#cr ficlet

[ariadne-mouse]

You know Essek's life now is hectic when he smells like he's "a day and a half to two days past his last bath" when he is a wizard with Prestidigitation aka the ideal arcane "pits & bits" sink bath. Like this is funny both because a day and a half or two days is not that long if your priorities are "running from the law" so clearly he is still finding ways to take care of himself but also he Has The Power to be squeakier and simply he hasn't.

[the-kaedageist]

The inn is small and plain, the tables worn from years of patrons and the weight of beer steins. Essek touches his fingertips to the wood and thinks about how far his life has come. “Why are we here?” he asks after a long moment. Caleb looks up from where he had been spacing out, presumably lost in old memories as he glances around the room.

“Oh, ja,” he says, catching himself. “This is where we first met. The Mighty Nein, I mean.”

Essek’s eyes widen. The room takes on new hues, a history he hasn’t been able to read from the furniture and the beer spilt in the corner. He can see the ghosts of younger versions of his friends, set lightly upon this space like a memory - Jester laughing and carving a dick into one of the tables, Beau and Fjord drinking from steins and ribbing one another. Caleb sitting with Veth, who presumably would have been Nott then. Yasha by the bar, perhaps, with the infamous Mollymauk. They had started off with only seven, not having any idea that someday they would be the nine of their strange moniker.

“Ah,” says Essek, not sure how to put all of these impressions into words, especially not in Common. “An auspicious beginning, I see.”

Caleb shares a small grin with him. Essek knows that smile; it usually forecasts some statement that Caleb knows will horrify Essek’s delicate sensibilities, looking forward to how Essek will react.

“Yes, what is it, Caleb Widogast?” Essek asks, trying to keep the answering smile from his own lips and already planning to act as affronted as possible.

“I was covered in mud and shit, you know,” Caleb says conversationally, a gleam in his eye. “When we first met. You would not have come within five feet of me.”

Essek has heard tales of dirty Caleb, and privately been amused at the thought. “I would have Prestidigitated you clean long before you came close enough to be a problem,” he says confidently.

Caleb laughs openly; it’s good to see him comfortable and safe enough to do so. “Perhaps I should fall in the mud and see how cool you would act around me now,” he says with a straight face. His eyes gleam with mischief.

“We shall see then, who is faster on the draw,” says Essek smugly. “My Prestidigitation, or your determination to get dirt upon me first.”

Caleb laughs again and moves to the bar to order them trosts, while Essek sits at the table and waits for the others to arrive. It seems fitting, that Caleb chose this place for their first monthly reunion since Uk’otoa had been vanquished. A new beginning, in a place where a beginning had been forged once before.

Caleb returns, carrying two trosts and wearing a thoughtful smile. “Wishing you had been here to join us from the start?”

Essek is rarely surprised at how well Caleb knows him, these days. This comment still throws him, putting words to a yearning that Essek hadn’t even begun to understand himself. “Had I been here from the start,” Essek says, “the story would have turned out very different.”

Caleb hums and clinks their glasses together, sipping from his trost with a hum. “True,” he acknowledges. “And in the end, you found us assholes anyway.”

The door flies open. Beauregard and Yasha make their way inside, Fjord and Jester hot on their heels. “What did we miss?” Beau demands.

“Hey Trostenwald,” Jester shouts. “We’re back!” She proceeds to cast Thaumaturgy and blow out all the windows in the inn. The innkeeper glares at her in a way that implies she’s not at all surprised by this occurrence.

As the room fills with the shouts and laughter of the Mighty Nein, Essek sits back with a smile.

Yes, indeed. In the end, Essek found them all anyway.

[socallmedaisy]

Laudna has been quiet since they were shown to guest rooms in the Castle for the night. Imogen recognises the silence; it usually means Laudna is lost in her own thoughts, or maybe today it's memories of this place, only now she has no way of knowing exactly what Laudna is thinking about. 

She's glad of that, truly, but there are times like this when she misses it, just a little. 

They're sharing a bed like they always do, Imogen curled into Laudna, Laudna bent towards her like a flower reaching for the light, their hands joined loosely between them, the tips of Laudna's fingers caught up in Imogen's. Fearne is breathing deep and steady in the other bed—none of them had said anything, but when the guards had shown them to two guest rooms, the three of them had walked purposefully into one of them and shut the door behind them before anyone else could follow—and Imogen inches her head forward, squeezes Laudna's fingers until Laudna's eyes flicker open to look at her. 

(It's the biggest tell she's not really asleep; when she is, her eyes are open.)

Imogen glances towards Fearne's bed, then taps a finger against her own temple and arches an eyebrow in a question, and waits for Laudna to nod her consent before she joins their minds together. 

Are you alright? Imogen tries to keep her thoughts gentle, like maybe Laudna will startle. She bites her lip and then asks the second part of her question, the one that's been rolling around in the pit of her stomach since they were getting ready for bed in silence. Since she was mean to a man who had done nothing other than share his name with a boy Laudna used to know. Did I do something? 

What? Laudna's thought comes back at once, not quite as gentle. No, I—

Imogen forces herself to wait, watches Laudna shake her head imperceptibly against the pillow. 

Laudna frowns. It's just this place. And—

And what? Imogen asks, anxiety twisting in her chest, when no more words come. 

I don't like being here. But I don't think I hate it. And I certainly don't hate the de Rolos. But she does. And sometimes I'm not sure how much of what I'm feeling about this place is me and how much of it is… not me. Laudna meets her eyes again, unblinking and then looks away quickly, like she's ashamed. Imogen hates it, instantly. 

It must be hard to come back to the place where— Imogen swallows, To come back here, after everything that happened. I don't think you have to have your feelings all neatly sorted out. I'm not sure anyone could given the circumstances. 

She swallows the urge to say she's not sure how she feels about this place either, how last time she was here and Laudna wasn't and it was one of the worst times of her life. 

Laudna doesn't say anything, but she does tighten her grip on Imogen's fingers, and after a second she dips her head forward so she can press her mouth against the tips of them. It makes Imogen shiver. 

I thought that's what we could do later, Laudna says eventually, and for a second Imogen is so focused on Laudna kissing her fingers she thinks Laudna means something else entirely. Go to try to find the good parts of Whitestone, if I can remember any. I thought it might help. She shifts on the bed, her knees bumping up against Imogen's. 

Finally, Laudna glances up at her, through her lashes. Imogen releases a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. 

But then after what happened with Andrew I'm not sure I should let you loose on anyone else I remember or who might remember me. There's a spark in Laudna's eye when she says it, her sing song lilt back in Imogen's head, and Imogen huffs out a breath, embarrassed. 

Can you blame me for defending you? If I ever meet that kid—

Darling, Laudna cuts in, leaning forward quickly, you realise you don't have to make up for every bad thing that ever happened to me? I already have you. That's enough. 

Imogen swallows, hard, and tangles her fingers more tightly with Laudna's. I wish you wouldn't say stuff like that when we're sharing a room. She wonders if her thought might have sounded breathless in Laudna's head. She hopes it did, hopes Laudna knows exactly how it makes Imogen feel when she says things like that. 

Laudna's eyes flick over towards the other bed again. Fearne can't hear us—

I know, but it makes me want to kiss you so bad. 

For half a second, she can't believe she said it, but then Imogen watches Laudna's pale cheeks grow a shade darker and she's glad she did. 

Oh, Laudna thinks. She shifts again, and it brings her even closer, her lips inches from Imogen's. Imogen watches Laudna's eyes flick down then back up to meet Imogen's gaze.  Maybe just once couldn't hurt. 

Imogen silences the voice that says it's a bad idea and darts forward to close the space between them at once, her fingers nudging Laudna's chin up to meet her. She presses her lips to Laudna's softly, almost afraid to move, but not wanting it to end, her forehead coming to rest against Laudna's before she breaks the contact. 

They stay there, savouring the closeness. 

I'm glad you're here, Laudna says in her head, and the thought is soft like a secret. Always, but especially today. 

Imogen presses her forehead a little closer and nods against Laudna's cold skin. I'm glad you're here too. 

[cobaltsoulsearcher]

Inflorescence

The first thing any Ashari druid learns is how to make a flower bloom. It’s a holiday, almost, the day when children learn to make a bud split open. Grandparents smile and toddlers stuff their mouths with petals. Parents look forward to off-season bouquets, teens to the teasing exchange of tulips and daisies from friends and classmates and crushes. There are picnics at graveyards, and scavenger hunts for bulbs hidden for this exact occasion. It’s not just druids who learn, either; if a Zephrahn or Pyrahn or Terrahn or Vesrahn can cast one spell, it is this one. 

Orym is not Ashari by blood; his mother settled in Zephrah, his father wandered on. But he is Ashari, and nothing connects him more to his culture and his people than pulling summer from dew-coated capsules or smiling in time with a sudden blossom. He spreads his fingers as the petals of a pansy unfurl, and sprinkles them onto his mother’s baking; he harvests sunflowers to toast on warm days, no matter the month. His mother can’t cast the spell, but she loved flowers, loves watching him birth color and petals and beauty.

He pulled up their irises from the box beneath his window after Will died. They were half-browned, lackluster; he blessed them back to bloom. Only the best for his husband. Only the best to be buried with his father, only the best to be salted with his grief. He finds a packet of seeds Derrig had given them for housewarming in the cupboard; he brings them to inflorescence in the time it takes his watering eyes to form tears. 

The streets feel empty that night, and it’s not just because so many have huddled in their homes, drawing relatives close in fear. All the flowers have been shuttered, gently closed. It feels as if the entire city is holding its breath in reverence to those they have lost. Zephrah knows how to bloom, and Zephrah knows how to grieve. 

He moves back in with his mother. A bouquet is waiting to welcome him home, white petals already beginning to droop and fall. Snowdrops. He looks out the window, towards the manor where he has reported for duty day after day, time after time, and it’s all he can do to stop from crying again. 

The flowers in Alma’s garden don’t open until spring, that year. They feel so young and soft against his fingers, but he doesn’t pick them, and when they close and fall, he returns them to bloom.

My second piece for the weekly version of @mysticsparklewings's obscutober.

[blorbologist]

How about Cassandra & Kynan for 29? 💛

29. Drumbeat of the Dunmer (Morrowind Soundtrack)

[TW for canon-typical gore and zombie shenanigans. Kept under the cut.]

They should have used the damn teleportation circle. 

But nooooo - the carriage rocks as someone crashes into it, then bucks again as the team of horses jostles in terror. Cries and gunshots sound far more distant outside until a bullet rips through the window like cloth.

‘Cass, you need to travel more!’ - Cassandra is rifling through her affects for her rapier. The hilt is perfect in her hands; the blade tears through the dress she’d worn because Vex’ahlia insisted this would be more comfortable for the long journey -

‘There’s so much outside of Whitestone for you to see!’ - what she sees as she opens the door, guard up, is the torso of an undead giant crawling towards a lone rifleman drawing it away. She mistakes the legs for trees, over there, haloed by fresh blood. 

‘It’s quite enjoyable!’ he said - she swallows the nausea (to imagine she was once used to the smell) and steps over a body (don’t look, don’t look) to peer past the throng of guards.

“Lady de Rolo!” Trisha snaps, harsher than Cassandra has ever heard her. “Please return to your carriage -”

“What are our losses?”

Her guard hesitates. “Only one.” Better numbers than Cassandra expected - her brother’s rifles are really paying for themselves. “But we have a couple of recruits who won’t be fit to ride, my Lady -”

Cassandra has stopped listening. The crawling giant, entrails trailing after it like festive ribbons, looks about the same size. But the figure it’s chasing is getting smaller and smaller. “Kynan? Trisha, is that Kynan?” 

(Captain Leore. Captain Leore, not Kynan, but she’s too scared to maintain professionalism.)

Trisha does not answer; she immediately (and correctly) guesses what Cassandra is about to do and puts that time to better use lunging for her charge. The Guardian of the Woven Stone, however, grew up with six older siblings and easily ducks out of the way. And she runs.

Now that she has a closer look, it’s embarrassing that she did not recognize Kynan sooner: his stupid feathered hat stands out against the Parchwood’s gnarled trees and all the blood. He’s backing up as he reloads, just enough to keep out of the giant’s long reach - but occupied with his task he only occasionally checks the terrain behind him. 

Her heart stumbles at the thought of him tripping. The tear in her dress serves her well, splitting wider and wider with each stride as she picks up the pace. 

Kynan does not trip; he backs up into a tree, glancing behind himself in shock. And then he trips over its roots as he scrambles to get behind the trunk as the giant lunges at him with a gurgling roar. 

Cassandra would like to say she does not think before leaping in to save him.

Except she does think: that the edge of the canopy will potentially impede the arms if it tries to reach up, that the head is so much bigger close to the ground, that even if she’s wrong she can’t not do anything, that it’s Kynan, that Delilah always complained about her creations’ weak point.

One step - her foot sinks into the rotting flesh of its shoulder, stabilizing on the shoulderblade. Another - back of the neck, the vertebrae keep her foot steady. One more - she launches herself onto the head. The cloudy, grey-green pupils begin to look up. They don’t have time to focus on her as Cassandra drives her rapier into the giant’s eye.

Human eyeballs are roughly the size of a golf ball. This is far, far larger. Cassandra is up to her elbow - elbows, two hands on the hilt for more force - in viscous material and fluid, and then up to her shoulder as something gives and the blade hits home. 

She’s jostled as the giant’s arm falls with a crash, catching on an unfortunate tree. Breathing heavily, she tugs her rapier. And tugs again. And again. 

“Oh, wow.” Kynan says from where he fell. Cassandra does not dare look up. If she keeps staring at what’s left of the massive pupil, at her arm in the pupil, perhaps she’ll be able to - “I - wow. Hang on, I’ve got you.”

Kynan takes her by the shoulders and give a firm tug. It does free her, yes, but it also sends Cassandra skidding down from her precarious perch - Kynan catches her here, too, and steadies her.

The flush of exertion quickly turns into one of embarrassment. Her dress is absolutely ruined. There will be no salvaging this. 

Cassandra clears her throat. The effect is ruined by her gasping for breath. “I - well done, Captain Leore. Excellent work. Are you hurt?”

“Yes, my Lady - I mean no!” he stammers. “I’m fine. Thanks to you - so. Thank you, really. And - oh, no. You’ve got something - well.”

Kynan fishes for what turns out to be a pathetically small kerchief. When he steps forward to offer it to Cassandra, he visibly winces. That won’t do. She wedges herself under his arm. His wobbly protests are mostly excuses about bothering her, and not related to how the eyeball goo is now all over him, too.

“Whitestone is only five hours behind us,” Cassandra says, raising her voice (the remainder of the guard detail jumps to attention). “We will turn around and head home to bathe and rest - I’ll organize teleportation to Westrunn tomorrow.”

More quietly, she says, “And you will ride in the carriage with me, understood?”

“Yes, Lady Cassandra,” Kynan says meekly.

(Once they are in the carriage, she uses his kerchief to dab at the mess of blood at his temple, livid and relieved in equal measure. 'Quite enjoyable', he said! Oh, she’ll give Percival one hell of a verbal thrashing when they get back!)

For my Spotify Wrapped Prompt Game!

[formerlycookierunauprompts]

AU Ficlet #1 💓

( Not really an x reader more of a self indulgent Mod Kenzie Self Insert fic.)

Oh, oh this is absolutely awful. Was Shadow Milk Cookie's first thought upon being sealed by that... new holder of his soul jam. And now, here he is in this... Cookie Kingdom, basically powerless and tiny(in his standards at least) with barely anything entertaining to do because he's supposed to be on his 'redemption arc' or whatever. " Shadow Milk?" He hears a voice call out, belonging to non-other than his rather odd roommate Marshmallow Fluff Cookie. For some reason she never said his full name, just saying Shadow Milk because it was a lot less of a Mouthful. Before, he simply had to look down upon her like every other cookie, but now that he was sealed he had to look up at her. Jeez, for a cookie, Marshmallow Fluff Cookie was extremely tall. Nowhere near as tall as he was, but at least twice his size or a little less. " 'M fine," He huffed out in a pissy manner. " It's just so boring here! Isn't there anything to do?" She chuckled at his childish display. " What? Did you already get banned from the Arena?" She joked, unaware that yes, Shadow Milk had been banned from the arena for attempting to forcibly control the other team in order to get them to fight amongst themselves. He huffed, turning away from her. " Maybe." He could hear her suppress yet another laugh at his misery. " Oh! Woe is me!" He cried dramatically, flopping backwards only to be caught in Marshmallow Fluff Cookie's arms. " To think that I, Shadow Milk Cookie, am being mocked by the one cookie I can barely call a friend in this witch forsaken kingdom." He whined, crocodile tears twinkling in his eyes. " Oh dear, " She said with a smile, playing along with his dramatics as she lifted him up into her arms. " Whatever shall the great and powerful Shadow Milk Cookie do~?" Unfortunately his little cookie brain decided to short circuit right then and there. Was this what it felt like when he picked up another, much smaller, cookie back in his unsealed form? It felt... weird, but strangely in a good way? Once his brain started to brain again he immediately wrapped his arms around Marshmallow Fluff Cookie's shoulders, just so that he wouldn't fall, no other reason. " Ah, Shadow Milk? Are you alright? Your face is... blue, bluer than usual actually." Marshmallow Fluff Cookie asked, seemingly genuinely curious to why his face had turned such a brightly hued blue. " It's nothing!" he quickly deflected, " it's just a trick of the light! You know how lighting can be-" " Are you... Blushing?" She asked, a more playfully teasing than curious smile on her face now. Shit.

[hearteyedfeelings]

Little drabble cause I want halfling man to be more angry:

His eyes are losing focus. Every time he blinks his friends around him swirl in a mass of colors. He tries to hold on, to stay awake but he’s just so fucking exhausted. Not just from almost dying, but from everything.

From Will, from Derrig, from the Tempest, from FCG, from Dorian- it’s all so much.

He needs sleep.

…

Rustling, movement, hooves. Bleary, Orym blinks his eyes open and sees the legs of his favorite faun friend leaving the camp. He asks, she tells him not to worry.

He worries, of course he worries. So he does what he’s always done, he goes after her.

…

It’s happening again. Outmatched, so soon after- yeah, after that. And now his best friend is at his feet bleeding-

So much blood.

Then he blinks and she’s down and she’s,

She’s not breathing.

She’s not breathing?

No. Not happening. Not again.

…

As the dragon flies away he turns to his friend and he’s so…angry.

No, wait, he should be happy. She’s alive, he’s alive, the threat is gone.

He’s happy, of course he is.

But he’s also so so angry.

“Fearnie…”

“I know I know, it’s just- there was a sugar glider and it was so cute and-“

“Why didn’t you wake any of us up?”

Fearne shifts in that coy, slightly embarrassed way that she does, “I didn’t really think it was going to be, you know, my dad. I just figured it was something…I don’t know.”

Orym does know, gods he’s known her for so long and of course he knows but damnit he’s so fucking tired.

“Fearne you can’t just leave without telling anyone where you’re running off to.”

“I know I kno-“

Orym snaps, “No Fearne I don’t think you do!”

Fearne quickly quiets down as Orym continues, voice growing louder with the sounds of bells ringing in the distance.

“You can’t just fucking leave them and not say anything! Don’t you remember what just happened? We were all dead, if it wasn’t for-“ Orym’s voice breaks, “if it wasn’t for Letters we’d be dead okay? You can’t just act and not say anything to anyone. You can’t leave them, you-“ he breaks off again, faltering.

A shuttering breath, “…you can’t leave me.”

Orym drops to his knees, tears stubbornly burning in his eyes, because if he blinks they’ll fall and he’s not sure they won’t stop.

He distantly hears Fearne mutter, “Oh Orym.”

Then he feels two arms wrap around him and his face falls into the crook of her neck.

“You can’t leave me okay? I can’t do this without you. I need you to be more careful.” He pauses taking a deep breath.

“I’m sorry for yelling.”

Fearne shushes him, “No you’re right, I’m sorry, I won’t run off again okay? At least…not for a little while.”

Orym smiles, the tears he has refused to let fall still simmering.

“You’ve got yourself a deal.”

…

The tears didn’t fall. It wasn’t the time for it.

…

Maybe later.

There’s still more to do.

[hello-eeveev]

Beau had half a mind to march over to the Candles and kill Ludinus Da’leth herself, if only so she didn’t have to spend another day looking over the same documents, trying to find something they could use to get him out of power. She didn’t trust him—hadn’t from the start—but the more she walked in similar circles, the more she had to deal with the Assembly’s bullshit, the more she was convinced that whatever Ludinus was up to at any given moment, it couldn’t be good. But he had spent centuries navigating Dwendalian politics; of course he knew how to cover his tracks well.

She was halfway through plotting out the assassination when Caleb, who was sitting at the desk across from her, closed his book and looked up at her. “It’s five o’clock,” he said.

“Finally.” Beau sagged in her chair, taking in a deep breath. As she exhaled, she let thoughts of work fade from her mind. Once she felt suitably non-murderous, she slapped her hands onto her desk and stood. “Let’s get going then.”

She and Caleb fell into their routine as easily as they fought side-by-side. Caleb collected all the files and documents and organized them as he saw fit, while Beau stacked the books in the order that she knew would be most convenient for whoever reshelved them. Then they switched. Beau ran the papers back to her tiny office and locked them in her desk drawer, and Caleb passed off the books to the nearest archivist to be put away. When they met back up, Caleb walked Beau all the way to the teleportation circle on the other side of the Archive. Outside of going home to Yasha, this was Beau’s favorite part of the day, because regardless of what they ended up talking about, they made sure that, for at least these fifteen minutes, neither of them had to think about their country’s corrupt systems and the horrible people running them.

By the time they arrived at the teleportation circle, her half thought-out plans of murdering the Martinet had been shoved into the back of her mind by Caleb’s fond tales of the kids he tutored and the progress they were making.

She really hoped he would take the Soltryce job, if not for the good he would do there, at least for himself. He seemed so happy when he talked about teaching, almost as much as when he was nerding out about spells with Essek or Veth.

The caster in charge of the circle beckoned Beau into the center of the room, and she jogged into position as they began drawing the sigils for the Zadash Archive circle.

“Hey, so tomorrow night, Yasha’s trying out a new recipe that she got from Martina,” Beau said, turning to face Caleb who lingered at the edge of the casting space. “It’s a stir-fry sorta thing that she learned on a trip to the Menagerie Coast. I think it’ll be really good, especially if we use some of your green beans. You down?”

The invitation was more of a formality at this point. Caleb joined them for dinner almost every weekend. But Caleb shifted awkwardly, looking down at his feet.

“Ah, I would love to,” he said, “but I already have plans for tomorrow. Maybe another night.”

“Eating a boba and reading all night doesn’t count as dinner plans.”

Caleb huffed a laugh. “No, it is a, um…” He picked at some fuzz on his coat sleeve. “A date.”

“Wha—” Beau blinked. Shook her head and blinked again. “What? With who?”

Caleb caught her gaze, expression completely neutral except for a growing redness on his face. “A friend,” he said.

She furrowed her brow. “I’m gonna need a little more information than that, dude.”

He glanced down at the runes being drawn beneath her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him run his thumb over the ring on his index finger—his Ring of Telepathy, it looked like—and his voice entered her mind.

“Essek.”

Beau’s eyes widened, but then the bastard smiled and waved like nothing happened. “Have a nice evening, Beauregard.”

Faster than she could run over and punch that smug look off his face, the chalk on the floor flashed and suddenly she was back at the Zadash Archive.

She fumbled for her Sending Stone. “Fucking piece of shit—I’m gonna—” She yanked it out of her pocket and activated it. “Caleb!” she shouted. Some poor young monk tried to greet her while an older expositor threw a stern expression her way, but Beau paid them no mind. She was already running out the door.

“The fuck kinda timing was that? What do you mean you’re going on a date with—” Shit, she couldn’t use Essek’s name in the middle of Zadash. “—with him? When did this happen? How? Who else knows?”

“You are the first, unless someone else has figured it out already,” he replied. “Unfortunately Sending is limited to twenty-five words, so I cannot say more. Goodnight, Beauregard.”

“I know for a fact that’s not how these Sending Stones work, you asshole!” She did a quick count of Caleb’s message in her head. Twenty-six words.

She could practically hear his shit-eating grin in the silence that followed.

Forget Ludinus, she had another wizard to kill.

Before long, Beau was sprinting up to her house. She waved off Martina’s sickeningly sweet hello and threw open her front door.

“Yasha!” she yelled. “Babe, you’re not gonna believe what Caleb just told me. Can you message Jester today?”

[unicyclehippo]

teeth

there are no two things in existence more masterfully tangled so as to become a single strangle, lumpy, wonderful thing as having and happiness. fearne has spent many evenings sorting through a full pouch moving goodies between her backpack and belt, adoring her hair and horns with the newest of her delightfuls. it isn’t really stealing, no matter what orym might say; all these things, they’re gifts! gifts some people didn’t realise they were giving yet, that’s all. and it would be terribly rude and selfish and not at all welcoming if they were to hold onto such treasures or, worse, take back a gift they’d given her.

but some things…are not hers. not even a little, nor even for a little while.

sometimes, fearne wishes that she had met laudna first. before imogen, that is. the thought stays in her head, along with her teeth and a perfectly irritating tune she can’t quite recall and a red-ember worry that smoulders, ignored, in the detritus; wanting laudna…it’s a chatty little thought, a doctor-nesbit-in-the-treetops-of-her-mind thought—like doctor nesbit, it’s pretty and sweet and silly and entertaining and deeply darkly hers.

laudna would do very well at home. dark and stretchy? a crafter? so capable making things out of weird magic and skin? in a lot of ways, laudna is perfect for her. she’s creepy, in a way that makes fearne shiver, delighted; she’s the type of scary that curls around a campfire, in spooky stories and the temptation of the unknown. she’s a tall, gorgeous candlestick—waxy and white, a tiny compelling flame amidst the dark. sometimes dripping. every frightening form she takes is a masterpiece fearne wants to add to her garden. she’s old, like fearne, and sweet, and fearne wishes sometimes that she were a little more like her nana and she could just…take her. take her home. keep her safe and happy! forever! after all, she was a gift—nana always said so, and it turned out to be true, in the end—and she had been very happy and safe.

but imogen had found her first. which was funny, in a way. orym had mentioned the decades laudna wandered—didn’t fearne understand that too? how it felt to fit decades of stories beneath a youthful face? snakelike, skin-shedding—and perhaps, if nana’s portal had opened anywhere else, it would be her laudna sought out in the dark.

[mamalaw1021]

Ashton quietly held back as the party and the newcomers started filing out of the cramped room they'd taken at the inn. He gently reached for one of Fearne's fluttering ribbons as she moved to pass him, letting his fingers slowly slide down its length. If she wasn't such a focused pickpocket, she wouldn't have even noticed the tug. But he only loosely held the very end in his fingers. All she had to do was take a single step and she'd be free if she wanted.  But she paused and took a small step to the side to let the others keep passing. The room emptied but she didn't turn towards him. Just waited. 

Ashton tried very hard to make sure his tone sounded light. Tried to keep it from being too rough when he asked, "So... is Chetney out of your system now, then?" She responded with a sarcastic sounding "maybe," but her body went just a little bit looser. He huffed quietly before stepping closer to her. "Still planning to make your way through the whole party?"  She was smiling as she looked over her shoulder at him, a spark of mischievous flame in her eyes. "I haven't decided yet." They both knew she had no such interest. But it was in her nature to tease. 

He leaned into her side and rested his head on one of her horns. Gods he'd missed her so much.  Her words were soft and husky, her touch so light it was barely there as she traced his jaw, "You aiming to be next, Ash?" He rocked his head in small no against her before taking a step away and looking into her eyes. "No, Fearne. Not next." He took the hand that started to fall away and dropped his ring back into her palm, closing her fingers over it. "Keep it safe for me, yeah?" he said, eyes on her face as he walked backward to the door. 

Her mouth was suddenly dry. She licked her lips and nodded her head. She didn't take her eyes off him as he turned and walked out after the others who were still in the hall and called out to him. He waved them off with some grumbling as he caught up. And if Orym was the only one who caught sight of the small piece of ribbon Ashton dropped into his pocket, well Orym often saw things he knew better than to mention, didn't he?

[ariadne-mouse]

the usual

Shadowgast, Rated G, 573 words, prompt: late night takeout

-

"We should perhaps take a break."

"We are getting somewhere, though." Caleb stood and cracked his back. A topographic map of papers, open books, and component jars was laid out on the floor before them.

"We are," Essek agreed. "But if we keep going, it will be several more hours before we pause a second time, and I may begin chewing on parchment to sustain myself."

As if on cue, Caleb's stomach gave a loud gurgle. He ruefully put his hands on his middle. "Ach, you've woken the beast. Well. I suppose you are right. Do you have food here, or should we go out?"

Essek straightened his robes and neatened his hair with an effortless wave of Prestidigitation. "The night is warm. Let us walk. I know a place." He twisted a ring on his finger and his image shimmered, though to Caleb - who wore a second, matching ring - he still looked like himself.

("You know it is an Empire tradition to marry with an exchange of rings," Caleb had teased him, accepting the plain copper band. Only a Detect Magic would reveal it as enchanted. Essek had looked a little embarrassed, but shrugged it away. "I only wish for you to see me as I am. You don't have to take it." And Caleb, warmed, had put the ring directly on his finger and it had been there ever since.)

Caleb followed Essek through the streets of Nicodranas, which were not vacant even at this late hour, but peaceful and welcoming by the presence of others strolling by to enjoy the balmy air and the stars.

After twenty minutes of walking in companionable silence, they came to a storefront whose cheerful interior made it appear as a lantern in the dark. Steam and smoke fled the chimneys on the roof, and the clank of pots and pans and the murmur of people's voices from within broke the spell of nocturnal calm that wrapped around the rest of the city.

"The usual, please," Essek said to an attendant who opened a side window, releasing a billow of air fragrant with herbs and spices. "And... your special for today."

Twenty minutes more, and they were sat on a wooden bench nearby with cheap clay pots in hand, heavy with broth, vegetables, fresh seafood, and translucent rice noodles.

"Your usual," Caleb teased.

Essek raised his eyebrows and did not reply, as he was busy transferring a cascade of noodles into his mouth with chopsticks. They finally vanished with a less-than-dignified slurp. He patted his mouth with a handkerchief. "You have cilantro in your beard. And a bit of oil."

"Oh. Would you?" Caleb tilted his chin forward. Prestidigitation washed over him a moment later. The tingle of it continued down the back of his neck and to his collarbones. Caleb laughed. "I did not have soup all the way down to there, did I?"

Essek sniffed primly and busied himself with his next bite, humor tugging the corner of his mouth.

When they were done, the clay pots set aside to return to the bin at the back of the restaurant, they simply sat there for a long time, watching the passers-by on the street. The warm air wrapped around them, every so often carrying a hint of the sea. The stars glimmered above.

"This was a good idea," Caleb said, Essek's hand in his. He lifted it to brush his lips against the back of it.

Essek smiled. "I know."

[rachel-of-autumnbow]

Day 4 of @fanovember Coffee shop AU

Probably grammar mistakes. Pikelan. Scanlan tries to be smooth he just ends up being a bit weird as usual. Actually cute. Enjoy

4. Coffee Shop AU

Scanlan was having the most terrible of terrible days. The coffee machine had exploded in his face (again), the bathroom had flooded (again) and his boss appeared earlier to remind him he was an absolute failure that would never get out of that shithole and could never go anywhere with his music (again). Still, he was humming a cheerful tune to keep his good mood. It could be worse. He could be living under a bridge or have sold all his instruments. Not that he would, of course, he would rather lose a leg than one of his instruments.

“Uhm… Excuse me?” a voice dragged him back to the coffee shop. A beautiful voice that he could recognise anywhere.

“Oh, hi,” he awkwardly giggled, catching the mug he was drying just before it could fall. “Vanilla latte, almond milk and cinnamon with brown sugar?”

She chuckled back and Scanlan felt the day just got brighter. “Yes, please.”

“That would be five thirty, Pike, was it?”

She seemed surprised. “How would you know?” She asked while placing the money on the counter.

“I remember a pretty face’s order,” he winked. The girl shook her head, but Scanlan didn’t miss the soft smile on her lips. “I’ll bring it to you when it’s ready. Go get your seat, I’ve been keeping it warm for you” he smirked. Pike chuckled again and wen for her regular seat.

“Man, you need to stop doing that with everyone that steps in here.”

“Oh, shut up, Vax. This is different,” Scanlan said, getting everything ready

Vax scoffed. “Yeah, sure, you said the same thing last time.”

“Last time was before she came here. And she came back. That must mean something.”

“Maybe she likes coffee?”

“Coffee that I make,” pointed Scanlan, drawing a heart with the foam on Pike’s coffee.

“Whatever you say. But don’t invite her to tonight’s concert or you’ll scare her away.”

Scanlan carefully took the coffee to Pike. “Thanks,” she said.

“My pleasure. Uhm… listen, weird question.” Scanlan could hear Vax’s facepalm from there. “You see, I’m performing tonight at the Diamond Nest, I thought I would love to see you around.”

“Are you a singer?”

“Oh, I’m much more than that.”

Pike looked at him with an awkward smile after noticing the foam. “I’ll see if I can drop by.”

“Cool, I’ll sing you something,” he winked again and went back to the counter.

“Creepy bastard,” muttered Vax.

[abusivelittlebunny]

Not me starting to write a short smutty ficlet and ending up sobbing at the backstory build up I added to it bc I'm an emotional hoe

[reiinai]

A hand reaches out towards something it should not, and it hesitates. Its owner occupying 2 spaces and times; caught between its dim glow dispersing the surrounding shadows and an all-too-familiar back pelting by the rain.

“You always did call me ‘uncouth’ brother, but do not take that to mean I am beneath you,” he says with the coldness of finality, his face barely visible as he glances over his shoulder.

“Because I may be uncouth, but know you are more of a fuck up than I will ever be.”

Verin never heard his pleas over the rain, or saw his outstretch hand as he walked into the darkness and out of his life.

Just a moment of hesitation.

His brother gone behind him into the darkness and the depths of the beacon in front, bright as a new dawn.

Within the Lucid Bastion lays a chamber, lightless for the first time in millennia, Essek Thelyss along with it.

[blorbologist]

Just wanted to be brave like you

Gen | 1.7k | Perc’ahlia and little Vesper | Modern AU | Just fuckin sad

Cross-posted to AO3

--

She’d warned him.

Vex had taken her husband aside when it became clear this film was on the agenda for the day. “Percy, darling,” she’d said, all filed edges and feather soft, “you don’t have to-”

“I do,” he’d insisted just as gently. “I’m not missing out on time with the women of my life because of a movie. Not an obligation, but a pleasure.” Then, wry: “Besides, we’ve both seen worse. Been through worse. The reviews are great, Keyleth has recommended it for as long as I can remember. Now is as good a time as any.”

“Are you sure?” And she’d pulled back to scrutinize him. Vex’ahlia is and always has been very good at that. There are no lies in him for her to find, though he suspected that’s not what she was looking for. “Percy, it made Vax sob the first time we watched it after our mother-”

She fell short of words, so he went the extra mile to find some for her: “I know, I know, dear. But it’s Vax. He’s like that. It’s a silly movie, and I have you both to protect me. It’ll be fine. Please?”

“Alright, darling. If you’re sure.”

She’d warned him, and he hadn’t listened.

Percy buries his face in Vex’s shoulder, waits for the music to pick up a little louder, and uses all this to cover a pathetic, wet sniffle.

Peeking through his lashes, it does not seem like Vesper noticed, too enraptured by the television screen. 

She clutches her stuffie to her chest with a gasp. The dusty scene glides slowly over the still golden form of a magnificent beast.

“Dad?”

Vesper mouths no - he thinks, because his eyes are burning and he really can’t look a second longer. Percival de Rolo has another embarrassing, probably snotty sniffle in his wife’s (his, but she’s stolen it) sweater. 

Why the fuck is he, a grown man, getting weepy over animated lions?!

Bless his wife - no I told you so, just a calloused hand running through his hair, over and over.

“Dad, c’mon,” begs Simba - he thinks it’s named Simba, “you gotta get up. We’ve got to go home.” 

And fool that he is he looks up just in time to see the cub tug at his father’s ear - oh gods, just like at the beginning of the movie when he woke him up for the patrol - and the horror, the realization -

Percival does not say fuck because he is the father of a five-year-old. He comes close, though, because even a vehement “Fudge,” is wholly incapable of conveying how truly wretched he feels. 

He knew the stupid lion was going to die. The film is just about as old as he is, and Vex had warned him repeatedly. For all that he never watched these movies growing up, Percy was not found under a rock either - everyone knows Mufasa dies.

It’s just something else, to be presented with the desperate loneliness again. This can’t be happening. He can’t be gone, they can’t be gone. Help - somebody, anybody, help. (And no one did.)

“Percy?” Vex murmurs, and he can hardly hear her beyond the raspy breathing. His raspy breathing. Oh dear. 

“‘m coping,” he gets out.

They both freeze when Vesper starts whimpering. Percy just has time to see her cheeks become tantrum-red before she bubbles into hiccups.

“Vesper, sweetheart - what’s wrong?” 

The words are a trigger - springloaded, she spins around to bury her face in Percy’s chest with a sob that breaks his darned heart. “I don’t want you to go-” she sobs, and that heart crumbles to dust in tiny hands when she takes fistfulls of his shirt. 

“Dear,” and he’s so watery, he doesn’t want his baby to see him like this, surely it’ll make it worse, “I’m not going anywhere-”

“He promised! Papa, he promised!” He gets a shaking hand to the nape of her neck, rubbing soothing circles that do little to make him feel better. They don’t seem to help Vesper, either, who clings tighter. She also makes a very obvious smear of snot, which, really, is enough to get a choked laugh from him. 

Vex might have paused the television - Percy can’t be sure, when she shuffles around to hug them both. “Vesper - little Whisper,” Vex whispers, barely beyond tears herself, “what do you want, sweetheart?”

“I want Daddy,” she sobs, “and - and you, and me, and - and-”

Vex’s free hand takes up running through as much of Vesper’s hair as she can. It usually works on her just as well as it does Percy - instead their little girl jerks back, almost offended her mother thinks she can soothe this new pain. 

“He’s alone! His - his Papa’s dead and he’s alone and he promised-”

“It’s just a movie,” Percy warbles. Takes a moment to sound less devastated than his child. She needs him. “Vesper, darling, it’s okay. There are no stampedes here, no evil lions. We’re not going anywhere - I promise, I give you my word.”

He can’t promise that. 

He knows better than anyone, anyone at all. There’s worse than wildebeest, worse than evil uncles. Long live the king, death to the de Rolos, there’s little difference. 

But he’s a father, now, he’s Vesper’s father, and if this is her reaction to the understanding that he could die - that he could be gone - he will build every bulwark, every defense against her ever experiencing this heartbreak as he has. Fuck tragedy, age, accidents - he won’t leave his family. He won’t. Death will have to face him, and he’s got good odds that death will lose.

Death had won back then, though, which makes him clutch Vesper tighter.

One day. But he will fight for each one he has with them. And knows well Vex will do the same.

It goes around like that - the DVD player faintly whirring in protest, here and there, as Vesper keeps repeating the tragedy in her mind, as Vex and Percy keep trying to soothe her of it. 

Vex shoulders most of it. Percy is still in much of a state himself, to his shame. Bouts of comfort before he needs to take some for himself: Vesper’s hazel eyes made dark grey by the film of tears, or his grief-rough voice sounding like his father’s to his ears. 

It’s not fair to Vex, to be juggling the both of them. He hates this, badly, but struggling to keep his breathing even just makes it buck his control and throw him into more crying.

He has a family, now. Vex and Vesper and Cass and Vax and Keyleth and Velora and those bound to him by no law but forces greater than them. No one here is alone, and never will be again.

“Daddy, you’re sad.”

Well, so much for hiding it. Percy cannot exactly wipe away the tears regardless - hands full and all, and unlike his progeny he is not going to wipe snot on his shirt. “I guess I am,” he admits. 

“You -” Vesper has to pause to work through the words - stuck somewhere in her throat, he thinks, maybe wiggling in her mouth like a frog, he knows the feeling. “You don’t-”

He leans into Vex’s touch. An anchor for the wave he knows is coming. He takes the time he can to measure his breathing before Vesper says, “I - Daddy, you don’t have a daddy.”

“No - no, sweetheart, I don’t.”

(He doesn’t include the list, the tombstone-script of names. He’s lost so much more than his father, but he supposes that’s a good place to start. Let alone Vex’s mother. One at a time, or he’ll break again and break worse and Vesper doesn’t need that.)

Vesper looks up at him with streaming eyes. “I’m sorry, Papa.” She squeezes him with all her might - which is considerable, to him. So much love to give and with no remorse. Those perfect little brows - more Vex’s than his - furrow something fierce, and she struggles just free enough of his hold to offer her stuffy. Who is also covered in snot. “’m sorry. Will - will Bauble make it better?”

And oh, fuck, he isn’t ready for that. 

“Thank you, dear,” he says solemnly. “Yes - yes, Bauble makes it better.”

He lets Vesper press the owlbear (it was supposed to be a bear, but - Velora, dear, that’s a beak) to his chest, where his heart struggles to pet it. 

“I love you, Papa.”

She says it often. More than daily, more times than he can count - and he has tried, diligently, to count and treasure each one.

This one makes his face melt into something awful, and Vesper looks so worried, so scared, and it’s because of the stupid animated lions - 

He must have made a gods-awful sound, this time, because there’s a racket of tags and claws on the hardwood as a brown blur bounds over from the kitchen and launches himself at the couch. 

Which he’s not supposed to be on, strictly speaking, but who could keep Vax from encouraging the habit? And who would dare fault him now when all the de Rolos shriek. 

“Trinket,” Vex scolds, hardly scolding at all. “Down, buddy!” 

He just wuffles and noses Vesper’s ear until she wails with giggles, shoving her open palms at their dog. Those get licked too.

It’s very hard to cry when a huge fluffy dog is whining at you for every whimper and licking at your mouth until they turn into laughs.

Percy will be sure to sneak him a little ham, later. 

“Tell you what,” says Vex, in his ear. Vesper wiggles to look up at her, too. What must their daughter see? Vex is too close and his eyes too damp to make out much of her beyond redder than normal and shaky. What a portrait, what a distressing sight. “You remember what the daddy lion -”

Sniffle. “Mufasa, Mama.”

She smiles. “- what Mufasa said earlier? About the great kings of the past?” Trinket’s collar rustles when Vex ruffles his soft ears. “Later tonight, after supper, we can go look at the stars, and… talk to them. Would you like that, darling?”

Percy is fairly sure she means Vesper. But when their daughter pinches her eyes shut - overwhelmed? To think? - she’s looking at him with eyes he’d surrender his fears to. 

Would he like that?

“Yes, Mummy,” Vesper burbles, with a final rub of her fist to her nose. She then pats Percy’s arm, snot and all. “Can - can we keep watching the movie, Papa?”

“It gets scary,” Vex warns gently. A glance at the screen confirms that Scar looms, some shadows in the dust behind him. “If it’s too much, just tell us and we can stop, alright darling?”

“Trinket will protect you,” Percy adds quietly. The thump of a stubby tail seconds that.

Vesper nods so bravely. “Alright.”

Dutifully, Vex - the only one with a free arm to reach the remote, and with the least gross hands - presses play, and soon enough the thrilling music and fast-paced chase have Vesper distracted again. Even Trinket watches, with his old eyes, laying his head on her little lap.

Percy brands a kiss to Vex’s brow. As hard as he dares.

She hugs him a touch too tight. It’s a promise.

[dadrielle]

Chapters: 4/? Fandom: Critical Role (Web Series) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Laudna/Imogen Temult, Characters: Imogen Temult, Laudna (Critical Role), Additional Tags: Angst, Ficlet, slaps Imogen this baby can fit so much self-loathing,  no beta we die like they're on hiatus, Bell's Hells - Freeform

Summary: The bracers of defense should belong to Laudna, dammit. Imogen agrees.