter stared at the retreating image of the ambulance and squad car as they blared down the highway toward the town. Once the sound of the sirens faded, he shifted the gear into drive, gravel crunching under the tires, and he drove to the only building in the area for miles.

Once Deputy Baxter was gone, Ajay vanished through the farmhouse door.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Question Five.

Does the Monster die?

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Simon's eyes flew open and he jolted upright, waking abruptly in a cold sweat. The sky was dark outside his window, his room pitched black, and his mom was tugging at his shirt. He barely registered her words, you told the police you'd return the phone tonight, get up, as she fussed over him, fuming, lecturing him in Tagalog as she switched on the overhead light and pinned him with a strict expression.

He scrubbed his face to wake himself up. Dragged his hands through his hair, eyes drifting to his closet. He could've sworn... Hadn't there been...? The door was open and, apart from the two rails of clothes and the shoe rack, it was empty.

"Hurry up, iho! Before your father gets home." His mom commanded before she turned on her heel and left the room.

In English, Simon responded, "I'm going, I'm going..." and rose from his bed. He felt weak, exhausted despite having apparently slept through the day. Again, his gaze settled on his closet as if the person who'd been crying in there had just tucked themselves in the corner and would pop out any second now that the coast was clear.

But nothing happened.

Taking a deep breath, Simon stood and treaded to his closet. Just to make sure; just to see if it had really all been a dream. There was nothing inside to indicate anyone had been hiding there. No displaced clothes to suggest Simon had shoved them aside to get a better look at the little boy who'd quivered beside the shoe rack. No puddle from the rain that had dripped from the little boy's hair and Spiderman rainboots. No scuff marks in the carpet. No mud. No little boy.

"She's gonna hurt him," The little boy wailed into Simon's hip. "She's gonna take him and she's gonna hurt Sissy!"

Simon tripped backward, away from the closet, breath suddenly ragged as the memory flooded his mind. Because it had to be that. A memory. He'd had vivid dreams before, but never like that. He could still feel the little boy's tight grip around his waist, could still feel the wet and cold of the little boy's body through his Looney Tunes sweater when Simon had instinctually returned the embrace.

"She wants t'take them!" The little boy sniffed thickly, "You gotta help! You can't let her!" And then he added as if he'd been reprimanded enough times by his mommy, imploring "Pleeease!"

"Who are you talking about?" Simon asked. Leaned back and crouched so he was eye-level with the little boy, his hands holding the little boy's boney shoulders, "Who's going to get hurt?"

Simon grabbed his sweater and his car keys, calling out, "I'll be back soon," to his mother who'd installed herself in front of Wheel of Fortune. He had to get to the school. He had to see Maddie. To tell her what he'd dreamt or prophesized or hallucinated because, guess what, he'd apparently graduated from unwitting medium to Nostradamus.

As he trotted down the front walkway, he checked his phone. 7 missed calls from Nicole. 2 missed calls from Mathilda. 3 texts from Nicole asking the same question—are you okay?—and a novel from Mathilda that detailed the lessons he'd missed and what he'd have to make up over the weekend, but don't worry, I'll help you. And 1 text from you. Short and sweet, sent that morning just after Simon had returned home from the police station.

"We found something to get Mr. A. I'll meet you at the bus stop when you get here."

Simon hoped it wasn't too late. That you'd stayed behind to wait for him even though he hadn't answered you. Unlikely, but he tried to remain optimistic, even as he took a moment to collect himself once behind the wheel of his car. That dream...it lingered like a bruise.

The little boy's voice stuttered through rough breaths, "Sh-she said because M-Maddie's gone, she needs s-someone else now and that she still wants Sissy. But she can't do it w-without trapping more people."

Simon started the car and pulled into the road.

"What do you mean, 'gone'? You mean because Maddie died?" Simon pushed, but the little boy wasn't listening, sobbing about 'him' and 'Sissy' and how they were in danger. Simon grabbed the little boy's face between his palms, soft but firm, and god, his cheeks were so cold. He looked the boy straight in the eye, "What can't 'she' do without trapping more people?"

He rolled down the window to let the fresh air soothe his anxiety.

Eventually, the little boy quieted though tears continued to stream down his face, "She can't have a new body." He said in a little voice. "Now she needs more people because Maddie got away."

And what the gentlest fuck did that mean?

Simon still didn't know who the 'Sissy' and 'him' were that the little boy had referred to. The little boy had been too distressed to divulge their names, talking as if Simon should already know everything. Just 'Sissy' and 'him'. 'Sissy' and 'him' and Maddie and someone named Janet. Did Simon know a Janet? He wracked his brain, trying to summon the names of everyone in his class who could have a connection to Maddie's death. There was a Jessica and a Jennifer and a Jayden. No Janet.

Then there was the matter of 'she' wanting a new body. Because that was sane. And impossible. Right...? Fuck, what if Maddie's death had been some nutcase's idea of a ritual sacrifice. What if another teenage girl was about to be murdered because, lo and behold, magic isn't real and Maddie just died instead of ceding her body.

The devil on Simon's shoulder quipped, "But ghosts are real," which, fair. If ghosts were real, surely they weren't the only eldritch phenomenon to exist in the world. Maybe there were cursed mummies or body snatching aliens out there scheming to take over America via its youth. No child left behind. Jesus Christ. Simon was spiraling, brain spitting random images of every creature feature he'd ever seen at him. Had the little boy been trying to warn Simon about mummies? Aliens? Was. it. aliens!?

As he stopped at a pedestrian crosswalk, he stared—definitely too intensely—at the young woman who passed in front of his car. Like he could see straight to her bones and determine whether or not she was really human. The woman picked up her pace, shoulders up, head down, and folded her leather jacket tighter around her.

Don't be suspicious, Simon, he admonished himself, ashamed of his behavior, eyes darting to his lap until the woman was safely on the other side of the road. "What even is my life anymore?" He wallowed. Ghosts and Mystery Inc. side-quests and pinning crimes on teachers. He felt he'd lived a hundred lifetimes in the last week and was seriously considering becoming a hermit the minute Maddie moved on.

There wouldn't be much reason to stick around after that anyway...

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Mina Volkov hadn't left the theater since 1987. She was a looper. She performed the same tasks every day, from morning to night to morning. She didn't sleep. She didn't eat—except for the paper bag lunch she'd brought with her the day she'd died. She didn't stray. Mina had to make sure that what had happened to her wouldn't happen to someone else.

There was safety in her loop. Not just for the living students she protected through her hard work, but for herself. Her loop allowed her mind to remain clear, focused entirely on the task at hand. She didn't have to think or reflect or question why her soul had lingered after being squashed by a stage light. Rhonda had called it denial when she'd visited Mina a week after Mina's death. Rhonda had been sizing Mina up, prodding and poking to see how Mina would react.

Mina had simply gone about her safety checks and Rhonda had eventually gotten bored. And had never come back.

Sometimes, her loop veered off-course. Sometimes Mr. Martin came to check on her. Just to say hi. Never to invite her to those stupid meetings he hosted in the gym. The ones Ajay attended and would tell Mina about later when they picnicked on the stage or between kisses in the green room.

She liked Ajay. He was kind and thoughtful, and he respected her loop. He didn't complain when she prioritized double-checking the lighting cables and tightening ropes and cordage for the dropdown scenery. He'd simply sit and talk to her. Recite poetry or passages from books she never intended to read. Ajay was smart. Ajay was handsome. Ajay was...

Ajay was comatose. Slumped on the floor along with the others, his face, like theirs, twisted in anguish. Whatever measures Mina used to wake him up didn't work and she had no idea how to help. But she knew she needed to. Not because New Girl had brought Mina flowers. Or because Hawaiian Shirt Man had caused her so many headaches since the start of the school year and they'd found something to make him stop banging around under the stage. But because Ajay needed Mina to be brave.

He needed help and she was going to help him. Which meant Mina had to leave the theater. She had to find Mr. Martin.

Though Ajay often thought Mina didn't listen when he spoke, he was wrong. She held onto every word like a treasure that she'd tuck away in her heart and savor in the moments she was alone. Mr. Martin took his privacy in the fallout shelter in the basement. Mina had been there before she'd died. Several times, in fact. It'd been an opening night ritual conducted an hour before curtain. The cast and crew piled downstairs and hid in the fallout shelter to pass around a spliff.

No, Mina hadn't partaken, much too responsible, but she'd wanted to participate in some way even if that was just being there. She'd wanted to feel like part of the group when she'd so often felt like an outsider the actors and other crew members made fun of, "for being so snooty and uptight, God, Mina, chill out."

Standing slowly, Mina regarded the theater door. Her heart slammed against her ribs, palms clammy as she tightened and loosened her fists. A comforting motion to calm her nerves as she stepped carefully to the door and placed her hand on the exit bar.

Mina hadn't left the theater since 1987. But today, she would.

For Ajay.

She spilled into the hall, the world spinning in her panic, and took off at speed to the other side of the school. Down two flights of stairs, through the door that led to the basement.

Most of the basement had been bricked off which had narrowed the hallway, making it feel like a catacomb. Poorly lit and spooky. The fallout shelter was at the far end, directly below the gym. Its vault door was open as Mr. Martin usually kept it. A practical solution given how regularly he had to come and go during office hours.

It hadn't been his idea originally. No. It'd been hers. The woman currently speaking through the janitor's mouth as she stared Mr. Martin down.

"I've had someone canvas the area and several others every night since that traitorous little bitch escaped." Mr. South stated, "There's no sign of her."

Helplessly, Mr. Martin explained for the second time, "I don't know what you want me to do, Amelia. I've done everything you asked me. I'm doing what I can to keep the kids present, like you said, and I need to concentrate on that. I've already noticed a shift in sentient ones since Maddie joined us."

Mr. South—Amelia—snarled, "I'm not asking you to participate in a search and seize, Everett. I simply want you to tell me where that conniving piece of shit would have gone! She confided in you, you told me that. So, tell. me. where she's most likely to go!"

Mr. Martin shook his head, a cowardly expression miring his face, "I've told you everything I know, Amelia, please. I've given you her notes, her journal. Every piece of information I had is already in your hands."

Quite unexpectedly, a frightened voice interrupted from the vault door, "Mr. Martin?"

Mr. Martin whipped his head to the side, his eyes going wide in panic when he saw Mina stood just over the threshold, inside the fallout shelter. She looked ashen. Scared. Shaking like a leaf in the wind. Her brown eyes slid away from Mr. Martin's face to rest on Mr. South for a second before returning to Mr. Martin.

Mr. Martin swallowed, opened his mouth to say something, anything to explain why he was mid-conversation with the live and well school janitor, when suddenly it didn't matter anymore. Mr. Martin choked as he watched Mina glance down her body. Her chest seared like paper in a candle flame. She looked back up, fear contorting into betrayal, before she quietly burned away into oblivion.

Unable to reconcile what he'd witnessed, Mr. Martin merely stared at the spot Mina had just been standing, expression slack in horror. His chest rose and fell heavily, "Why?" he rasped, and it took every ounce of self-preservation not to lash out.

Behind him, Amelia lowered Mr. South's hand, scoffing, "Oh, don't look so sad, Everett. She didn't feel a thing," but Mr. Martin didn't believe it. Still, he was too intimidated to argue. He knew what Amelia was capable of and he didn't want to be on the wrong end of her wrath.

Virtuously, Amelia commented, "You'll have to find me another to replace that one. So, two more, I suppose,. And we need someone to step in for Janet," breezy, as if she'd killed nothing more than a house fly. "And soon. We can't have any more delays." In Mr. South's lumbering body, she picked across the floor like a debutante, "Time is running out." She finished, already out the vault door and returning Mr. South's body to the storage room Mr. South used as his office.

Alone in the fallout shelter, Mr. Martin buckled to his knees.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Operating with half his mind still on aliens and mummies, Simon waited in the bus shelter. He was grateful you hadn't left, had responded to the text he'd sent when he'd arrived at the school: "See you in 5," you'd told him. At the metal crack of the side entrance opening, Simon stood up from the bench and faced the school. He frowned when he saw who emerged.

Steps uneven, Xavier exited the school. He stopped when he noticed Simon, stood still like a deer in headlights. Damn, Xavier looked like his whole world had been turned upside down. More so than it already had been, that was. Pale and bug eyed and jittery. They watched each other for a moment. Simon nodded his head in greeting. Xavier didn't return the gesture.

Instead, he lifted the hood of his sweater and turned toward the parking lot, skulking off with his head down. A minute or so later, the door opened again and this time it was you. And Maddie. Together. Followed by a tall guy in a varsity jacket, a girl in a newsboy cap, and a boy with frosted tips wearing a Canadian tuxedo. The trio of strangers stayed by the door to watch as you and Maddie—together—approached Simon.

When you and Maddie were within earshot, Simon said, "Okay. What the hell is this?"

You at least had the decency to look apologetic.

"So you can see ghosts." Simon stated, irritated.

"So can you." You shot back, but it didn't sound like your heart was in it. In fact, you looked just as rattled as Xavier had when he'd come out of the school.

Although he wanted to chew you out for having lied to him, Simon wanted to make sure, "Are you alright?" His demeanor softened as he took you in. Puffy eyes, flushed cheeks, red nose. You'd been crying. And Simon would never be angry enough to let that trump being there for a friend who needed him. He bundled you into a hug, one hand rubbing your back, and asked Maddie with his eyes what was wrong.

In his periphery, he saw Varsity straighten and move to take a step forward. His friends each grabbed an arm and appeared to shut whatever idea he'd had down because he shifted back before shaking them off.

Urgently, Maddie told Simon they'd discuss everything, "Later," and ushered him back into the bus shelter. He kept an arm slung around your shoulders, a shoulder to lean on, though had to release you when you decided to lean against the interior glass. Simon took what was becoming his usual seat on the concrete base and Maddie folded herself onto the bench.

When neither you nor Maddie spoke, Simon took the lead, "Mr. Anderson totally played us," he began, glancing between you and Maddie. "I mean, the cops are convinced I helped Maddie run away."

Maddie immediately defended, "Seriously? That's—"

"I know. They only let me come back here because I promised I'd get Anderson's phone and turn it in."

You cleared your throat, "Okay, well, before you do that..."

Maddie continued where you trailed off, "I think we might've found something that can help maybe keep the cops off your back." She fished something out of her back pocket and handed it to you which you, in turn, handed to Simon.

Stunned, Simon gawked at the piece of paper, eyes darting between it, you, and Maddie several times before finally resting on the paper. "We're just...not going to acknowledge how insane this is?" He sputtered, flapping the paper to indicate what he meant.

"Just go with it for now, Si." Maddie implored, "Let's take down Mr. Anderson first."

"Yeah," Simon agreed and examined the paper. It was a receipt for new band uniforms. He pulled out his phone when Maddie informed him he'd have to call the company the receipt was from and punched in the number. As the line connected, Simon cast to the three people at the school entrance. "Quick question, and not to alarm anyone, but who are they?" He asked as he waited for someone to answer the phone.

You and Maddie looked to the three people then at each other, Simon, the three people, each other, and ended with open-mouthed stares at Simon.

"They're dead, aren't they?" Simon deadpanned. You and Maddie nodded. Simon kissed his teeth. "Of course they are."

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

After all was said and done, Simon had watched Wally—the tallest of the three ghosts Simon had seen outside—drape his varsity jacket over your shoulders and stamp a kiss to your head. Simon had seen Wally hold you protectively in the wake of Simon's impassioned announcement to the table of Split River High staff.

He'd heard Wally whisper comforting words and stroke your cheek with his thumb and, wow, you hadn't been joking about saving yourself for the hot ghost on campus.

It was a mindfuck, to be sure, but Simon adjusted. Or he was in shock. Toe-may-toe, toe-mah-toe. Wally had mentioned to the group at large as they huddled in the hallway that he and Charley—Canadian tuxedo—had needed to go lest Mr. Martin—whoever that was—get suspicious of their absence at Movie Night. Which could've been dead dove, do not eat, or could've been ghost code for watching the living go to the bathroom.

"Dude, we don't do that." Wally had cringed, offended.

Charley had raised his brows in consideration, "Well, not all of us."

Simon was beginning to double-down on putting together a personal bestiary à la Teen Wolf just to aid him in navigating this shitshow.

Afterward, you, Simon, and Maddie had holed away in a classroom to watch Mr. Anderson be escorted into the back of a squad car. In a line at the window. Discussing in solemn tones what you and Maddie had seen in the theater. How it related to Mr. Anderson. How whoever was behind Maddie's death—no, not death, Simon emended, since you'd brought him up to speed. How whoever was behind Maddie's missing body could be literally anyone. That was if Maddie's circumstances were related to the terrors you and she had experienced in the theater earlier.

"What do you think's gonna happen?" Maddie asked faintly as she watched the deputy close the back door of the squad car.

"He'll be questioned," Simon said. "Probably arrested."

Angry, Maddie replied, "But not for abduction. Not for bodily injury." A weighted pause. "I swear to God, if he did this to me over some stupid band uniforms..."

His voice tinged with hope, "Maybe he'll confess."

"Or," Maddie offered the alternative, "You'll hand that phone over to the cops and we'll never know who he was working with. Or why he said he gave me money... I'll never know what really happened to me."

Maddie turned. As soon as she settled against the windowsill, you shuffled closer to her and put a supportive arm around her shoulders. Fuck if that didn't make Simon's heart ache. He wanted so badly to be the one to do that for her. To be there for her. To comfort her.

"We'll figure it out, Mads." You reassured, though you still looked haunted.

"At least for now," Maddie said, gazing up at Simon, "some of the heat will be off you."

Her words struck Simon's soul. After everything she'd been through, she cared about what happened to him, and it made him yearn to show her how much that meant to him. Seeing you in Wally's varsity jacket gave him an idea. Slowly, he peeled off his sweater and hung it over the back of a chair. It wasn't enough, but at least he could do this.

"What are you doing?" Maddie asked.

Voice rough with emotion, Simon said, "I was thinking... I can't hug you, but my sweater can."

You hopped down from the windowsill and positioned yourself between Maddie and Simon, voice pitched just as low as Simon's as if not wanting to disturb the somber atmosphere that had befallen the classroom.

"I can do you one better." You said with a small smile and placed one hand on Maddie's shoulder. Your held out your other hand to Simon which he took, curious as to what you were going to do. It seemed Maddie knew because she came closer and then—god—she wrapped her arms around Simon and held him tight.

Without a second thought, Simon returned her embrace with his free arm, putting everything he had into it. All the grief, all the solace, all the love. He hiccupped a weak sound of overwhelm and pulled Maddie as close to himself as he could. She felt warm. Alive. Like she was right there in her body.

With wet eyes, Simon peeked up at you, "Thank you."

"You're my friend, Simon." You said easily, "I'd do anything for you in a heartbeat."

He dragged you into the hug; you and he and Maddie holding each other, leaning on each other, needing each other. And for that small segment of time, the weight of the world didn't feel so heavy.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Mr. Martin was surprised when Rhonda marched into the gym and pulled up a seat. It wasn't the first unusual thing Mr. Martin had noticed of his Support Group that night, though.

Something felt off. Ajay had been morose when he'd entered, but Bernadette and Katelynn had puppy piled him on the stack of gym mats and were comforting him with cuddles. Always upbeat and charismatic Wally had been reserved until halfway through the film. Perhaps he was truly taken by Demi Moore's performance, though Mr. Martin suspected there was more to it.

Charley hadn't made any sarcastic comebacks to Mr. Martin's purposefully cheesy jokes about the film before Mr. Martin had started it, either. Keeping an eye on Charley and Wally, Mr. Martin had entertained the idea that the two had had a falling out. Teenagers were fickle beings. Even those in their forties and fifties.

Of course, Mr. Martin could be seeing things that weren't there. Reading too much into every small shift in behavior because he'd been on edge since Amelia's impromptu visit. A shiver ran through him, cold as ice, as he recalled what he'd witnessed and what he'd been ordered to do.

Banishing the memory, he forced a smile to his face, "Rhonda. You usually boycott movie night."

Rhonda stiffened in her seat, gaze fixed determinedly on the screen even if it seemed to go against everything she believed in to do it.

"Is everything alright?" Mr. Martin probed when she didn't say anything. His first priority was always his students' wellbeing, no matter what Amelia felt about it.

Rhonda took her time to answer, but eventually, "I've been here for sixty years. Sixty graduations," She explained, jaw tense, as if her words were being forced out of her. Rhonda rarely shared and, when she did, she'd smother the sentiment beneath myriad barbed wire remarks and threatening stares so no one would examine what she'd revealed too closely.

As Rhonda disclosed what had motivated her to join Movie Night, Mr. Martin heard Amelia's voice in his head, "we need someone to step in for Janet."

"—I've made my peace with it because nothing changes...but now..." Mr. Martin listened, giving Rhonda his full, undivided attention. Rhonda didn't elaborate on how her views had shifted, rather redirecting to claim, "I know I'm not always a joiner but," her voice was raw, "I gotta get outta here."

She was outright doing her damnedest to hold back tears and it shook Mr. Martin to his core. The sight made Mina's image flash in his mind, the pain and fear in her eyes as she'd silently begged Mr. Martin to help her before being disintegrated into nothingness.

When Rhonda admitted, "I'm willing to try anything," Mr. Martin was brought back to the present, Mina fading from his mind. What Rhonda said next made his smile falter, a pang of regret in his heart. There was nothing else for it, his hand forced, because everything was easier when the participants were willing. But Rhonda needed to say it right. She needed to mean it without Mr. Martin's direct interference.

And, just like that, she did.

He ignored how his gut wrenched as he heard Rhonda speak into the air, "So, whatever you did to help Janet, I want in."

Mr. Martin felt Rhonda's words vibrate through the veil, the gears shifting as the pieces on Amelia's board were recast.

Mr. Martin forced another smile. However, turning back to the screen, his smile faded completely as Mina's final moments crowded his mind again. The fear. The helplessness. One of his students...gone. His conscience kicked and screamed and berated him. Challenged him. Brought his face right up to the hundreds of mistakes he'd made leading up to Mina's permanent erasure from this earth.

He'd had no choice, a milder, more detached part of him reminded, and it's too late to undo what'd already been done. There was no going back.

All Mr. Martin could do now was offer Rhonda his bowl of popcorn and tell her, "I'm glad to hear it."

💀___________fin.____________

PART TWENTY-SIX - OCTOBER MOON

also available on AO3!

MASTERLIST

[nana-au]

𝐈 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐏𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄...

 𝜗𝜚 Satoru Gojo Prince AU ♡ part five

 𝜗𝜚 Summary: satoru spends his days distracted until the new chef comes up with a possible remedy to his worries. story summary based off of this drabble

𝜗𝜚 Warnings: mentions of weight loss due to depression

 𝜗𝜚 wc: 2,765

𝜗𝜚 an: this part will immediately be followed up with a strictly nsfw part. it is skippable and does little to the story building. it is just intended to add some yearning and build up to the prince's emotions. thank you all for your patience!

┊p1┊p2┊p3┊p4┊p5┊𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠... p6┊

“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it, Prince Gojo?” the Princess hums, following by his side. The sun beats down on the couple as they walk around the small pond of a local park, sweat and humidity clinging to their skin. The Princess fans herself, looking up at the Prince as his head stays forward, focused on the view in front of him. His eyebrows are furrowed in thought, barely noticing the people passing by who are enthusiastically greeting the two. “Are you feeling well?” she asks him, with no response. He’s distracted - acting as if he has something better on his mind than her small talk. She puffs out her cheeks, the skin turning red as she greets the passing crowds for the both of them. Her fan picks up speed, batting her eyelashes while awkwardly looking around before deciding to clear her throat unusually loud. It’s then Satoru looks down at her, eyebrows still furrowed and lips in a pout. “Is there something on your mind, Prince Gojo?” she asks him respectfully, all though exasperated by the effort. 

“It’s quite hot,” he tells her. His white strands stick to his forehead; the pale skin of his face appearing dewy in the sunlight, slick with his perspiration. He looks uncomfortable, the long finger of his right hand digs into the collar of his shirt tight to his neck, tugging it away from his throat. 

“Well, maybe we should get you home,” she suggests and he nods, clumsily clasping their hands together as he leads her to their carriage. 

𝜗𝜚

The ride to the palace lasted a lifetime for the Prince, and if it wasn’t for the Princess wishing Satoru a good rest of his day, he would have forgotten to see her off. He kisses her gloved hand, thanking her for accompanying him on his stroll before walking off, taking the steps to the palace two at a time. Her brows furrow, confused as she watches the Prince hurriedly ascend the stairs before getting in her own carriage to take the long trip home. 

Satoru marches through the halls of the palace, his racing thoughts unsatisfied by the scene he witnessed earlier that morning. Upon discovering your daily schedule (something that took Satoru only a few days), he thought very little of his disruption to the kitchen staff - too distracted by the opportunity of getting to see you. He knew it was wrong, and it never did anything to benefit his terrible mood, but like clockwork Satoru paid you a visit twice a day. Once in the morning and once at night. Typically you did nothing noteworthy; you spent most of your time labeling fresh herbs or peeling pounds of potatoes all while avoiding eye contact with him. But some days you did something different. Like this morning - when he found you side by side with that blond man he was growing to loathe, watching as he julienned carrots with award-worthy technique and precision while Satoru stood awkwardly - only able to watch. His day was set up to be poor from the start. 

So while he couldn’t maintain a simple conversation with the Princess on his date, he knew he also wouldn’t be able to maintain focus on any of his responsibilities. Not until he went back in the kitchens to get a look at you undisturbed. It was unrealistic for you to be working because Satoru took note this was usually your scheduled lunch time but he knew it would be pointless to continue his day without checking - just to be certain.

He all but groaned when his visit didn’t grant him the image he desired; instead coming face to face with the man he was hoping to avoid. “Good afternoon, Prince Gojo,” Nanami bowed, putting down the knife he was sharpening to greet the Prince. Satoru didn’t bother to entertain his polite greeting, choosing to turn around to make his way to his study. “Are you looking for her?” the man asks, stopping Satoru in his tracks. He turns around, meeting Nanami’s eyes for the first time. He doesn’t so much as shift under his gaze, something Satoru wasn’t used to as he studied his face. His eyes were warm, looking at Satoru with an emotion he couldn’t quite place. From Nanami’s point of view, the lanky Prince looked disheveled. His under eyes were purple and his hair was sticking up in every direction. He knew the reason the Prince insisted his personal servant was too useless to simply procure him a glass of water wasn’t because Peter was incompetent; but because Satoru needed an excuse to see you. He had heard far too much from you to be blind to the Prince’s tactics, and if you weren’t going to do something about it, he was sure going to try himself. Satoru begins to wordlessly back up, almost as if he doesn’t trust where the conversation was headed - choosing to avoid it all together when Nanami interrupted him one last time. “I could give her your message,” the Prince’s eyes narrowed, “Perhaps a note?” Nanami counts on the Prince having years of experience in reading between the lines to understand what he was implying - but if Satoru realizes it he keeps it to himself, leaving the kitchens wordlessly to return to his study. 

𝜗𝜚

It’s dinner time when the Prince reconsiders the chef’s suggestion. The Queen requested Satoru’s presence in their dining room, citing the reason to be because of some much needed family time. Satoru couldn’t bother to stop his eyes from rolling back into his head. The Prince eats his full course meal in silence while his parents torture him with small talk: discussing the weather, the flowers in bloom outside, and the construction of a new fountain the Gojo’s did not need. Satoru slurped his soup and fiddled with the napkin in his lap while he beared the awkward tension that was eating as a family. His fingers ran along the smooth fabric of the blue napkin, feeling around the cloth material underneath his fingertips when he suddenly felt something foreign. It was the rough material of paper, his fingers clasped around it, tugging at it while assuming it was a tag of some sort. What he didn’t expect was for the paper to come loose, slipping right out with just one jerk of his hand. Satoru looks down, realizing it is a note and not a sewn in designer tag. He makes sure to keep it in his lap, squinting to read the small letters, ‘She needs to talk to you about that night. Without others being privy’.

“Satoru, is something wrong?” his mother asks upon noticing her son was preoccupied with his lap. 

He shakes his head, “No. Just spilled some soup,” he tells her, lips in a tight line. His under eyes are darker than before, but his hair is just as messy and his pale skin is still ghostly white. If she notices the wild look in his eyes, she ignores it, giving him an odd look before speaking.

“Well, that’s what the napkins are for,” she snaps her fingers, “Another napkin for the Prince, please,” she requests and the servants are quick to remove Satoru’s napkin from his lap. He clasps the note in his fists, making sure to conceal it before thanking the man who replaces the cloth.

𝜗𝜚

Satoru doesn’t let the note leave his grasp for the rest of dinner and it doesn’t see the light of day until he makes it to the desk in his study. The Prince looks down at it, obviously knowing the owner of the sliver of paper. He begins to pace, leaving the note on his workspace while he crosses the room. He nibbles on the skin around his nail, chewing the tender skin to distract from his racing thoughts while he considers what the note meant. It implied you had something more to say than what you had admitted in the stables - but someone was holding you back. His mind reeled while he considered what you could possibly be keeping inside. It was entirely irrational and made little sense - but he leaped to the worst conclusion first - believing you had made a special friend, and that they didn’t want you to have contact with him. His entire body began to shake, picturing somebody keeping you all to themselves. Keeping you from Satoru - who tried as he might - cannot fight the entitlement he feels towards you. You were his first. You would always be his - no matter what anyone tried to erase. The ugly green monster he kept buried deep flared to life in his chest. He huffed, shoulders shuddering with each heaving breath that did little to tame the creature fanning the flames of his hurt. He knew he would finally lose it all if that was the announcement you had to make. So for his sake, he had to imagine something else. Something more realistic. He continued to think about what could possibly be the reasoning. Perhaps your confession was that you were scared of the opinions people could have on you beyond the walls of the castle. That you would make an awful Princess and even though Satoru despised the idea of you feeling so self conscious; so unaware of just how special you were… it had to be the reason. Your shared kiss in the garden must have awakened your feelings - and brought on the unpleasant emotions of feeling unworthy to the throne. Scared of the possible backlash and perhaps worried about what the other servants would think of you - you kept your true feelings to yourself and lashed out at him, hurting Satoru in the process. He began to calm, rationalizing his worries with something he could stomach. For now, he chose to believe that had to be closest to reality. 

So while the tides of his anxiety lowered he made his way to his desk, tearing off a small piece of parchment paper and scrawling his message:

‘Why did you leave me?’

𝜗𝜚

Satoru stalks through the halls, rounding each corner with a purpose while he makes his way to the kitchens - desperate to get his note to you quickly, dying to read your response. To anyone he would look unhinged; hair disheveled and clothes hanging off of his lanky frame while he all but ran through the palace.  When he makes it, Nanami is there in his usual spot, sharpening his knives. Upon entering, the blond man inclines his head - silently greeting the Prince while Satoru approaches his workspace. “How do I know if I can trust you?” He all but huffs out, hands shaking in the pockets of his trousers. Being a Prince, he was used to people bending over backwards to appease his every wish but this was different. It puzzled him to try and understand why he would get involved in something that didn’t concern him. It left Satoru weary. To Nanami, the Prince looked like a man that had gone mad - and if Nanami wasn’t offering to put himself on the line he could maybe judge the trembling Prince in front of him. 

“I don’t think you have any other choice,” Nanami replied. A silent agreement began to form between the two of them - both deciding to put their faith into the other while they stood frozen. Satoru made the first move, taking the note from his pocket and sliding it across the smooth metal table. Nanami only nodded, pocketing the note in the breast pocket of his coat and picking his knife back up, diligently sharpening it against the smooth stone tool. Satoru was gone as quickly as he arrived. Nanami chose to retire for the night soon after. But not before paying you a quick visit.

𝜗𝜚

There’s a knock on your door late into the night. You sit up in bed, bookmarking the page you were reading before shuffling over to greet your unexpected guest: and unexpected Nanami was. The broad-shouldered man wastes no time slipping into your room, closing the door softly behind him and towering over you while you stumble back to give way to him. The door quietly clicks shut, leaving the two of you alone in the dim light of your bedroom. “Nanami?” you question him, voice laced with confusion upon seeing the chef at your quarters this late at night. 

“Don’t be mad at me,” is all he says, pulling the note from his chef’s coat and placing it in your delicate palm. Your eyes squint down at the sloppy writing on the torn paper, breath catching upon recognizing the handwriting. You would never be able to forget the familiar scribble of Satoru’s penmanship. You look back up at the blond, observing the look on his face that indicated he had something to do with it. 

“What is this?” you ask him, shaking your head in disapproval. “Nanami - I couldn’t possibly-” you start but he cuts you off. 

“But you want to…” he murmurs, his soft eyes meeting yours. “You could tell him the truth… without anyone finding out,” he tells you, “No one would have to know.” You shake your head again, scoffing at the acknowledgement that Nanami was willing to put his reputation on the line for you. “I know it’s been eating you alive,” he tries to reason with you. There’s no mirror in your tiny living space but if you could see what Nanami saw you would be eye to eye with the ghost of your former self. Gaunt and colorless. You looked sickly - almost like the light inside you was dimming to nothing the longer time passed without the Prince. 

You shake your head, feeling queasy at the idea of causing trouble for yet another person - all to satisfy your ridiculous craving... just to feed the hunger inside of you that yearned for the Prince in every way imaginable - against the betterment of everyone around you. “He can’t know,” you wince, almost like it hurt you to turn away the delicious offer Nanami was supplying you. 

“He’s set to be engaged,” Nanami calls out your name, trying to snap some sense into you, “At least tell him the truth before you never get another chance,” his voice is as desperate as the thoughts in your head. 

“He could never go through with it if I did this…” you trail off, scared to acknowledge the fact Satoru would drop everything for you. He would turn his back on all of his responsibilities - on his family’s wishes - on the kingdom’s best interest. You knew this - no matter how cruel you could possibly be to him. No matter how much you ignored him; he would never truly be satisfied without you; and all though he looked close with the Princess, you knew the hurt you held inside was twisting his own fragile and tentative actions into purposeful, deliberate engagements with the Princess. He craved you with every fiber of his being. That’s why you couldn’t give him hope - you knew he already had it deep down. And if you confirmed how you felt he would stop at nothing to get his way. No matter who he had to tear down to get it. No matter how many lives he’d put at risk in the process. Your mouth grew dry at the thought.

“Ultimately it’s up to you,” his shoulders dropped, knowing that it was only your decision to make, “The option is open as long as I’m here,” he promises, gently squeezing your hand to make a fist, covering Satoru’s note. “Think about it,” he says. Exiting just as quietly as he entered. 

𝜗𝜚

You tuck his note into your book and lay on your bed. Your nerves eat away at you - every inch of your body alive with anxiety. You promised yourself that the right decision was to leave it - that you needed to throw away the note and never entertain the idea ever again. But another part of you was unable to stop thinking about the opportunity of being able to communicate freely with Satoru - even if it was only one note. One note, you considered. Just one singular note to lessen your guilt and to hopefully ease Satoru’s hurt. You toss and turn in bed - picturing ways you could let Satoru know how you felt without sabotaging all those agonizing months you endured to protect your family. You head to your quaint desk, putting your quill to paper and letting not only your emotions, but your logic bring the page to life.

┊p1┊p2┊p3┊p4┊p5┊𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠... p6┊

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(ty for all the support! comment to be added/removed)

[sserpente]

A/N: What if you accidentally pickpocket the wrong person? What if that person… is a rogue vampire elf who will demand something in return? Something… red? (Astarion's not ascended in this one)

Words: 1180 Warnings: mentions of prostitution

Your stomach was rumbling. How many days had it been? Three? Four? Truly, it had never been this bad before. Ever since Gortash had become archduke, the city was drowning in chaos and misery. Benevolent and generous people who’d usually slip you a coin or two walked on now, avoiding your quiet pleas to spare some change for a starving woman.

You didn’t want to do it but what other choice did you have but to pickpocket people? In the dead of winter, merchants rarely left their food out for too long and the taverns were not busy enough to slip your hand into a bag or two.

The streets were your best bet now that the sun was retreating and lit torches threw their warm light on the cobblestones, creating eerie shadows wherever you looked. Your victim would have to be someone rich, someone who could afford to part with currency. Someone like… him. Heavens, he was gorgeous.

A noble, for sure. He was elegant. Full white hair, pointy ears indicating he was a high elf, no doubt��� clean and sophisticated clothing. Surely his pockets would be full and he wouldn’t miss a couple of gold coins disappearing to fill your belly with food tonight.

You approached, snaking past a passer-by to wait for the right moment. The elf turned… giving you just enough movement to dip your fingers into the small pouch attached to his belt. One, two, three, four… five gold pieces should be enough to buy yourself a warm meal tonight and perhaps some bread to feed you for the days to come.

“Why, you insolent little…” Panic washed over you when he spoke with a start. The elf’s gaze met yours as he flipped around—red orbs boring into your own, anger flickering in his. His hand snatched your wrist in a tight grip before you could yank it back and flee.

“You have picked the wrong target, darling.”

“I’m sorry… s-sorry, don’t… don’t tell the Steel Watch, please! I’ll leave.”

But it was a different kind of hazard this stunningly beautiful elf was radiating. Red-eyed elves were rare in itself but there was something else—something that told you that you had just made a very grave mistake in provoking this particular stranger before you.

“The Steel Watch?” The elf laughed. “I have no interest in reporting you to the Steel Watch. But in all honesty… you could help me out with something else.”

He was charming—more than you would have liked to admit. There was a sweet tone of seduction in his voice that went down like honey, so much so that you almost wanted to agree with him. But if there was one thing you had sworn to yourself, it was that you would never sell your body to ensure your survival.

“I… no. I don’t do… that.”

“What?” Anger appeared on the elf’s face. No, you realised… it was actual appalment. “I didn’t mean… I am talking about your blood, dear. You smell delicious.”

The thought of him being a vicious murderer on the hunt for the next thrill crossed your mind like a slap in the face—but your theory was rapidly disproved when he flashed you a disarming smile. Fangs. He was a vampire.

Your eyes widened, fear now fuelling your body more than the adrenaline ever could. You twisted your wrist, desperate to break free from him. But the relentless hunger had made you weak.

“Now, now, darling, no need to be scared. I am very, very… nice,” he said slowly, purring each and every word.

Dragging you after him before you could utter another word of protest, he slipped into the shadows and a dark side alley. A rat fled as you stumbled against the wall, abandoning the rotten carrot it had been gnawing on.

“I told you, I’m sorry. Please… don’t kill me,” you breathed out.

“Kill you? I’m not going to kill you. I just need a little taste. I was going make do with a drunk tonight but this… this is much better.”

He sighed when you squirmed, resulting in his large body pressing you even further against the brick wall. Your dirty dress scraped against the rough material. You lifted your head, biting your lower lip.

“How about this? You let me have a little nibble and in exchange, I’ll let you have the gold pieces you were going to steal from me. I’m not much for charity but I can work with a little… transaction.”

He would… was he serious? You blinked at him, surprised at yourself for even considering his words. If you accepted, would this truly be any different from selling your body in more intimate ways?

“I promise I’ll be gentle. You won’t feel a thing.”

“You know, most vampires would have ripped my throat out already,” you said. Your voice was a little shaky but you stood your ground. You had no choice, after all.

The stranger smiled. “I’m not most vampires, darling. Besides, I’m only a spawn, so you should consider yourself lucky. So? What do you say to my little proposition?”

“I…” Your stomach growled again, making the decision for you. “F-fine.”

“Excellent. My name is Astarion.”

You told him your name with a stutter following his seductive smile. Each and every muscle in your body tensed when he leaned forward, brushing your hair out of the way to reveal your neck to him.

One moment you could feel his hot breath against your skin, in the next you felt his sharp canines breaking it to draw blood. He’d held his promise. The initial pain subsided so fast that you questioned whether it’d been there to begin with. His mouth closed around the wound he caused, sucking your life essence out of you sip after sip after sip.

It felt… good. You’d expected it to be uncomfortable, to be dancing on the edge of unconsciousness or even death but this… perhaps he’d been just as hungry as you. Perhaps he’d been just as desperate as you. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…

Your eyes fell shut as you gave in to the soothing sensation. Astarion moaned against your neck, a wordless sound of approval of your taste. You couldn’t help but feel flattered when he finally pulled away and licked his lips, a small trickle of blood staining the right corner of his mouth.

“Hmm… thank you, darling. That was…”

“Astarion! Astarion! Where the hells did he run off to now? I swear if he’s stealing scrolls from Rolan again, I will…”

The vampire rolled his eyes all the while you kept catching your breath from this unusual and strangely… erotic experience.

“I’m coming, Gale. Gods, the man is a nuisance.” He paused. “I shall hope to see you again, darling. You were delightful.”

Astarion slipped away gracefully, leaving you to sink down against the wall but before he did, he gently placed the entire gold pouch he’d been carrying in your palm with a sly smile.

Against all reason… you were hoping to see him again too.

[yerimbrit]

WWIB > 5. lunch with pretty (wc: 1.2k)

danielle grins happily as she listens to y/n explain each classroom and their respective teachers. mrs. kim and mr. park, the math teachers, mr. baek the literature teacher—the list goes on. y/n has more annoyed complaints to say about mr. song, which makes danielle giggle with her hand covering her mouth.

she notices her mentor has a hard time making eye contact with her. everyone that she's talked to is okay, but it seems it's different when it comes to danielle. it reassures her in thinking that her seatmate may already have some feelings for her too.

"mrs. kim is nice, but she keeps giving us pop quizzes," y/n gulps down the last of her pocari sweat and throws it away at the nearest recycling bin. "i don't know about mr. park but from what i've heard for eunchae—the girl who kept poking me in class today—he likes pop quizzes too."

danielle takes a sip of her strawberry milk. y/n was adamant about treating her, even if it was just the school vending machines. they finally replaced the selection with better drinks, and everyone's been swarming the machines during break according to the girl. "that's bad," she pouts, "i can't do well on tests without studying super hard; i'll have to study everyday."

y/n widens her eyes and shakes her head, finally glancing at danielle. the transfer student's eyes glimmer with genuine fear. "ah, it's not that bad! they're usually right after we review some introductory material or something like that, don't worry."

they walk through the hallways. some students stare in awe at danielle as they walk past the pair, even more so when she greets each of them with a bright smile. y/n looks like she's seconds away from either passing out or growling at the other students.

they're about to enter the cafeteria when danielle stops briefly. "you didn't have plans with your friends, did you? i know i asked if you wanted to eat lunch together but it's not too late to back out..."

y/n ponders for a moment, glancing around. "i'll... i want to eat lunch with you, it's okay. do you know anyone else here?" she slowly asks. 'she really has a permanent smile on her face,' y/n notes in her head.

"i have a friend who's a senior, but she's... busy today. i can always catch up with her later!" danielle answers easily, hoisting her backpack up to adjust it.

y/n nods and they walk into the already-bustling lunchroom. they don't bother getting in line since danielle brought her own food for today and y/n had a particularly big breakfast with haerin.

"you're not gonna eat?" danielle decides to question this decision, pulling her comically large lunchbox out of her bag, which separates into three different containers. she almost looks disappointed at the lack of food in front of her mentor. 'she's really expressive,' y/n adds to her mental note.

the girl in front of her stares in bewilderment, looking between danielle and her abundance of food that she prepared for lunch. "is that all for you?" she asks in astonishment, before quickly realizing that danielle might take it the wrong way. "i mean, not that i'm calling you-"

y/n gets cut off by the girl laughing. the sound makes her feel like she's floating, ready to ascend to whatever's up there. 'this must be heaven.'

"it's okay! i'm a big eater, i'm pretty active. i used to do track back in australia, but i had to quit because my family was moving back to korea."

the girl across from her nods in understanding, drumming her fingertips on top of the table. "you're from australia?"

"yeah! i was born there but we moved back and forth between seoul and newcastle. my mom's korean."

danielle takes the lids off of her lunchbox containers, revealing a copious amount of gimbap, some cutlery, and a whole box dedicated to a mix of cherry tomatoes and baby carrots. she gestures to the container filled with the fruits and vegetables. "want some?"

"oh," y/n's mouth forms an 'o' shape, and she picks a cherry tomato from the pile. "thank you."

the australian watches as y/n pops the fruit into her mouth with expectant eyes. "is it sweet?"

"mm, very."

"that's good! i love fruits and vegetables, i can't go a day without having them. oh, especially carrots. i love carrots," danielle rambles as she picks up a piece of her gimbap with her chopsticks and shoves it in her mouth. she repeats this until all of her lunch is gone, before y/n can even blink.

"hey loser," eunchae sets her tray down on the table, taking a seat next to y/n. "hi danielle!"

danielle flashes a huge grin and waves, recognizing the girl as the person that y/n was talking about earlier. "hello! eunchae...?"

"big baby..." y/n mutters under her breath. unfortunately for her, eunchae hears it and pinches her on the side. they side-eye each other.

then, as if nothing happened, she turns back to danielle with a friendly expression. "that's right! yunjin-unnie told me lots about you."

this turns out to be something that danielle didn't expect, because she lets out a loud gasp. "you know yunjin-unnie!?"

y/n curses at eunchae in her head.

the two get wrapped up in an exciting conversation about yunjin and how they know her, and also getting to know each other in the process. danielle, yunjin, and another girl named yuna grew up together, and they still keep in touch even now. they keep each other updated on almost every detail of their lives while danielle is away, and also exchanging small pieces of gossip.

eunchae's older sister, chaewon, is close friends with the musician, and she describes them as a "budding situationship" before she laughs it off and changes to a different subject. internally, y/n takes back the curses she directed to the younger girl as she also got to know the pretty girl better through their interaction.

two figures approach their table and eunchae and danielle's conversation is put on pause in order to see who arrived.

"ah, finally!" y/n stands up, moving her bag so the student council power couple could sit. "you took forever."

"danielle," eunchae starts, pointing to the girls that had just settled down in their seats with a lunchbox that the secretary packed. "this is hanni-unnie and minji-unnie, our very own student council secretary and president. guys, this is danielle, the new transfer."

"wow! it's so nice to meet you! i didn't know y/n-ssi was so connected."

"it's very nice to meet you, danielle," hanni states, making a face at y/n, who flips her off while the bright girl isn't looking.

the rest of the girls finish their lunch, with some taking their share of danielle's offered tomatoes and carrots (minji made a face, though no one except hanni and y/n noticed), and soon lunch was over. y/n's face pales at the bell.

she still has class with the new girl in two periods.

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[honesttoglob]

Ok so few thoughts on the Season 2 Bigtop Burger Supercut:

- Apparently the "freakazoids" that Cesare and the underworld have been keeping tabs on are Cryptids. I had suspected the freakazoids in question might be demons as Hell is taking some responsibility for them but they're cryptids??? Man, that just makes me sad, leave bigfoot alone :(((((

- One of the cryptids pictured is Flatwoods Monster, who, according to legend, is also an alien. The other two appear to be Mothman and though I'm a bit fuzzy on this one some sort of bigfoot or yeti creature. He's wearing a lil stetson hat. Did Cesare use the stetson hat trick before?

- The second still shown in the credits appears to be Munkustrap descending onto Earth on some sort of spacecraft as the Bigtop and Zomburger crews watch. They appear to be in the same positions/outfits as when Cesare whack-a-moled Steve into hell. Which is????? Idk what to make of that. Could Flatwoods Monster have some kind of alien technology that they used to contact Clown World? Are we finally gonna have Clown vs Undead War??????? I wonder how Munkustrap will react to seeing other clowns in the pink-yellow-blue spotted outfit which Tim, Penny and Billie are wearing, which seems to be a pattern which all banished clowns are exiled in. Looking forward to see how he looks now that he's aged! Also, I like that this scene implies the Zomburger and Bigtop gangs stick together! Which I want them too! SO BADLY!!!

- As @fr0stmask mentioned in a reply on this post, the spacecraft Munkustrap is seen on is actually a tire, as in the musical Cats, cats who are deemed worthy are sent up to the Heaviside Layer on a TIRE!!! Thanks for the info!

- What if the Cats performance is literal, and one clown actually gets sent "up to the heaviside layer", and that's what happened to Munkustrap and how he got the tire spacecraft. Steve got booted out via banishment and Munkustrap was chosen to ascend, but in the end they both ended up in the same place.

- Frances, Conrad and Allen look visibly upset when they realize Cesare isn't actually proposing a truce and is still up to his antagonistic bullshit.

- The image of Cesare in his weird little Cabinet of Dr. Caligari coffin makes my stomach do little back filps. We've seen Tim, Penny, Billie, Frances, Conrad, Allen, and Steve all in their own homes (For Steve it's his truck where he sleeps) but Never Cesare! Seeing him in there makes me nervous honestly because in the image, his box/cabinet has two doors on its front, with no handles inside, which suggests it closes from the outside and he's "stored" in there and deanimated (seeing as his eyes are closed and this is the only time we've seen him at rest) when not in use. This would add metaphorical meaning to Cesare's comments about being a puppet vendor, as now that's all he is- a puppet. He looks like a little doll being stored in his box. This seems to suggest something I've long suspected, that the "1000 year sentence" Cesare is being held on by the underworld may be bullshit, and he won't actually be allowed to go on retirement. Instead, this idea of his sentence one day ending is merely meant to motivate and control him, like a carrot being held in front of a horse. Could that candle shown at the end be his lifeforce? When its lit maybe he's animate, while when its snuffed out, he's a lifeless husk kept in a box.

- You think Cesare's and Steve's footie pajamas have a similar narrative role? Like to make them easily identifiable as rejects (in Steve's case) or property (in Cesare's case)? You think they're just meant to be dehumanizing or a source of shame?

- Tim was the first one to find Steve, which makes me feel fucked up that Steve still doesn't know his name and seems to mis-name him the most :(((((( Tom and Toby???????? I mean I get that my man likely has memory issues, he's very old and he hit his head very hard on the ground and he refuses to go easy on that fckng juul

- Baby Tim is so cute and handsome I'm dying

- The alley Steve emerges into in the after credits scene seems to rememble the alley with the hole in the ground that Conrad recounts Cesare getting money from. Is this because the underworld was able to track Steve's ascent through the ground to Earth's surface? Is this the same hole Cesare enters and exits the underworld from?

- Also, Steve spits out some rocks when he reaches the surface. U think that's how he started thinking of rocks as food? They just kimda got in ther and he thought "mmmnm yummy!"

- Based on the timelime and my own calcumalations, Steve landed in Sweden, creating the crater which is now known as the Siljan ring, and emerged a whole continent over in North America (at least I'm assuming the show takes place in North America. The driving wheel is on the left side, right? And everyone has American accents? (Except Tim) Is that enough?)

I have a theory that Penny reminds Steve of his own mother. Both women have the same voice actress (Lindsay Small-Butera, my beloved ;-;), and in season one, while Steve is high, once he hears Penny's voice, he shapeshifts into his child form (which I think might have been the last time he saw his mom before she dropped him off at Christian-Acting Camp) and asks her for soup. He's even in the same Little Lord Fontleroy outift. Also, at the Food Truck Expo, when Steve sees Cesare approaching him, he hides behind Penny's back. Also, they have a similar appearance in hair color and clown makeup.

- Speaking of Steve's family, in the scene where Steve is about to be shot into space, there are three clowns who stick out from the crowd. One, with a haircut resembling Steve's mother's on the right (I believe this is her), Munkustrap in the center (at least I believe this is him, their hair and faces are similar) and a male figure on the left. I believe this figure on the left is Steve's father, and Munkustrap is either Steve's brother or past love interest (I think him being his brother is more realistic because him being Steve's love interest and sending him into space is I think too dark even for this show).

- I think the clown actors in Cats may only refer to eachother by their character names. Munkustrap is given no other name, and Steve being stripped of his name as "Old Deut" is seen as a big deal.

- I noticed whenever male clowns get old, their hair develops into sort of a tonsure style with a little dollop of hair sitting right in the middle of their bald spot. Peanut has this, along with Steve's father, and Steve is also developing this as well, based on the wicked widow's peak he has whenever his hat is off.

- bro I wanna see Cesare and Munkustrap interact so bad. What if they get jealous of eachother like, "No! I'm the only emo twink that gets to make Steve's life a living hell, who the fck are you???"

- I want them. To fight lol

- Cat fight!!!!!

- I may be stretching with this one but Munkustrap and Cesare just look kinda visually similar to me? At least with the black onesie and the dark unkempt hair. You think there's a reason for that? Or is it more metaphorical, as in these are just two people who have an impact on Steve's life in that they do their best to not let him fit in with the general society?

- In the still of Munkustrap descending from the sky, Conrad is build like a brick shit house frfr

Just needed to get these thoughts out of my head so they don't weigh down on my humors and make me bad at art and work and remembering to eat food and sleep and bathe and breathe for the next however many months it is before another episode O-O

[mushroomlupin]

Sirius' Surprise Party

Pairing: marauders era!james potter x f!reader

Summary: james and reader have been best friends since they were little. what happens when there's drunk declarations of feelings at Sirius' birthday party?

Requested: yes or no (please send me requests!)

Warnings: none!

Word Count: 1,499

James Potter was warm. 

He liked the band Queen and he wasn’t afraid to dance to his favorite songs. 

He enjoyed hot cups of tea with extra milk and sometimes cinnamon sprinkled into it. 

He smelt of broomstick wood, honey, and musk. 

The most important things to him were his family and his friends. 

His laugh could light up an entire room. 

Yes, James Potter had an invincible ego, but his heart easily matched it.

The good thing about being neighbors was that it brought people who were close by even closer. James was your best friend because of this.

He would aid in catching frogs in the rain, laughing whenever they jumped at you and caused you to shriek. The two of you would build only the biggest snowmen, with mismatched buttons for eyes and a wonky carrot for the nose. James would take his own winter hat off and plop it onto the snowman’s head. 

“There,” he’d say with a proud smile. “I think we should name it James Jr.”

“Why does it have to be your name? Why can’t it be mine?” you’d ask.

“Because, he’d never be complete without me!” he’d grin and point at the beanie. 

Every time.

You were thinking about that specific memory when you heard a voice.

“Alright, Y/n?”

You turned your head, seeing Remus descend the stairs from the boy’s dormitories.

You shrugged.

“Can’t sleep.”

He nodded.

“Same.”

He sat down by the crackling fire, making himself a cup of tea. 

“What’s plaguing your mind?” you asked him, straightening yourself on the Gryffindor sofa.

He sighed. 

“Full moon in two days. You?”

“Potions essay,” you lied.

He nodded once more, sipping at his tea and opening a book in his lap.

“If you need help with it, you can always join us in the library. Lily’s quite knowledgeable on Potions. She always comes,” he offered with a small smile.

You knew Lily was exceptional at Potions, she was the reason you were doing so well in the class. 

“Thanks, Rem,” you smiled. “I might take you up on that.”

You did your best to fake a yawn and stretched your arms. 

“I think I’ll try to go to sleep. I hope you feel better.”

He offered a smile in thanks before returning his eyes to the pages on his lap. 

You ascended the stairs to the girl’s dormitories, making your way to the room with Mary, Marlene, and Lily. You watched in envy as they slept, knowing you’d return to your tossing and turning. 

***

You woke up, your brain and body clinging to the one hour of sleep you got as you dressed yourself and made your way to the Great Hall.

“Oi!” you heard from the Gryffindor table.

Your eyes scanned the long wooden bench, spotting a standing James with his hands waving at you in the air.

“I saved you some toast!”

You grinned, taking a seat next to him and digging in.

“How’d you know I’d be late?” you asked.

“Moony said you were up in the common room late last night,” he said, concern clear on his face. “What’s keeping you up?” Your heart hammered in your chest.

“Nothing,” you were quick to say to defend yourself.

He looked at you, brows furrowed.

“Right… Well, hurry up, so we don’t get points taken away from McGonagall for being late,” he reminded you.

You finished your food, trying to ignore the queasy feeling in your stomach from nerves. 

“Are you excited?” he asked, grabbing your books and carrying them for you as you both made your way through the halls to Transfiguration. 

You frowned. “Excited for what?”

He gasped.

“Only the best house party of the year!” he exclaimed. “It’s Pads’ birthday today, we’re holding a surprise party for him tonight.”

You raised a brow.

“How does he not know you guys are holding a party for him?”

He grinned, pride wafting off of him like an aroma.

“We’ve been going along with a plan for days now, acting as though we have no idea it’s his birthday. Moony is ‘too busy with the full moon’,” he used his fingers as quotations.

“Yeah, but that’s actually true,” you interrupted. 

He rolled his eyes.

“That’s not the point!” He shook his head. “As I was saying, Wormy is ‘too busy with Herbology work’ and I’m ‘too busy trying to perfect a prank on Snivellus’!” 

“I seriously doubt he believes any of that,” you admitted.

He shrugged.

“You’d be surprised.”

***

By the time the party came around, James was right; Sirius truly was shocked. The common room was filled to the walls with people. He may have been right that it would be the biggest party yet as well.

But, you were too exhausted to have fun. After rejecting Lily and Mary’s multiple advances to get you to dance with them, you leaned against a tapestry, brooding as you held a glass of firewhiskey in hand. You watched in disgust, and honestly envy, as everyone practically got it on with each other; Marlene and Dorcas were snogging on a couch, Remus and Sirius were snogging not even five feet away from them, and there was a Hufflepuff couple getting handsy with one another next to them as well. 

You saw James talking to a younger Ravenclaw girl, who was twirling her hair in her fingers, and you decided that that was the last straw. You tipped your head back and emptied the rest of the alcohol down your throat, that familiar burning feeling residing in your throat and belly, before you set the glass down somewhere and made your way up to your dorm. Maybe you could at least get some sleep, you thought. You felt your body sway up the stairs and all the way to your room, where you sat down on your bed and immediately felt tears start to well up in your eyes and a choked sob left your mouth. 

“Y/n?” What now?

“Please leave me alone!” you begged, now fully crying into your hands.

You heard footsteps come toward you. 

“No way,” James sat down next to you, brushing the hair out of your face with his fingers and cupped the back of your head. “What’s wrong?”

You shook your head.

“Everything,” you croaked. “I’m the only one in that common room that’s not feeling someone up.”

He stifled a laugh.

“Do you want me to find someone you can get handsy with? Because I will, you best believe I’ll make it happen.”

You shook your head once more, tears falling down your chin.

“I could’ve killed that Ravenclaw girl,” you muttered.

Your eyes widened as you realized what you’d just said.

“Amelia?” he asked with a chuckle. “Love, she was asking me about Peter! I was his wingman!”

You put your head in your hands with a groan.

“I’m sorry,” you pleaded. “I don’t even know why I’m getting upset about that…”

“Hey,” he tapped your shoulder, mentally asking for your attention.

You looked up at him.

“If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t like the thought of you getting handsy with someone else,” he admitted.

You raised your eyebrows.

“Are you serious?”

“No, I’m not Sirius… But speaking of Sirius, it’s his birthday and we’re having a huge party for him down in the common room!”

You shook your head, playfully shoving his shoulder. 

“I’m serious, James!”

“Happy birthday, then!” 

You rolled your eyes as he laughed.

“Fine, fine!” He put his hands up in defense. “No more jokes.”

You shook your head once more, fighting a smile.

“If you don’t want me to be with anyone else, and I don’t want you to be with anyone else…” he trailed off, “Then what does that mean?”

You shrugged.

“I suppose it means whatever we want it to mean.”

His hand grasped yours, fingers intertwined.

“Then it means whatever we want it to mean,” he confirmed with a nod.

Your chest felt full at this declaration between the two of you. 

 “James?” you asked.

“Yes?” he pushed a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

Your heart was going a mile a minute.

“Does that mean you can…kiss me?”

“Y/n,” his lips broke out into a grin. “I’ve been waiting to hear you say that my entire bloody life.”

He grasped your face in his big palms and crashed his lips against yours, your lips finding a smooth rhythm. Your fingers moved to tangle themselves in his brunette curls, pulling at them experimentally. He moaned against your lips, the kiss becoming deeper and more passionate.

He pulled away for a moment, his lips a shade darker and plump.

“I guess I did find you somebody to get handsy with,” he winked.

“Don’t ruin this!” you warned with a laugh.

“I can think of a way to ruin you,” he wiggled his eyebrows, bringing your lips back to his.

Sirius Black’s surprise party sincerely was the. Best. Party. Ever.

[marialeto]

Sunday December 22 🤎

Earth

Brown Ray of Light

Spirit Elohim

Metal Element

Solar Plexus Chakra

Number One

Archangel Shannon

Saints Jeremie and Michael

Ascended Masters Gabriel, Bailey, Juan and Julian

South and East directions 🧭

Last moon Wayneing Gibbous 54.3 in Libra ♎️ 1 (1:08 am) Jesus

First day of Capricorn ♑️ ☀️ Sun in Winter ❄️ Season

Crow 🐦‍⬛ Omen

Iron Ore Gate #solarsystem

Faith

Star Day

Feminine Masculine divinity

Seven of Swords

Armenia 🇦🇲

Fin

Day 60 in the Bible

#inspiration

Libra ♎️ 108

Shops 🏬 x

Seven 7️⃣

Magi

Evelyn

Farmers

Zodiac

Carrot

#parksystem

Wisconsin

Michigan

Minnesota

Illinois

12-22-2024

1222.8

78

15

6 🎲 #datenumerology #Jophiel

[midwestbramble]

Poison Hemlock Folklore

Conium machlatum

Ruled by ♄

⸙༄𓆤𓆩𓆪❁𓇢𓆸🏵

Contents:

Overview

Folklore

Uses in Witchcraft

Safety Notes

Conclusion

⸙༄𓆤𓆩𓆪❁𓇢𓆸🏵

Overview

Native to Europe (British English calls it hemlock) and South Africa, and naturalized in Australia, West Asia, and North and South America (though can be invasive depending on region, like my state), it is closely related to Water Hemlock (Cicuta douglasii), it is a branched perennial standing from 2 to 9 feet tall. The stems are hollow and grooved with purple spotting. Leaves are carrot-like with an overall outline like an equilateral triangle with more divisions. When bruised, the leaves are “ill-scented.” The flowers are white umbels that bloom from April to August.

-image courtesy of the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources-

⸙༄𓆤𓆩𓆪❁𓇢𓆸🏵

Folklore

-flying ointment-

The original name this plant was known by in different European countries was "Witch's Weed" in English, and is known as just hemlock today in Europe. This plant was named, along with many other poisonous plants, as an ingredient for the infamous flying ointment used by alleged witches in the early modern period.

-mark of cain-

The purple spotting is thought to be a mark of Cain as seen in the Old Testament. Cain being the brother who grew jealous of Abel's relationship with God and slew him, the mark given to him by God for various reasons that change depending upon belief system. A common one being that it marked him as someone to be weary of. Thus the purple spotting be the hallmark of this extremely deadly plant became known to those who were familiar with the Old Testament or Torah (more likely the Old Testament) as the mark of Cain.

⸙༄𓆤𓆩𓆪❁𓇢𓆸🏵

Uses in Witchcraft

There are many uses to be found for poison hemlock in folk magic and I highly suggest not working with this plant until you have done enough research on the poison path, as it is called in witchcraft (I suggest starting with the book "The Poison Path" by Coby Michael). The plant demands respect and gives clear warning that it doesn't fuck around. With that said, the experienced witch may form a relationship with this plant to be used in spirit flight. It's also a plant that can be called upon for working with the dead, cursing and hexing, among other magics that make the lay person squeamish. This is a great plant to work with from a distance if you are not comfortable working directly with poisonous plants (which is completely understandable). There are sigils and other ways to connect with the plants spirit that doesn't involve putting your life, or the life of others at risk.

⸙༄𓆤𓆩𓆪❁𓇢𓆸🏵

Safety Notes

Being the plant poison used to execute Socrates in Ancient Greece, it is fatal when ingested and contact can cause dermatitis. The juice is highly toxic. Young plants may resemble wild carrot, western osha root and the parsley family in general. Symptoms are a feeling of dizziness and movement, even when standing still. It’s main toxin, Coniine, is similar in structure to nicotine. It is a piperdine alkaloid, meaning it disrupts the activity of the central nervous system causing muscular weakness and respiratory paralysis (which leads to death). The muscular weakness starts in the lower extremities and rises to the heart and lungs making it an ascending weakness. There is no intense pain, convulsions, or disorientation unlike other neurotoxins. There is no known antidote, go straight to a doctor!

⸙༄𓆤𓆩𓆪❁𓇢𓆸🏵

Conclusion

Please, please, please, do not work with this plant if you are a beginner. Be careful of what you are working with and stay cautious. If it doesn't feel right with a plant, it's best to just walk away. Poison hemlock is testy but when approached appropriately it can get the job done.

[morgana-ren]

Ascended Astarion is so full of veiled threats and warnings against you misbehaving and I love it.

I won't need to compel you, because you're going to be wonderfully obedient.

Meaning he absolutely will.

He also is definitely toeing the line of yandere.

"Don't stray too far. But you'd never dream of doing that, would you?"

"As much I wish to sequester you in a deep chamber of my palace and keep ypu all to myself..."

The looks and body language is so manipulative. He's so careful with what he says and how he says it. There's no definite answers to your questions or worries, he feeds you platitudes and empty reassurances without actually saying anything.

Its such a toxic, and definitely crossing the line into an abusive, relationship. Ascended Astarion feeds into my kink of being owned and subjugated so hard

Astarion is a very different kind of predator than Cazador.

Cazador was a lot of brute force. An abusive master that had no need to placate his slaves because he was bigger, stronger, and better than they were. They had to obey him by nature. He never had to worry about underhanded tactics because at the end of the day, they were incapable of hurting him. He didn't give a fuck about them beyond their usefulness to him. If they died or got hurt, he only cared because of how it inconvenienced him. When Astarion disappeared, he didn't care because he cared for Astarion in any capacity; it was because Astarion dared to disobey him and inconvenience him.

So how did Astarion survive? Through manipulation. Through subtle action. Through words dipped in sugar and sweet smiles that hid absolutely venomous lies.

Now he is the power to be feared. He is the powerful one. Sure, he could break bones or flay flesh or whatever else have you, but old habits die hard. Why use the rod when gentle coaxing will work just as well?

Astarion has a vastly different relationship with Tav than he had with Cazador. His old master did not care about him at all. He didn't care if he was miserable or in pain or in the process of having his soul utterly destroyed. Astarion was a means to an end to him. He did not matter at all. There was no need to waste kindness on him. He did as he was told or he was punished. A very simple but effective system.

Tav, on the other hand, is very important to Astarion.

Now, does that mean he won't hurt her? Absolutely not. If she gets mouthy enough, or disobedient enough, or gets out of line, he will absolutely hurt her. Not in the same ways that Cazador did, mind you, but just as dreadful. Just as soul-breaking.

His words act as a warning.

'Behave, and you'll be just fine.'

He's pulling the opposite move. He's brandishing the carrot rather than the stick. He's saying "I won't do this to you." as opposed to saying what he will do. He's leaving that part up to your imagination, but he is letting you know that your actions very much do have repercussions.

Cazador didn't really give a singular fuck about Astarion. But oh, Astarion cares about Tav. Or, perhaps care is the wrong word. He is obsessed with her.

He won't kill her. He won't flay her and mar her beauty. He won't lock her in a tomb underground where she can't be by his side. But he will make her obey. He has other ways of doing that, and he's telling you outright what they are and what he wants without technically saying it.

He doesn't just want Tav, he is demanding her.

He's effectively saying "You belong to me and are mine to do with as I please" without actively having to say it. Cazador didn't have nearly the finesse that Astarion does. He would just outright say that. But Astarion? He's a smooth operator. But it's not just manipulation at that point anymore, is it? You know he has the power to back up those threats. You know that if you anger him, you very much will not like the consequences. You don't necessarily know what he will do to you if you dare to try and leave him, but you know he will find you. You know you can't escape. You know a lot of people will die in his efforts to exert his control over you.

Astarion doesn't have to outright say "I own you" because he can say it without saying it. He has a very special way with words where thinking about the consequences of it might be worse than facing them. He tells you that he will lock you away, but says it in such a way that it sounds like there's reasons he doesn't want to do that, and that obviously if he has to, it will be your fault. He tells you he's not going to compell you, and that if he does, it will obviously be because you made him do it.

It's the beginnings of a tactic that you see a lot in abusive relationships where the partner isn't just an outright brute. It's a great way to keep someone under your thumb. It's a great way to keep someone subservient and obedient without having to hurt them every time they anger you.

"I'll never have to hurt you if you behave. If you don't behave, obviously I have to hurt you. But that would be your fault, wouldn't it?"

He is extremely unhinged, obsessed, and possessive while seeming entirely composed. He is warning Tav to stay close. To obey. To be a good girl. Because if she doesn't? Well, whatever happens to her is going to be her fault. He loves her. He's doing it to keep her safe. To keep her in line. He doesn't want to hurt her (right? oh, never, he'd never want to hurt her, surely it doesn't get him off to exercise his power over her.) He loves her.

But there's nothing he won't do to keep his beloved queen and consort his safe.

[todaysdocument]

Condemnation Decree filed in U.S. v. All the Rights, Titles, of Robert E. Lee (Robert E. Lee Confiscation Case)

Record Group 21: Records of District Courts of the United StatesSeries: Confiscation Case FilesFile Unit: U.S. v. The Right, Title, Interest, and Estate of Robert E. Lee

[printed] At a special term of the District Court of the United States of America for the Eastern District of Virginia, held at the Court Room in the [handwritten] Customs House Building [typed] in the city of [handwritten] Alexandria [printed], on [handwritten] Friday the 15th day of April, [printed] in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred sixty three

[printed] Present, the Honorable John C. Underwood, District Judge.

[handwritten] No. 85

United States

vs.

All the rights titles interests and the Estate of Robert E Lee in and to All that certain piece parcel or lot of land and to the Home and buildings thereon situated lying and being in Alexandria County in the Eastern District of Virginia known as the Arlington House Estate formerly owned by George Washington Parke Custis and lately occupied by the said Robert E Lee Consisting of Eleven Hundred acres more or less Together with all the goods chattels and the personal property of the said Robert E Lee in and upon the said premises [illegible]

[printed] The papers in this cause having been heretofore returned, the usual proclamation having been made, the default of all persons being duly entered, and notwithstanding said default, witnesses having been called and examined by [handwritten] L H Chandler [printed] , Attorney for the United States, and due deliberation being had on the pleadings and proofs, it is thereupon, on motion of the said [handwritten] L H Chandler [printed] , ordered, adjudged, sentenced, and decreed by the Court, that the real and personal property mentioned and described in the libel in this cause, be, and the same accordingly is confiscated and condemned as forfeited to the United States.

 [printed] And upon like motion it is further ordered, adjudged, and decreed, that the Clerk of this Court issue a decree of venditioni exponas to the Marshall of the District, returnable upon [handwritten] ascending [illegible word]; [typed] and that the said Marshal, after having given at least [handwritten- Tene?] [printed] days notice of the time, place, and terms of sale [carrot-handwritten in] of the personal property [printed] by publication thereof in [handwritten] the Virginia State District in one or more [illegible word] [printed] published in the city of [handwritten] Alexandriae. [illegible 3 words] dat. Notice of [illegible word] place and [illegible word] of sale of the Real Estate by [persecutions?] thereof in one or more [illegible 2 words] in the City of Alexandria and in one or more [illegible 2 words] in the City of Washington DC [printed] sell the said property at public sale, for cash, to the highest bidder, and execute a deed for the real estate to the purchaser, and bring the proceeds of said sale into this Court for its action thereon.

[handwritten signature] John C. Underwood 

Dist Judge

[thelostgirl21]

When you read some of the things you'd written before watching Season 3, and they suddenly take on a new meaning...

His "weapon" isn't a sword, magic, or even his lute. After all, "Whoreson Prison Blues" sounded fantastic accompanied by spoons!

Yes. Spoons always make Jaskier sound fantastic. Jaskier really knows how to work with spoons, and work those spoons!

All Jaskier truly needs, to sound great and inspired, really, is a spoon!

Give Jaskier a spoon, and they'll be making sweet music together... Both literally and figuratively...

He doesn't need a weapon, he's one of the single most influential character of the series, in a sense, just by virtue of existing and doing "what he does best" - being an impulsively chaotic bard either seducing or pissing people off; and just touching things he probably shouldn't touch, and putting random stuff in his mouth.

Radovid, Comma Prince of Redania: *Spends his whole life doing everything he can to stay under the radar, be kept out of Redanian politics, and appear really dumb, incompetent, and drunk (note: although he was only pretending to be drunk with Jaskier in that scene, I think Hugh Skinner mentioned that Radovid does drink quite a lot to cope with everything that's going on, though, sort of as a way to "self-medicate") so people will let him be.*

Jaskier: *Shows up.*

Radovid: *Intensely crushes on him. Forgets he's supposed to play dumb, and instead offers actually good and sensible arguments as to why Jaskier Cirilla should come live with them in Redania.*

Jaskier: *Shows willingness to listen to Radovid, and offers to do what he can to convince Geralt and Ciri to accept the offer, should they find a way to get rid of Rience.*

Philippa: *Is impressed, and compliments Radovid on it.*

Radovid: *Immediately attempts to go back to playing dumb, hiding, and hopefully being of no interest to her or anyone else at court.*

Jaskier: *Shows up again, flirts with Radovid, lets him know that he's not fooled by his dumb drunken playboy prince act, utterly seduces him with a song (and as many "come hither looks" as one can humanly make fit in a single encounter) and humbly asks for his help.*

Radovid: *Falls even deeper in love with him, drops his act with Jaskier and agrees to help him. Suddenly gets deeply involved in Redanian politics. Argues with the spymasters that, maybe, they should start using carrots with people instead of sticks. Puts Philippa on Rience's trail, while letting Dijkstra know about his brother's secret meetings with Nilfgaard (probably counting on him to change Vizimir's mind regarding his plans of handing Ciri over to the Emperor), regularly starts showing disdain for Dijkstra's methods and gets himself on the spymaster's "shitlist"...*

Of course, one thing leads to another, and next thing you know:

Queen Hedwig is dead,

King Vizimir is dead, and now he's

Radovid, Comma King of Redania.

Right at the start of the second war between the Northern Kingdoms and the Nilfgaardian Empire, no less...

With his sister-in-law and brother's murderer(s) still likely running around the castle somewhere, and working for the people that just put that crown on his head...

And the love of his life still out there, risking his own life, hopefully having managed to reunite with Geralt, and now facing who knows how many dangers to attempt to go rescue Ciri...

So much for staying under the radar and avoiding to get politically involved!

Jaskier: *Seduces the Prince of Redania and uses his lips for extraordinary things...

...accidentally triggers a series of events that changes Redania's line of succession, and totally upends the power structure and dynamic of the strongest kingdom of the Continent!*

By this point, I would almost expect Geralt's response to learning that Vizimir has been assassinated, and that Prince Radovid has ascended to the throne, to be:

"Alright Jaskier, what did you do?"

Obviously, I knew that Prince Radovid was rumored to be Jaskier's new love interest in Season 3 back then... But I had absolutely no idea what Radovid's character would be like in terms of personality, motivations, etc.

Turns out that they found Jaskier a love interest that is basically as directionless and lonely in life as Geralt used to be in Season 1. Someone that doesn't want to get involved in politics or any of those games people in position of power like to play, and is basically just going through the motions of his life...

Until Jaskier shows up and, suddenly, he finds himself right at the heart of those politics, forced to make decisions and choices that will shape the future of the whole freaking Continent!

The main difference is that Geralt sort of continuously fought against Destiny, tried to ignore it, deny it, and push it away. And then, he blamed Jaskier for everything that went wrong and attempted to cut himself from him!

Whereas Radovid just immediately found himself irresistibly drawn to it and embraced whatever changes Jaskier brought into his life, while starting to make choices and take risks out of love without ever blaming him for it, or making it sound like he remotely held Jaskier responsible whenever things misfired or went wrong.

And even when things do go horribly wrong, all Radovid can think of, apparently, while looking at his dead brother is "going to see Jaskier."

But then, Geralt is much older than Radovid is and, from what I understand, has had his dreams and hopes crushed quite a few times whenever he's let his guard down and dared get attached to people in the past.

When you keep suffering loss after loss after loss... at some point, you probably figure that the best way to avoid loss is no longer feeling like you have anything valuable to lose. If you need no one, then you won't risk losing anyone.

Whereas Radovid's never had anyone from his own world he was able to genuinely emotionally connect with. And suddenly, he finds someone that sees him and is making an effort to attempt to understand him - something and someone he's discovered that he needs and doesn't want to lose.

But yeah, it's really fascinating, on the show, to see the way that our beloved bard just keeps... basically causing stuff to happen!

For better or for worse, Jaskier is making people that seemingly don't want to get involved be involved, and making them discover whatever their purpose appears to be in the grand scheme of things!

Yennefer:

The "Destiny" that brought them together:

And now that Lauren Hissrich has clearly stated that Ciri wasn't the descendant of Éile and Fjall that the prophecy was referring to in "The Witcher: Blood Origin", one has to wonder if it could be Jaskier.

Okay, first I just want to address people saying that it's sort of a "retcon" on what she'd said in the past and that she'd "all but confirmed it was Ciri already", because I actually found that interview and listened to it, and that's not quite what I took from it.

I mean yes, I can see how it could have been interpreted the way it was, but what she actually said is:

"Éile's pregnant, at the end. And we know that that's part of Ithlinne's Prophecy; that there is a seed in her that will eventually lead to someone who's important in the Witcher's world.

So, as someone who, for instance, on "The Witcher" 's side, follows Ciri and the origin of her genes and her blood... It's like, I kinda wanna know where that character's gonna go.

I wanna know if these two things are going to, you know, crash into each other at some point."

So, the way I personally understand it is that:

"Blood Origin" introduced the idea that there currently is someone, in the Witcher's world, that is connected to the Ithlinne's Prophecy by blood (by virtue of being the descendant of Fjall and the Lark), and that they will sing the last note of a song that ends all time.

The prophecy about them goes:

"The time of the spheres is upon us. Aen Seidhe [the elves of the Continent] lost across the skies. Cast adrift in time. Ever searching for love, lost and left behind. The Lark’s seed shall carry forth the first note of a song that ends all times. And one of her blood shall sing the last."

And that, on the show "The Witcher", Ciri's also a character whose genes and blood is given a lot of attention and importance to. So, as a member of the audience, she'd be curious to know if these two different characters are going to crash into each other at some point, and those two parts of the Prophecy are going to connect.

The rest of the Ithlinne's Prophecy from the books, that's connected to Ciri, is:

"Verily I say unto you, the era of the sword and axe is nigh, the era of the wolf's blizzard. The Time of the White Chill and the White Light is nigh, the Time of Madness and the Time of Contempt: Tedd Deireádh, the Time of End. The world will die amidst frost and be reborn with the new sun. It will be reborn of Elder Blood, of Hen Ichaer, of the seed that has been sown. A seed which will not sprout but burst into flame. Ess'tuath esse! Thus it shall be! Watch for the signs! What signs these shall be, I say unto you: first the earth will flow with the blood of Aen Seidhe, the Blood of Elves... May Ye All Wail, for the Destroyer of Nations is upon us. Your lands shall they trample and divide with rope. Your cities razed shall be, their dwellers expelled. The bat, owl and raven your homes shall infest, and the serpent will therein make its nest..."

She also said, in a Tudum Interview: "One of the things that we love about Sapkowski’s books is his attention to genes, to bloodlines, and to how families grow and develop."

And in Season 3, Jaskier keeps referring to Ciri, Geralt, and Yennefer as "his family".

They may not be related by blood, but they are still "family" to him, in the truest sense (like, I think, the Seven established a family-like bond).

And Jaskier is the one that brought them all together. "The Lark’s most precious note shall be the key to all things", and Jaskier does feel like he's the key to all things, at times.

He's just randomly traveling the Continent, unlocking people's destinies left and right, connecting with them, struggling with the thought of settling down.

He's also drawn to people that are "ever searching for love", and that feel "lost and left behind".

Geralt, Yennefer, Ciri... Radovid, even.

And, of course, the elves, that he became "The Sandpiper" to protect.

What I'm also wondering is if the part of the Ithlinne's Prophecy, at the end of "Blood Origin", was added at the same time that they chose to introduce Seanchai and change the role that Jaskier was initially meant to play in the spinoff.

Because it would appear that Seanchai's true form would be that of an ancient elf.

So, "Blood Origin" introduces us to two incredibly powerful ancient elves with the ability to cross time and dimensions.

Avalach, that shares a connection to Ciri in the books (I won't spoil it for those that haven't read it), and

2. Seanchai.

So, what if Seanchai was the child of Éile and Fjall? The Lark’s seed, that shall carry forth (throughout history) the first note of a song that ends all times?

And this is sort of what the show's creator had to say about her character:

It just sort of fitted so well in. When I was thinking about this idea with Seanchaí story collection, it was that moment where all the story about music, and story and words being more powerful than any army, sort of all felt less than [compared] to [having] it sort of personified in this sort of creature that’s raison d'être is to collect stories because they are so powerful. It was great. And the name Seanchaí actually comes from... It was a position in Ireland where you were a storyteller, and you went between the halls of kings, and you went to chieftains and people, and they were the most powerful people in the land and kings were fucking terrified of them – and queens – because one bad story would destroy you as a king. And they were far more worried about that than any army. And then bringing that back to life in this world, it just all clicked. It was one of those lovely synchronous moments of story.

Because the child of Fjall and the Lark is supposed to carry forth (not sing, carry) the first note of the song...

...and one of her blood shall sing the last note of that song.

And when Jaskier asks Seanchai "Why did you save me from the Temerians?", she answers "I need you to sing a story back to life. We're related you an I."

She then explains that he's a bard and she's a storyteller, of a sort...

But that's just the thing. A storyteller might be able to carry the notes of a song - for centuries, perhaps - but she would need a bard to actually sing it when the time was right.

And yeah... The idea that she meant a bit more than just "storytellers and bards have a lot in common" when she said "we're related, you and I", would be intriguing...

The problem, however, is that should it be Jaskier (regardless of him being related to Seanchai or not...), it would sort of make that part of the Ithlinne's Prophecy extremely literal. Almost too literal, one might say.

Not to mention that the way the scene is filmed really seems to be meant to heavily imply that it is Jaskier.

Because, when Seanchai says "...and one of her blood shall sing the last", we are pulled out of the past to the present, where Jaskier is seen writing the last words of a story.

And, when he tries to get her to elaborate on who she's referring to, the answer Jaskier gets is: "Sing the 'Song of the Seven', Sandpiper".

Then, when Jaskier looks back at the last page of the story he's just written, the camera zooms in on "...and one of her blood shall sing the last.", while it starts raining, some dramatic ominous music starts playing, and Jaskier is suddenly back to standing on the battlefield.

So, it feels like she's giving him the answer to his question by telling him to sing.

Then, Seanchai goes on, saying "...so the oppressed may find hope and strenght in the tale of their ancestors; and be ready for the great change to come;" and you see an elf come to squeeze Jaskier's shoulder to let him know the battle is won (at least, this one), and invite him to follow them.

And, even if the only way that Seanchai and Jaskier were "related" would be through their love for either collecting and preserving stories, and/or sharing those stories with the world, she still says that she needs him to sing a story back to life.

So, if you were a powerful ancient elf that actually knew who was meant to sing the very last note of a specific story, wouldn't you want to let them know how the story actually began, too?

Jaskier: I'm just a bard.

Seanchai: In her mind, going:

A bard with a blood marked by beast and magic, that felt an instant connection and deep sense of kinship towards a Witcher that everyone hated, feared, and called a "Butcher"...

A bard that brought said Witcher to Calanthe's banquet - where he prevented Duny's demise, and claimed his future daughter, the Elder Blood Princess, as his own.

A bard that brought the Witcher to Yennefer of Vengenberg, the sorceress that would come to love that child as her own daughter, too, and help protect and raise her, too.

A bard that feels intimately drawn to everyone on the Continent - men, women, elves, dwarves, even polymorphous, apparently... - regardless of race or creed, and would step in and risk his life to protect those being persecuted on the basis of being seen as "the other"...

A bard that embodies the complexity, beauty, and diversity of everyone's stories on the Continent, and feels like - if the muses stopped talking to him and inspiring him to write and sing those songs - he'd have no idea who he was anymore, and would no longer be able to do the one thing he was put on this Continent to do?

A bard that inspires people to grow, get involved, and ultimately become the better versions of themselves...

A bard, whose ancestors' fight against Balor lead to the Conjunction of the Spheres, the arrival of the humans on the Continent, of the monsters, the creation of the Witchers, and the beginning of a story that he'll witness and sing the conclusion of.

But yes, just a bard.

But yeah, it's like the show is pointing us so strongly in Jaskier's direction and wanting us so much to think it's him that it's almost suspicious or "too easy" to assume it's him.

What also makes me hesitate, in some ways, is that people would expect someone that's been described as having "a blood like no other, marked by beast and magic", to be exhibiting superhuman powers of some sort, and have powerful magic of their own, I suppose.

While Jaskier is very much human. But Seanchai (and the show runners, apparently) sees great power in the ability to shape the world through storytelling, and she makes it sound like she truly respects Jaskier's "power", and the way he's been using his voice to help change people's perception of outcasts.

Even "Toss A Coin To Your Witcher" was all about changing the way people irrationally feared and reviled witchers, and treated them as freaks.

Yes, he threw Filivandrel and the elves under the bus with that one!

No one's denying that, and I've always headcanoned that one of the reasons why he became the Sandpiper is because he realized he truly messed up with "Toss A Coin", and was attempting to take responsibility for his mistakes and right some of his wrongs.

But "Toss A Coin To Your Witcher" was still about changing people's perception of witchers, so that Geralt would be seen as a noble, brave, larger-than-life heroic protector that was also a friend you could just enjoy a pint with, rather than some unrelatable mutant freak without any emotion that one should fear and keep their distance from in general, unless they had an even more dangerous monster needing killing.

He tried helping one outcast, but sadly made things worse for others.

And we also have to remember that we're talking about a very young Jaskier that had been brought up in the human world until then, and likely didn't fully grasp nor understand how much damage humanity had done to the elder races. We're talking about someone with a fairly limited worldview that genuinely thought elves were just "hiding in their golden palaces" while humanity suffered until, like, seconds ago.

Filivandrel might have started shaking those perceptions, but I doubt it would have been enough to completely make him unlearn all the lies and prejudices he'd been taught, and fully realize that what had happened to Filivandrel wasn't the exception when it came to elves, but the norm.

Now, Jaskier knows and understands better. Back then? He still had things to learn. I guess my point is that, despite all of his flaws and shortcomings as a young bard, Jaskier was still using his voice in ways meant to help someone connect with, and be accepted by, the world.

He's always been highly empathetic, and likely to spontaneously side with those that needed to have a voice after having been cast aside.

And, should Jaskier be, indeed, the descendant of the very first Witcher, it does add a rather unique element to the way he immediately trusted that he'd be safe traveling with Geralt, and never instinctively feared who and what he was, regardless of the reputation he'd acquired after Blaviken.

Something in Jaskier's DNA would apparently be telling him that Witchers make perfectly suitable life companions!

And Fjall was kicked out of his clan when they found out he was having an affair with Princess Merwyn!

So, getting into trouble because you hid your sausage in the wrong royal pantry would be a family trait that would go back generations!

It can't be helped, really!

Éile was into Dog Clan people and Witchers.

Jaskier is into Wolf Clan people and Witchers.

Fjall was into Royals and Bards.

Jaskier is into Royals and Himself.

These three are obviously related!

"Song of the Seven" would be a part of Jaskier's own heritage, too. He'd be singing about the history of his own ancestors, and their very own "found family", rather than singing about a group of outcasts he has no intimate or personal connection to.

And, should Éile indeed be one of Jaskier's ancestors...

Well, she was called "The Lark"...

And Jaskier chose to call himself "The Sandpiper"...

It's actually what Seanchai replied when Jaskier asked "Are you sure you've got the right man for this?"

Something like "Of course I am. You're the Sandpiper. Smuggler of elves to safety."

Apparently, small sandpipers are also sometimes called "sand larks".

So...

If Jaskier was the one referred to in that part of that Prophecy, then the song would start with the Lark's seed... and end with a Sand Lark!

Then, there's Radovid...

Because, of course, out of Jaskier's entire repertoire, he would be drawn to that song the most!

A part of me can't help but think I'm just looking way too deep into this, and making connections that are probably extremely accidental, but still, I can't help but think it would be really cool if Jaskier did end up being the Continent's MVP, in a sense.

If the whole point of Blood Origin - beyond giving us some insight on how the first Witchers were created and why, the Conjunction of the Spheres, the humans arriving on the Continent, etc. - was to clearly establish bards/storytellers (namely Éile, Jaskier, Seanchai...) as being some of the most powerful beings of their world.

While some would probably find it anticlimactic that Ithlinne's Prophecy, in "Blood Origin", would simply be about a "humble human bard" that would have inherited Éile's gift for storytelling and singing - rather than some sort of primal power or something (due to their connection to the first Witcher) - I think it would be fitting.

Dijkstra & Philippa: We have control over Redania’s resources!

Radovid: I have a Sandpiper.

He's just like the Queen on the chessboard, fiercely protecting the King by messing up the other pieces' moves, hard to predict because he can take off in too many directions and in too many ways...

And everyone's also after him, trying to knock him down, because he just keeps fucking their game over!

Also, as it turns out, there were many more character posters this season! And Jaskier wasn't the only one without a "physical weapon" or object of some sort...

But my favorite's got to be Radovid. I mean Jaskier's standing there, taking everything in, hyper-alert and ready to do "something" about it.

And our poor sweetheart is just... standing there with his fur heavy blanket cloak, discreetly looking over his shoulder, looking half-curious about what's happening and half totally done with this shit, just about ready to pour himself yet another drink...

Story of his life!

[c0rpseductor]

this is probably nothing to feel smart about but i feel smart anyway. in this bit of the ascendancy audiobook thrawn breaks formation and draws a bunch of attention to his ship on purpose and the commander guy was like UGH!! HES BEING SO STUPID WHAT IS HE DOING!!! and i was like “Um clearly he’s drawing attention to himself on purpose as a clever gambit. either to make the enemy kettle themselves or help the other chiss ships more easily pick them off while they’re distracted but I don’t remember how many other ones there are I wasn’t paying a lot of attention bc I was thinking about how much profit im going to get from these carrots in ffxiv” and then thrawn was like “umm don’t be silly it’s clearly because i’m distracting the enemy with my seemingly idiotic move so they will focus on us and the other chiss ships can pick them off easily” and i was like Woah I figured out what he was doing before he said it for once! however I think this does not indicate any kind of tactical smartness so much as Genre Acclimation or perhaps Pattern Recognition. i have listened to a lot of thrawn books you see