#damnable alchemy

[dangerouscommiesubversive]

Today for lunch I tried making @inneskeeper's Scientifically Proven Grilled Cheese, and holy shit is it good. This is, I think, the first time I've actually made a recipe I found on Tumblr, and if they're all going to go this well then I gotta do it more.

(My particular build: pre-sliced Sara Lee "brioche," Cabot Seriously Sharp cheddar cheese, honey, red pepper flakes, oregano, parsley, minced garlic since I don't think we have any fresh cloves at the moment, and a slice of thick-cut bacon leftover from last night's dinner. All ingredients portioned out using the ancient and venerated measurement known as "some.")

[dr-demi-bee]

Day 10--------------------Read on AO3--------------------------

Pairing: Rolan/Tav Prompt: Little touches Cute shit, fluff, mutual pining, first kiss, SFW

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After the fall of the Absolute and the Netherbrain, Rolan had taken over as the master of Ramazith tower and the shopkeeper of Sorcerous Sundries. It was challenging work, but rewarding. To finally have a place the he and Cal and Lia could call home, and Rolan could put his skills to good use.

Tav had joined Sorcerous Sundries after the aftermath of the Absolute - at first to help in recovery efforts. And after that, because she was a talented alchemist and it was useful to have her on staff.

She’s good company, usually. For an alchemist she keeps her bench remarkably clean and organized. And she’s quiet while she works. Mostly. Occasionally she hums, which can be irritating, and occasionally there’s smoke or swearing. But given how much gold her work brings in Rolan’s willing to overlook it.

It’s a bit more difficult to overlook her other qualities. For one, she’s a smartass - infuriatingly sarcastic and seemingly endlessly full of atrocious jokes. Puns especially. Eugh.

But on top of that, she’s infuriatingly pretty. Rolan had noticed it when they first met in the grove of course. He had noticed it again in Last Light. And when she saved him from himself in the shadow curse. And when she saved his siblings. But she had never been more beautiful than when she helped grind Lorroakan into the dust.

The last few days, though, Tav has been exceptionally irritating. Rolan can’t make sense of it.

She’s run into him numerous times. Several times she’s gotten tangled up with his tail somehow while they’re both at the counter. Or he’ll turn from shelving a tome and she’ll be right there and they collide together. Or he’ll be working in the tower store-rooms and she’ll find some reason to need something on the shelf right in front of him. She’ll put a hand on his arm and lean in - giving him a jolt from the touch and the proximity, but also from her scent. She smelled lovely - like a bakery and flowers -

But it was irritating! Honestly, how’s he supposed to get work done when she’s so distracting?

He’s trying to read ledgers when she comes strolling through the portal from the shop. Humming, of course. And wearing that damnable shirt. Rolan’s brows furrow and his tail flicks with irritation.

Tav’s halfway across the rotunda, when they make eye contact. She must see something in his expression because she stops entirely.

"What's that look for?"

With a heavy, exaggerated sigh, Rolan closes the ledger and sets aside on the desk before looking back at her, his tail flicking from side to side with his displeasure.

"We need to talk about you," Rolan says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Tav raises a hand to point at her self, expression perplexed. "About me?"

Rolan lets out another frustrated sigh, his tail flicking again. "Yes. You."

He leans back in his chair, his sharp yellow eyes narrowing as he watches her. Tav changes her path from the store room to move to stand before him with an exasperated sigh. She crosses her arms across her chest in kind. The way she so manages to do everything so gracefully. The very infuriating presence of her is a distraction.

"You've been a rather... valuable asset to Sorcerer's Sundries, in terms of your alchemy expertise. However, I have some concerns about you."

"Concerns?" Tav arches a brow, the twist of her lips suggesting concern of her own.

Rolan gives a slight hum before standing up from his desk, and walking around it to face her more directly. His tail continues it’s irritated motions as he looks down at her sternly.

"Yes. Concerns. More like annoyances, in all honestly," Rolan says almost in a scoff. "Your attitude and behavior."

"Care to be more specific?" Tav, of course, seems completely unfazed. All the confidence of the Hero of Baldur’s Gate.

"Your sarcasm for one." Rolan does scoff this time, rolling his eyes. "And the way you always find a way of getting under my skin."

"Not exactly hard to do," Tav replies with a wry expression. Rolan lets out a grumble with a scowl.

"And you're a smart ass too," he adds, his fingers squeezing against his biceps. "Do you know why I keep you around?"

"Presumably because I make the shop a lot of money."

"Precisely." Rolan says with a slight nod. His eyes narrow as he looks down at her - completely unbothered, as usual. And all he can think about is the infuriating way she’s been bumping into him and leaning against him and -

"Are you even grateful to have a job here?" He snarks.

"Yes, I am," Tav replies genially, lifting one hand in an airy gesture. "I'd be terrifically bored, otherwise."

Rolan rolls his eyes in response.

"Right, because making potions in silence all day is just the thrill of the century," he says sarcastically. He lets out a sigh before continuing. "Can you, for once, try and be... I don't know... pleasant to be around for more than five seconds?"

"I think I'm great fun," she returns with a grin. "And I think, secretly, you do too."

Rolan stares at her incredulously before he can manage an answer. He dismisses the very notion with another scoff of annoyance.

"Oh please." He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. Rolan makes a rolling gesture with both hands as he continues, "If by 'fun' you mean utterly annoying, then yes - you're just a joy to have around."

He crosses his arms against his chest again.

"And if thinking that I supposedly find your irritating behavior secretly enjoyable makes you sleep better at night," he adds sarcastically, "then by all means, continue to believe that."

"I'm glad you condone it," she returns with a cheeky grin. That same infuriatingly attractive, sly little grin. And of course it’s paired with another of her grating displays of ‘wit.’

"You're insufferable, you know that?" Rolan schools his expression to remain the annoyed he should be, and biting back the wave of amusement the threatens his lips.

"Oh, I know. I'll try and keep it to a minimum," Tav returns. He can’t help the amused huff that bubbles free at her agreement. And then she reaches out and pats him on the arm. The simple touch sends a jolt through him.

"Oh, you're just trying to get on my nerves now." Rolan accuses, narrowing his eyes as he looks down at her. He scrutinizes her for a moment, taking in that cocky expression. She’s just so gods damned confident.

"One of these days... I'm going to find a way to make you shut up," he murmurs in a low tone, a hint of challenge in his voice. Maybe he can finally shake some of that bravado.

Put her on the backfoot for once. Rolan can’t always be the one flustered and stammering. Two can play at this game.

Tav raises her brows and her lips twist with a mischevious smile. "Is that so?"

Rolan smirks back at the clear challenge in her expression and takes a few steps closer to her.

"Yes, that's so." With yellow eyes blazing as he stares at her, he adds lowly, "And I would be happy to demonstrate right this moment how."

"Come up with your solution that quickly, did you?"

Rolan’s smirk widens as she takes the bait.

"Of course I have," he returns with full-throated confidence, taking another slow step closer and puffing out his chest. "It only takes me a few seconds to come up with a solution to any problem. Even you being an insufferable smart ass."

"Ever so clever, that master of Ramazith tower," Tav returns with a grin, leaning back against the desk.

He can’t help but feel a wave of warmth wash over him at her compliment. His tail flicks slightly with satisfaction. But he knows she’s trying to get under his skin again. And he won’t let that happen. No, Rolan is going to have the last laugh this time.

"Oh, I know I am," Rolan says in a low, cocky tone. "Clever, powerful, and handsome, too."

"And humble," she adds, smirking up at him, "The whole package."

Rolan scoffs out a laugh, the sharp smirk still on his face. He leans forward, putting a hand on the desk beside her and caging her in.

"Humble, too," he agrees softly. "I know a number of uses for that smart mouth of yours besides making sarcastic remarks."

"Go ahead, then," Tav challenges with a soft smirk. And gods dammit if that isn’t maddeningly attractive.

"You're just begging me to, aren't you?" Rolan lowers his voice, bringing his face closer to hers.

He lets out a quiet hum as he stares down at her, taking in her features as he contemplates what he's about to do. His free hand lifts to grab her chin, gently turning her face up to look at him. She looks up at him with that soft smile like she’s waiting for him to make a move. But he still hesitates.

"Very wise, but not very observant," Tav teases him softly.

Rolan scoffs, his brow furrowing with mock indignation. He can’t help but feel a bit put-off by that. He’s perfectly observant.

"Oh, I'm very observant," Rolan counters sternly, holding her face still before his. "I've noticed a lot of things about you. How you bite your tongue when you're concentrating on making a potion, how you hum when you think no one's around, and how your hair always falls a certain way when you're working in the shop."

"Oh, interesting," she returns playfully, tilting her head just slightly, "Yet you miss all the times I flirt with you..."

Rolan's smirk falters slightly. Flirting with him? With him? The look in his eyes shifts - disbelief morphing to surprise before finally giving way to realization. All those little touches - those teasing comments and words. Were they...?

"You... you flirt with me?" Rolan’s grip on her chin loosens in surprise. But he won’t let go. Not now that he’s finally got her so close.

"Now who's infuriating?" She shakes her head softly before grasping the front of his robes and tugging him in the rest of the way for a kiss.

Rolan's eyes widen in surprise, his mind momentarily going blank. But once his mind catches up it quickly turns to a rush of excitement. His arms wrap around her waist, pulling her closer to him.

He kisses her back, fiercely, and he can feel her smiling against his lips. Smiling.

Tav’s hands find their way to his cheeks, cupping him like something precious. His tail winds it’s way around her leg, coiling possessively. Tav lets out a soft, almost moaning sound and Rolan’s heart stutters. His mind is reeling - what an unparalleled delight.

He pulls her flush against him, his arms wrapping even tighter around her waist, needing her closer. Closer. The firm muscle of her thigh beneath his tail, her strong body in his arms. Gods above and hells below.

Rolan deepens the kiss, his tongue slipping out to run across her bottom lip. And his stomach flips when she breathes a soft moan in response. The sound barrels straight through him. Hearing the affect he's having on her only makes him want to pull her closer. He wants more. Needs more.

He bites gently at her bottom lip before slipping his tongue past their soft plush - exploring, tasting, wanting more. This time Tav lets out a gasp of surprise, likely not expecting the bite of his sharp teeth or the fork of his tongue. But she must like it, because she slides her hands back to cup his neck and pull him closer. Rolan smirks against her lips, loving the way she reacts to his touch.

He breaks the kiss after another long moment, pulling away just enough to speak past gasping breaths.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that..." Rolan breathes.

"You have a funny way of showing it," Tav pants back, her cheeks flushed.

Rolan lets out a huff against your cheek, his own cheeks flushed as well.

"I'll admit, I... didn't quite realize you were flirting with me," he murmurs, "I thought you were just being your snarky, irritating self."

"It's both," she returns with a smirk, "But I've been flirting with you since that party in camp."

"The party?” Rolan lets out a huff in disbelief, gently pulling back so he can look at her. He glances back and forth between her eyes, looking for signs she’s just messing with him again.

“You mean the party over a year ago?" Rolan guffaws incredulously, his tone a mix of surprise and amusement. "And all this time I thought you didn't like me!"

Tav rolls her eyes with a huff, though her lips are still twisted in a wry smile.

"Like I said, not very observant," she teases. Rolan lets out a huff of annoyance - she never lets him have the last word. Never lets anything go.

"I am extremely observant, thank you very much. You're just... deceptively sneaky with your flirting."

"Very sneaky," she returns with a grin, before stealing a quick kiss. "I’m a rogue, it's kind of my thing."

"I suppose I'll have to start being more observant then," he retorts. Emboldened, he squeezes his arms around her a little tighter and steals a little kiss himself. "But then I suppose that means I'll be receiving more of those little kisses from you?"

"Would you like that?" Tav toys with the hair at the nape of his neck with the fingers of one hand. The feeling sends a pleasant tingle through him, and he lets out a soft hum of pleasure.

"Yes - very much yes,” Rolan answers, leaning in slightly closer. "And I'm also going to expect much more than that now, you know."

"Not content with just shutting me up?" She arches a brow at him with a grin. Rolan lets out a chuckle, his smile spreading wider.

"Oh, I'm very content with shutting you up," he answers slyly, "But now that I know you've been secretly ogling me, I'm going to demand much more from you than just a kiss to shut you up."

Tav lets out a soft laugh. "You think I don't notice the way you look at me?"

Rolan feels his cheeks grow warmer from both chagrin at being caught and an effusive feeling from her soft laugh. He looks away for a moment, trying to hide his shame.

"Oh, you've noticed, have you?" He tries to retain his cocky attitude as his bright eyes slide back to hers, but even he can hear how he fails to hide the slight embarrassment in his tone. A bit shyly, he adds, "I... didn't think I was being that obvious about it."

"I'm something of a professional observer," Tav teases. To which Rolan groans and rolls his eyes. He tsks his tongue against his teeth disapprovingly.

"You're just so full of yourself, you know that?" Rolan gives her leg a squeeze with his tail.

"It's well-earned confidence." Tav grins back at him. She moves one hand to lay over this tail where it grips her, slowly running her fingers along the appendage. Rolan lets out a soft hum, a shudder running down his spine.

"Careful now, that's... sensitive," Rolan says, trying to sound confident. But he can’t stop the slight gasp that escapes his lips as she continues that teasing touch.

Her grin shifts to a mischievous smirk and her brows raise high at his response. She very deliberately runs her fingers feather light over the expanse of his tail where it's coiled around her thigh. Rolan lets out another gasp, his grip tightening involuntarily as he shudders.

"I-I said that's... sensitive," Rolan grits, his voice slightly higher in pitch as he shivers under her light, teasing touch. His trousers feel, quite suddenly, much too tight.

"You did, yes," Tav returns with that same smug expression. Her fingers find the spade at the end of his tail and stroke the length of it experimentally between thumb and forefinger. "What about this?"

Rolan lets out another shuddering gasp, his body tensing as sensation rocks through him like a whipcrack. His arms tighten against her and he lets out a low groan, trying to speak through the jolt of pleasure running through him.

"Tav- You- y-you need to stop, that's-"

"Ohhh." Tav's lips tip up with a wicked smile, clearly delighted by the discovery. She strokes over the spade once more, applying a slightly firmer pressure. Rolan's tail reflexively squeezes tighter around her thigh and a shuddering gasp leaves him as the feeling shoots through him like wildfire.

"You- p-please," he manages to gasp, his voice weak as he tries to maintain some semblance of composure. But that maddening touch makes it immensely difficult.

"Please?" Tav tilts her head slightly, gazing up at him with a wicked, delighted smile. Rolan lets out a low, shaky breath, his body trembling under her touch. “Please what, Rolan?”

"Please- nh- just-" He tries to speak again, but is cut off by another shiver as her fingers dance with over the spade again. That annoyingly light touch that feels like she’s running her fingers through his spine and straight to his groin. If she doesn’t stop-

"Zurgan! I- I need you to... stop for a moment, please." He stammers, his expression a mix of pleasure and vulnerability.

Relenting, Tav holds up both hands in a gesture of surrender, and Rolan lets out a soft sigh of relief as her hands pull away. He leans in, resting his forehead against hers for a moment, panting softly as the overwhelming feeling of her touch subside.

"That— I..." He starts, trying to find the words, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "I... had no idea my tail was that sensitive."

"Maybe I'm just very good," she returns playfully.

Rolan rolls his eyes, even as a smirk appear spreads as he regains some of his composure. He levels a soft glare at her.

"You are so annoying," Rolan returns without bite behind it, "You just love finding buttons to push, don't you?"

"Absolutely," Tav agrees with a grin.

Rolan lets out a huff with a bemused smile. "You're insufferable. I don't know why I even like you."

"But you do like me," she returns a bit smugly. She runs one finger down the length of his jaw. Rolan's smirk falters a fraction at her touch, involuntarily tilting into it.

"I suppose I do, against my better judgement," he mutters, his pride masking most of his feelings. He won’t admit to there being anything more substantial. "I could use a few more of your... kisses to... convince me though."

"I suppose I could be amenable," she murmurs softly, leaning in closer and sliding her hand back to cup his neck. Rolan's smirk widens, a thrill running through him.

"You suppose you could?" Rolan muses in a low tone, "How gracious of you."

He loops his arms around her once more, one hand coming up to gently rest on the side of her neck, and his thumb brushes gently along her jawline.

"Just... a few more kisses, then?" His voice is low and soft when he asks. Still hardly daring to believe it possible. Tav, here, wanting to kiss him. His eyes flick down to her lips and back as their faces inch closer together.

"However many it takes to convince you," Tav murmurs back with a soft smile.

"We might be here all night, then," Rolan murmurs in return, his voice slightly more gruff, his gaze flickering down to her lips again. "I can be very stubborn, you know."

The wizard grins back at Tav’s knowing smile. He leans in, brushing his nose against hers, their breath mingling.

"And I'm going to need plenty of convincing."

@lanafofana @lastlight-inn @waterdeep-weavemoss

@crimson-and-lavender @feedthepheasants @spooky-lil-bee

[italicized-oh]

more ritual shatterstar wedding snippet for y'all. my condolences. (part 1 here) this is mindfucky and body horrory on purpose, but nothing beyond what we see in canon.

Jace comes to in the Aguefort parking lot. Fucking hell. Where the fuck was Porter’s sense of–

Large hands at his waist. Porter’s hair, loose, making the already intimate cave somehow closer, more secret. Just them. Jace reaches up, up, always up. Not seeking the sun, but something better. More enduring. Hotter. Magnesium-bright and all-encompassing. Justice, he thinks. Justice and righteousness. Finally.

Jace comes to clutching his chest. He rolls onto his side, drawing his knees up into the fetal position. Opens his eyes. Stares at the temple-cave walls, and—

Porter’s gentle grip on his chin, on the eyeliner pencil, brow furrowed, jaw clenched in concentration as he traces the runes Jace has outlined with Minor Image on his own forehead, neck, and spine. Porter’s looking at Jace’s skin with more care than he’s ever looked at Jace, so Jace closes his eyes and counts back through the steps of Ceremony.

Jace screams, burning. There’s only fire around him, endless magma and burning sulfur and phosphorus. It feels like Porter. Wave after wave of undying heat, dry and mercury-slick all at once. He feels like Porter. Jace screams, and scream, and screams, and–

He steps into the linen robe Porter holds out for him. Makes a stupid joke about lingerie. Porter doesn’t laugh. Jace turns around with a huff and cocks his hip, frowning up at Porter. Porter takes his face in both hands, calloused and dry and dusty with chalk, smoothing his thumbs over Jace’s cheekbones, his ears, his neck, his shoulder blades. Cataloging. Memorizing. As if Jace is leaving.

--------

The shatterstar in his chest pulses, and Jace drops to his knees in the cave, dry heaving. 

“So that’s just pure rage, then? And you’re going to put it inside my chest, and it’s going to–become me? What about my–”

“Shhh, sweetheart, no. It’s gonna become your blood. You’ll still be you.”

Jace arches a brow. “And why do I have to be the one to try this?”

“Would you rather I found somebody else?”

--------

Jace vomits bile onto the asphalt in Porter’s parking spot. Where’s–

“So my blood is going to transform into rage, and rage will become my blood, and neither of us knows shit about alchemy, and I’m supposed to trust you?!” 

“There. You’re getting the hang of it already, sweetheart.” Porter’s smile is damnably condescending and so fucking attractive it makes Jace’s head spin.

��Why does this have to happen in me, can’t we, like, find a lab, or–”

Porter tsks lightly, brushing his hands down Jace’s sides. “Where better for me to come into godhood, baby?”

--------

Porter’s truck is gone. All the cars are gone. It’s nighttime, but it’s been nighttime for a while now. Jace tries to stand, stumbles, and–

“So I’m just a vessel for your transformation, then?”

“Aw, sweetheart, don’t be like that. You’re hardly just anything, as you’re well aware. Have I not been paying you enough attention?”

Jace endures the kiss Porter draws him into, turns it filthy right when he’s supposed to, arches his back, presses himself against Porter’s chest. Says, panting, “You– ha, fuck– you never pay me enough attention, you asshole.”

Porter’s laugh rumbles through him. “Mmm, but I’m your asshole. You like me.” And god help him, but Jace does.

--------

Where’s his wand? Jace gropes around amid the rubble til he hits something wooden, familiar, and– broken. Fuck. He’s going to kill Porter, these things are fucking expensive, but– where’s Porter?

Where’s his crystal? Fucking hell, but Jace is going to make Porter pay for this if it’s the last thing he does, godfuckingdamnit. First, though, he has to– where’s Porter?

Where’re his fucking clothes? Sonofabitch can’t even be bothered with aftercare for his own godhood-ritual, I’m not fucking surprised, goddamnit. I’m going to– where’s Porter?

(part 3 here)

[envysnest]

Pity the Mayfly (ch. 1/?) - an Astarion/Tav fic

Ao3 Link Here

Chapters: 1 // 2 // 3 // 4 // 5 // 6

You had come to the Gate to forget your past, discard your elven name, and pursue alchemy against your family's wishes. On a visit to your old keep, you're found by the Nautiloid, and everything tilts sideways.

When the gith’yanki asks your name, you say the first thing that comes to mind: “Tavvendish.” You add, “Tav, for short. I know it’s a mouthful.”

“The pronunciation of your name,” she snaps, “is not of any concern to me. Our priority is escaping this ghaik monstrosity.” She grabs your forearm. “I am Lae’zel, of Creche K’liir. There is but one way to pronounce my name. You will call me Lae’zel. Now.” She turns and points. “We go.”

------------

There’s another woman on the ship: a half-elf named Shadowheart. She appraises you with a tight mouth. If there’s something odd about your name, she doesn’t mention it. But, as you two wander the beach, she doesn’t have to: it reads in her eyes, in the way she watches you with suspicion. 

You try to make conversation. “Where are you from, sister?”

“Do not use your wood elf customs on me,” she replies. “I was not raised with them. ‘Shadowheart’ will do just fine.”

You roll your eyes. “I am from the Gate,” you say pointedly. “Where are you from?”

“I am also from the Gate." Shadowheart pauses to flip a corpse over; she digs through its pockets, finds a few gold pieces, and pockets them. She offers no further information, and neither do you.

------------

Truthfully, you were on your way home for the first time in ages. You brought your latest batch of Lesser Harpy Spider antivenom with you.

Fox’s Keep took half a tenday to reach from the southern Gate. It was day four, and unseasonably hot. You were due to stop in neighboring Cliffside Keep that night. By suppertime, you would sit in front of a hand-hewn wooden table, courtesy of your wood-working family. Twenty-four hours from that, you would be in your childhood bedroom in Fox’s Keep.

You carefully lined your eyes in blue. All you had for reference was a hand mirror that shined sunlight directly into your eyes. Prior visits had sparked rude comments about your skin: prying questions about being tired, or overworked, or disheveled. You knew to make up your face now.

You looked down at the ground and waved a hand over the blue eye paint, willing it to dry without smudging on your browbone. A pretty face didn’t stop the comments, but it at least quelled them. You could always switch the topic to your work if they didn't stop. You did, deep down, like the eye paint on you; if you had to make these damnable visits to your old keep, supplying them with medicine against those woods, you would at least look good doing it. 

A shadow darkened the sky above you. You looked up. 

And then—

------------

There is a dagger at your neck and a hissing voice in your ear.

“Do not move,” it says. “And don’t make a sound. I don’t want to cut that pretty little throat of yours. Do we understand each other?”

His dagger presses directly into the space where your tattoo cuts down your throat. You swallow and feel its keen blade against your flesh. 

You nod at the sky. 

“Good girl,” murmurs the voice.

Where is Shadowheart? you think. Your heart races. There is a pale hand at your sternum, a leg wrapped around yours. You know how this dance ends, have borne witness to it dozens of times. You want to say something cutting— that you are finishing your monthly blood, that you are a witch, that you will slit his throat for the courtesy— and yet you cannot move, your body obediently going still for what you know is next.

The man adjusts his grip on the dagger. “You were on that ship,” he says. “I saw you. You are going to tell me everything. Nod if you understand.”

He is drawing this out. You nod.

“That’s a good pet. What were you doing on that ship? Talk.”

“Taken,” you wheeze, trying not to cut yourself in two on the dagger.

“From?”

“Cliffside— Keep—”

“You’re a-ways from home, little woodling.” The dagger presses incrementally deeper. “Why?”

So the Nautiloid had crashed somewhere new, after all. Just how far was far?

You lick your lips. “—visiting—my old keep—” A bead of sweat trickles down your brow, seeping into your eye. It stings. “—I— I bring medicine—”

“You’re a healer?” The man’s tone changes: it is now tentatively hopeful. The dagger eases, just the slightest bit; you can turn your head to face him.

“Opposite—” You look up into his face. The man’s eyes are a strange, ruby-red; you’ve never seen anything like it. “I make antivenom—poi—poisons, usually—”

Someone makes a distressed noise behind you: Shadowheart, back from scavenging. “Unhand her at once!” she snaps.

“Stay out of this!” the man shouts at her.

Something in your brain squirms— gives— 

And suddenly, the dagger is gone from your throat. 

You feel like the tadpole will bore its way out of your skull from your left eye socket. The man yelps with pain. You can sit up, but your head pounds, and you fall back down on the dirt.

Memories spill into your brain: the acrid smell of liquor, flesh-on-flesh, the laughter of a full tavern. The moon is full and bright, and you are so very hungry—

And then it’s gone. You open your eyes. The sun shines brightly above you.

“What the hell was that?” the man cries. He holds his head, face creased with agony. “And what,” he snaps at you, “did they do to me?”

Shadowheart reaches down to you. You take her hand, and she hauls you to your feet in one swift pull. “To us,” she says. “Lucky you. Looks like you have a tadpole, too.”

You cough. “With Lae’zel, that makes four of us.” You watch the man as, scowling, he stands and dusts the dirt from his breeches. He's maybe your height, and you are not a short woman. Perhaps you could've thrown him off of you.

Shadowheart raises her chin defiantly. “I’m not entirely sold on keeping the gith. For all we know, she could be dead.”

The man’s voice: “A gith, you say? This just became interesting.”

You pick up your brimmed hat from the path; it’s faintly crumpled. A shame: you had saved for months to buy it. “Provided you keep your daggers in your pockets," you say to him, "You can come along, too. We should stay together.”

“Tavvendish,” hisses Shadowheart. “Really?”

Meanwhile, the man laughs beside you: a floating, haughty sound, like wind chimes. “And what makes you think I want to come with you?”

But before you can speak, he shakes his head. “Let’s start over. My name is Astarion.” He smiles; he reminds you of a particularly sated cat. “Who might I be speaking to?”

Your stomach drops. Was it only elves on that blasted ship? you think.

“Tav,” you say, and you brace for his reaction. 

But Astarion doesn’t comment on your unusual name. The other man takes your hand and merely bows again. “Charmed, my dear.” He kisses the back of your hand. 

His lips are ice-cold.

You snatch your hand away and, when Astarion turns to Shadowheart, wipe it discreetly on the back of your robes. You reach down for your pack and staff. The tips of your ears burn.

Shadowheart does not offer her hand to Astarion. “Shadowheart.” And then, to you: “We should keep moving.”

Astarion gestures to the path. “By all means,” he says. “Lead the way.”

------------

The wreckage teems with corpses and reeks of old blood. Intellect Devourers skitter around your ankles, whispering join us join us join us join us in reedy voices that make you feel vaguely ill. You put your staff through one. It squeals, like nails on stone, before going limp. As your new companions explore around you, you dig out your scalpel and split the Intellect Devourer in two. You excise the grey, slimy cerebellum and wrap it in wax paper from your pack. 

You hear Astarion scoff at you from across the room. “How vile.”

You glare at him. “Sorry for making the best out of a bad situation.”

He leans against an empty mind-flayer pod, making a show of examining his nails. “A poisoner,” he says idly. “I’m sure drinking that swill,” and here he twirls a finger at the Intellect Devourer blood on your hands, “will make anyone sick.” He picks at something underneath his thumbnail, the very picture of chilly disinterest. “Tavvendish, was it?”

“Tav is fine—”

His eyes flick up to yours. “Duly noted, Tavvendish.”

You feel your hackles raise. You can’t tell if he’s making fun of your name, but his smug attitude makes you feel suddenly, terribly violent. Anger, familiar and horrible, rises up in your gut. 

Astarion raises an eyebrow and smirks.

You stand, brandishing your staff—

A piercing whistle comes from the cliffs above you. Shadowheart’s head is just visible over its lip. “There’s another path up here,” she calls. “It has signage. We may be near civilization.”

Astarion shouts back up to her. “We’re coming,” he says. “Just as soon as the witch is done dissecting everything.”

You make a fist— twirl your pointer finger— aim it at Astarion—

Shadowheart interrupts before you can finish casting Fire Bolt. “Quickly, then! The sun is already beginning to wane.”

You scowl and drop your hand, thwarted. Astarion widens his eyes at you, like your second brother when he gets what he wants. “You heard the lady,” he purrs. “Let’s go.”

You tromp up the hills behind him, keeping a purposeful distance. Astarion is blissfully silent; whatever energy he had before, he must now direct into huffing and puffing up the cliffside with you. Orange dirt nests under your fingernails, turns your palms the color of ripe apricots. 

Astarion reaches the top before you do and offers a hand down. You ignore it.

Now at the top of the cliff, you sigh with relief. Why had you packed so much for such a short visit home?

Astarion’s feet tap impatiently in your eyeline. “You lied, by the by,” he says above you. “You are from Fox’s Keep, not Cliffside.”

You wince. So Astarion had seen into your brain, just as you, presumably, had seen into his. 

What exactly had Astarion seen? 

And what did you see?

You reluctantly get to your feet. Rusty dirt clings to your robes, far beyond the capability of any Prestidigitation spell. You’ll have to change into fresh ones as soon as you’re able. Shadowheart places a stabilizing hand on your back.

“It’s rather a long story,” you say. “I’m not exactly— Fox’s Keep is my mother keep.”

Shadowheart lets out a little huh next to you, but she doesn’t say anything more.

You continue, “I live in the Gate, currently.”

“Oh?” Astarion leans in towards you. “And what keep do you belong to there?”

“I don’t—” You sigh with defeat. “Have one.”

Astarion gasps and presses his fingers to his lips. “Oh, my,” he says, the very picture of Upper-City shock and awe. “An exile. I’ve never seen a wood elf expelled from her keep.”

You scowl at him. “I am no—”

“Hellooo!” calls a male voice. “A little help, please!”

------------

“Baldur’s Gate,” said your Nana with a sneer, “is a dirty, unsafe city.”

Yes, you replied, but at least there aren’t ten potion-makers to a block there, and that earned you another night of screaming and slammed doors. You lied awake all night, tears drying on your face, listening to the grandfather clock tick away in the hall. 

Baldur’s Gate, at least to you, represented opportunity: It was a place where you could be anyone.

Anyone but… you.

You're fascinated by the wrong things: flowers blooming and dying, an asp sinking its fangs into a squealing rabbit, mushrooms glowing in the dark. Nature beckons to you as death beckons to the weak with an open palm. You learned Knock just so you could dig into the library's forbidden texts: necromancy, mind control, poisons. You withstood the resulting beatings from the Bookkeeper family with pride.

Inspired by the many encyclopedias you read, you taught yourself how to milk venom from a viper. It was a thrilling day when you finally encouraged a Golden Asp to latch to a milking jar. You had felt something tender crack open within you, watching those first clear drops slide down into the glass below. The venom sparkled in the sunlight.

Your family, the Carvers, is one of wood-workers: both of your parents, and your Nana and Papa on both sides, and your great-grandparents before them. Your mother is a furniture-maker from Cliffside Keep; your father, a maker of wooden hunting decoys from Fox’s Keep. The two had fallen slowly in in love during regular visits to trade. They had expected a son when they had you; you were given a masculine name anyway. You have seven younger siblings, two of which are identical twins: good luck for wood elves, a sign of a fertile and happy marriage. Your interest in alchemistry— in something other than wood-working— soiled that.

“What would an alchemist’s family name be?” your mother sighed at you one afternoon. Your newest sibling dozed in her arms. “Poisoner? It’s a hideous profession. Don’t even think about it.”

The problem was that you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

You argued with your parents, your grandparents, your siblings. You resented the forced time in the workshop, sanding down wood furniture until your arms and abdominals ached. When you were unable to trance, you drew what you found growing in the forest: snakes and spiders and insects crawling in the grass. You found a snake’s nest one afternoon, the eggs already hatched and abandoned, and you sat next to it for hours, dutifully sketching your findings. You taught your friends simple cantrips, little tricks to make them gasp and giggle.

One of your sisters stole your notebook from your shared bedroom and, laughing all the while, showed it to your parents. Then the parchment and ink was taken away, and you were given more useless wood to sand. You beat her about the ears for this, and when she cried for your parents, they took away your candles, too.

I hate this place, you thought one night. I hate my stupid boy name and I hate stupid wood and after my Trial I’ll start my own keep someday, someplace far from here, and I’ll learn all the spells I want. 

You wished, fervently, to be given a girl’s name at your Trial. You resolved to beg the Wood Mother for one, if needed. Tavvendish was a child who was doomed to varnish wood for eternity. This new elf, you decided, this adult, would be an alchemist, and she would have a pretty, feminine name.

The week of your Trial couldn't come soon enough.

And then it arrived.

------------

Gale is sweet and talkative and gods, you hate him already.

“A fellow scholar!” he chirps at you, clasping his hands together with excitement. “Two wizards are better than one, or so they say.”

Lae’zel dusts herself off from the cage she was just in, as if your party hadn’t had to rescue her. You dig through the trapper's belongings with her, looking for anything useful.

“There’s balsam growing there,” you say over your shoulder to Gale. You point at a few scraggly flowers growing along the path. “Would you mind?”

Gale— the idiot-- happily obliges. He produces lacquered scissors from his pack— oh, you definitely hate him— and, with clinical efficiency, begins snipping flowers. “Have we an alchemist on our hands?” he says. “I’ve got some mushrooms gathering dust in my pouch. I might give them to you to extract.”

Astarion calls to you two from over a tiefling’s bloodied corpse. “Oh, don’t touch her, Gale. She’s covered in goodness-knows from the Nautiloid.”

“You don’t say?” Gale calls back to him. He smirks at you, wagging the scissors in your direction. “A thrifty one, then.”

How in the realms had Astarion heard you two? You ignore him and address Gale instead. “I have some supplies in my pack,” you say, “but certainly not enough for five individuals. And most of it is…" You teeter your hand back-and-forth. "Toxic.”

Gale sighs. “What a shame.” 

The deceased have some drow poison and a few meager healing potions. Something is better than nothing, you suppose. You pass a healing potion to Lae’zel, who accepts it with a terse nod.

Gale’s shadow falls over you, and he offers the balsam flowers with open palms. His trimming is immaculate; you admire the bulbs for a moment before dropping them, one by one, into your pouch.

“I can’t help but notice,” Gale says slowly, and you tense. “You’re a wood elf, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you say stiffly. You stand up.

“How fascinating!” Gale tucks his hands behind his back, the very picture of polite curiosity. “Your kind are rather reclusive, as you know. I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of talking to a wood elf in Waterdeep.”

You could kill him.

Gale leans in. “What keep are you from, may I ask?”

You sigh. “Can everyone stop asking me that?”

Gale takes a step back. Hurt flits across his face, quick as lightning. In the next moment, it’s gone. He gives you a little bow. “My sincerest apologies,” he says, and he sounds genuine. “I don’t mean to pry.”

You sling your pack over your shoulder with a grunt. “Fox’s Keep,” you say, guilt lancing through you at the name. “It was my mother keep. I live in the Gate at the moment.”

“Fox’s Keep!” Gale trails after you. “Excellent strawberry wine. Some of the finest and sweetest I’ve tasted.”

Astarion, Shadowheart, and Lae’zel are several steps ahead of you on the path. The road trudges upwards at a steady thirty-degree angle. From beside you, Gale wipes sweat from his brow. Your pack clinks with glass bottles.

“We certainly do love our wine,” you huff.

“I heard you all have trades,” he says. “What is your family name?” Before you can answer, he laughs and shakes his head. “Look at me, prying again. The curse of an academic.”

“Carver.” You stop at the side of the road to examine a bushel of Autumncrocus, hoping Gale will get the hint and leave you alone.

He doesn’t.

“Wood-workers?” he asks. “A noble profession.”

You cut the stems with your paring knife. “Mm-hmm.”

He squints up at the sky. “So how does a wood-worker get into alchemy?”

You shove the Autumncrocus directly into your robe pockets and start back up the path. “By disappointing her family,” you spit over your shoulder. “That’s how.”

Gale is blessedly silent after that.

------------

There is an overturned fruit cart in a clearing up ahead. The produce looks ripe enough, and it doesn't smell of rot. Gale suggests-- annoyingly-- that your party takes a break to eat and regroup.

The five of you idle in the clearing, overlooking the Nautiloid. You are desperately thirsty, but who knows how the Nautiloid has polluted the Chionthar below? Better to drink the juice from some bruised oranges.

You remove your leather hat. At least it's a pleasant day to be kidnapped— illithidnapped?— tadpoled? You squint down at the wreckage. The Nautoloid’s tentacles splay across the valley, like a lazy teenager lounging in the sun. Smoke rises faintly from the wreckage. The site, despite everything, is almost...peaceful.

“What,” Astarion asks, voice dripping with disdain, “is that?”

You turn to him. He’s already crossed the clearing to stand close to you. “What’s what?”

He reaches for you and—

Drags a finger along the bridge of your nose. 

Along your scar.

You freeze.

“This wretched thing,” he says, watching the path his cold finger takes. The scar arcs over the bridge of your nose, then splits in two over your right cheekbone; he takes the path down to your jawbone first.

You can’t move. No one’s ever touched you so blatantly before.

Well—

Not since—

Astarion is still talking. “It ruins your lovely face,” he sighs. He returns to where the scar bisects on your right cheek. He traces the other line this time, the one leading to your right earlobe. “Pray tell, what happened to you, poor thing?”

You move your mouth, but no sound comes out. You keep your arms rigid at your side. Shock keeps you planted in the dirt, though every part of you wants to run.

His hands are so cold.

When you don’t respond, Astarion clicks his tongue. He-- finally-- withdraws his hand and puts it on his hip. He tilts his head to the side. “Cat got your tongue?” he asks you, eyes deceptively wide.

“You know it’s rude to touch other people without asking?” you choke out.

He barks out a harsh laugh. “Don’t I ever, darling!”

He steps in. Astarion is a close talker, you realize, the worst kind: you go cross-eyed trying to follow him. “But really,” he says, and you can smell his breath, smell how vaguely chemical it is, “I must know. Did someone hurt you?”

You take a step back. Astarion follows.

You growl at him, but Astarion’s smirk widens.

Finally, you relent: “I tried to cast Witch Bolt,” you sigh, “and it backfired and cast on me.” You do a tiny, sarcastic curtsey. “And now I have a Witch Bolt across my face forever.”

“A Witch Bolt for a witch,” he says with obvious glee. “At least people know not to come close again.”

“Indeed,” you snap. “Everyone but you.”

Astarion rolls his eyes. His smirk widens. “Don’t be cross, my dear. I think it really suits you.”

You wince and shoulder past him. “Thank you for calling me wretched, brother.”

“Oh, come now!” he calls after you. “I find it quite interesting!”

[bretongirlwrites]

from the worldbuilding prompts - #30 for Julianne?

30. Dubious at-home cures for mild ailments

(or: why shepherd's pie has the cure disease attribute)

‘O damnation,’ said I, ‘o damnable, damnable thing! – I have got a cold.’

I must have got it in the before-times: since damnable and inconvenient the plains of Oblivion had been, I could not recall any daedra sneezing on me; the same however, could not be said of the mages, who’d come in droves from the snow into the Guild-hall. I should sooner have a thousand sneezing mages than a single moment in the Deadlands: but waking up after the latter fact, with one’s throat dryer than in the fires of Oblivion, and one’s nose running fit to flee some dremora, – it is the last straw.

‘I ought not to complain,’ said I looking at Corinne and Martin quite piteously: ‘I shall survive at least.’

‘Oh!’ said Corinne: ‘both you and Martin know a good deal of healing-magics, –’

‘Would it surprise you to learn, my dear Corinne,’ said I, ‘that try as we might, – and it’s our collective headache,’ my head pounding a little with the effort of it, ‘– no mage nor alchemist nor healer has ever managed to cure the common cold?’

Martin, who had been building our fire, looked at me with such astonishment, that I wondered at his ignorance of it: considered that people had surely come to him with the most terrible of diseases and afflictions and ailments, – but never thought, in the grip of such a pathetic malady as this, to go to a priest. Corinne, likewise baffled, could only pity me; and from some deep devoted place in her Blades armour, offer me her handkerchief. 

‘And especially not,’ said I, ‘in the middle of absolute nowhere. – Damn it all. – What do we still have in rations?

‘There used to be,’ I persisted, while Corinne was fetching the bags, ‘a woman of questionable skill in the City, who purporting to be a healer, sold her cure-alls at such remarkable prices, that the Society for Concerned Merchants was overwhelmed by the real alchemists; and the University investigated. – What on this beloved planet is this?’

‘Dried mutton,’ said Corinne, ‘I think.’

‘It turned out,’ I went on, ‘that this woman, unable to afford and maintain the proper equipment, did a sort of rudimentary alchemy in her marmite. In essence she was making soup. The remarkable thing is that, – though it did not cure anything, – her soup actually worked for certain reliefs. A sort of advanced wortcraft. – I presume this is a potato?’

The thing was so grubby, that even after washing it, I still feared to mistake it for a boulder, and lose it. Corinne however, who had got the water up to the boil, encouraged me to do whatever it was I was doing; and Martin, who was too tired to do anything but watch, awaited with a smile, the continuation of the story.

‘She held this against us,’ said I, ‘and the case stood. It’s the City… after all. She was allowed to continue practising, so long as she did not use the word potion. Such a word implies proper alchemy, and you know how it is… it did not much matter anyway. The last I heard of her, she’d gone over to Skyrim. Apparently they are fond of soup over there; and not so much of potions, – o my voice is going, –’

It had not been much of a dawn, – what with my cold; and the fog; and the memory of tribulations past: but when the water was bubbling, and our thoughts were all turned to sustenance, we may stretch our legs a little, and yawning, smile round at each other; no voices necessary. I almost forgot all else, in my memory of the story, the City which lay faint on the horizon: and when my experiment was ready, said only, and with increasing frogs:

‘I admired her. I really did. There’s a sort of expectation on us, to do things properly. Her things did not work as well as ours did: but they worked, they damn well worked. I haven’t often imitated her, until, – called by necessity, –’

Whereupon I, with a flourish and the nearest stick to a spoon I could find, poured out my creation into a bottle that Martin held out. 

‘There you have it,’ said I, ‘a potion, of fortify health, of restore fatigue: a soup-potion! I cannot cure a cold: but it will keep me going until Bruma, –’

‘It’s a shepherd’s pie,’ said Corinne at once voice rising: ‘a liquified shepherd’s pie. – A shepherd’s pie, in a bottle. – You could have made a damn shepherd’s pie.’

I fell silent halfway to drinking it. – Corinne looked at me. – I sheepish, looked away, at Martin. – And he though consternated, – and she though troubled, – and I though in the midst of the most inconvenient cold of my life, – raised a toast of pie-soup: and burst out laughing.

[astrxlfinale]

There comes a day where he feels like someone is after him.

No, not someone, Caelus is fully damn aware of the wrath he awakened. Except who would've considered the fact that it'd have such an incredible scent tied to it. Just one singular whiff and it felt like that fragrance was exploding fireworks in the back of his mind. A dopey smile almost flourished upon his face, that is, until he becomes fully damn aware of who's behind such damn activity! His time in the Alchemy Commission is drawn to not a pause, but an abrupt, challenging realization.

For before his eyes would be the brand new head of operations. An almost, unpredictable glint within her eyes as she shares the boons of her studies. That in itself becomes the issue as it leads to his eyes squinting, but it was certainly due to no manner of burning. No, for that guiding hand that's entrenched in a lively ruby glow would be part of the slickly drawn net against him. A cursed intonation has led to this moment, where thoughts left the mouth without any filter.

And right now? It wasn't the incense that led to the burn of his eyes, it was a very conscious, very palpable struggle.

Down.. Down.. D-

NO CAELUS STOP!

Immediately did his self training allow his gaze to abruptly tear away from the Cauldron master's heavenly valley. That earlier shower thought being ignited within his mind all over again. Did that color match? Would it be a one stop shot to the abundance of delectable sweets that would run in a strawberry laden stream? He has no damn clue, and in truth, it's this damnable unknown despite the earlier given facts that keeps knocking at the forefront of his mind.

This wasn't professionalism! Right now was an act of communitive bonding, allowing him to access a touch of her wares, to see their utility as they'd be important in the future struggles to come. "Ling.. Lingsha! This scent.."

DAMN YOU. YOU KNOW FULL WELL WHAT YOU'RE DOING.

The mere idea, the constant struggle of not letting his eyes tilt towards that sweet oblivion was making his eyes begin to water. This was simply passion for her craft! Definitely not a path towards where she could make icy brand delicacies!

"It's so lavish.. L.. Like.." No. None of that Caelus.

"Like you own your own strawberry farm.." What?

@shrineofprophecy

[jayahult]

You Forgot

The problem is that you think she came back wrong. You're forgetting so, so many things. The first thing you forgot, of course, was that this was a bad idea - that desecrating a body, tapping into these dark rites, opening the way to the unknown and hidden things of the earth is not a work for a person so weak-willed as to not accept the one thing all people are born to do. That didn't stop you of course. Far harder to part with was your dignity. Nobody can have dignity when in the dead of night they six feet down to unearth the corpse, stinking, infested with maggots and certainly no one can have any dignity when they've yelped at the sight of a centipede emerging from someone's mouth. You forgot all sensible religion and turned to the blackest, foulest alchemy one could imagine, the black stitches, the pale and bloodless skin graft, the yellowed teeth of dogs and babes, the fresh blood which rolled down your arm. Oh, yes, you forgot it for her.

And you forgot the law, too, to provide for her eyes, her hair, her joints. Animals could do for some but not for all - you wanted only the best for her. You forgot the common morality to provide for her toes and her tendons and joints, those sayings of common sense about killing five men to save just one. That didn't matter. What her family wanted didn't matter. The work mattered.

And then she woke after all your months of work. Oh, yes, then she woke, and you were so, so afraid. She breathed in through long-empty lungs, and her chest flexed around the scars of autopsy and replacement, and her breast heaved with that first gasp - and oh, you nearly screamed if it weren't for the fact that you had forgotten to breathe out of shock. As the damnable, contemptible man you are you became disgusted as she sighed out, spindly catsgut strings of her arms springing to life as she grasped the table and let out a great howl, a demoniac wolf-noise that must have been from the depths of Hell itself. You damn well forgot that the dead must keep their lips sealed for a reason; that the tombs out stay well shut, the corpses kept deeper, locked far away from the places of the living. Having forgotten your common sense you swallowed your bile and your fear, but not the disgust that sat in your head. You could never rid of that even when she was alive, not wholly. You thought that was the way love went sometimes, and so it seemed natural to you.

Foolish man you are, you clumsily tried to commune with her. She took well to talking, and still you seemed so disgusted with her. She said the same words. She took to the same mannerisms with only some new flesh, with freshly sharp canines and thirty-four more to spare - you'd forgotten how many she ought to have, but that was a small mistake considering everything else. But something was wrong, something was off - she was always needling you, irking you, trying to frustrate you or asking you too many questions. More and more that same disgust grew in you from the moment you first met. It occurred to you that perhaps something entirely different than the woman you knew was now inhabiting her body, and you quickly became certain in that determination, that sweet Vanya was gone and some daemon had truly come back that night and not her.

Of course, you were wrong. How could you ever be more wrong? A foolish little boy you were, skinning cats and sticking his nose where it ought not to be, you forgot so many things - the little things, like how she stirred coffee with her left hand, how she loved her meat rare, how she would delight in singing, how she would make cruel jokes and liked to poke herself with silverware, and how her arrangement with you left her bored and sad most days. No daemon-figure could imitate her mannerisms and her memories so exactly. But when you could not have her anymore, when Death snatched her up from you, when you lost the one person in your life you could control most, you forgot all of that. You say she came back wrong, that she isn't who she was. Deep down, you must know that you are lying, you sad fool. You forgot who you were bringing back.

[poeticandchaotic]

What is written is what is true. Words and their meanings have weight in the world of matter, shaping and reshaping realities through a most ancient alchemy. Even my own writings — so damnably powerless — may have just enough power to reach the right person and to tell the right truth, and change the nature of things.

Alix E. Harrow, The Ten Thousand Doors of January

[norabrice1701]

The Duke & The Witch - Ch. 11

Charles Brandon x Fem!OC, A The Tudors Slight-AU fic

Series Main List

Ch. 11 Warnings: Discussion of witchcraft; period-typical attitudes towards everything (women, religion, witchcraft, etc.); fantastical squinty science/alchemy; torture (pleasure as pain)

Charles can’t shake the memory of Avian. Chained to the wall. Eyes glossy and unfocused. Her strong composure shattered by the physical state of her body. 

And all at Cromwell’s hand.

But no matter how his blood boils, he takes measured steps. Careful maneuvering always dictates prudence. And if Cromwell is indeed carrying out a mandate from the king, then Henry wants it secret for a reason, and it won’t do Charles any good to be caught seeking it out. 

Perhaps Henry’s recent seclusion over Queen Jane’s death is both a blessing and a curse. With Henry only allowing the court fool personal audiences, no one serving on the Privy Council has any direct messages from the king. At least Charles can rule out private audiences between the king and Cromwell as a source of any secret mandate. But, it also stiffles Charles’ investigation as he can’t carefully query Henry for information.

His only source proves to be the detestable man himself, and Charles already knows how far that conversation will get him.

Frustration burns under his skin all the while. For while he navigates the machinations of court, Avian still remains Cromwell’s victim, vulnerable to his schemes and plots. Has the passion powder finally run dry? He can hope that’s her only mercy - though, he doesn’t know what next steps Cromwell will take to loosen her tongue. 

Charles reaches for another letter, slicing it open with all the vigor of the damnably frustrating situation. Indeed with Henry in total isolation, the affairs of the kingdom pile high on Charles’ desk everyday without end. Matters of far more worldly importance should occupy Charles’ mind, but he can’t deny the heavy concern that plagues him.

He sighs, pinching the brow of his nose as he closes his eyes and lets the letter flutter to his desktop. He will need to re-read the ambassador’s letter a second time.

A knock on the door interrupts him, and he glances up to answer. “Come.”

The court messenger tips a customary bow as he approaches Chales’ desk. “Your Grace – I have a summons from the Lord Privy Seal. He requests to see you at your earliest availability.”

Charles stiffens in his chair. An audience with the contemptible man certainly won’t improve his mood today. But if he dismisses the messenger away, he will only add Cromwell’s dreaded meeting to the ever-growing list of taxations on his mind.

The ambassador can wait for now.

He rises from his desk, following the messenger through the snaking corridors towards Cromwell’s office.

“Ah, my Lord Suffolk. Good of you to come.” Cromwell’s smile holds all the warmth of a fond greeting but his eyes glint with cold steel. 

Charles tips his head in polite salutation despite the tense set of his jaw. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, I did.” Cromwell says, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk. “Won’t you please have a seat?”

Charles hesitates, debating the wisdom of sitting down with the man responsible for torturing Avian. But at length, he walks more into Cromwell’s office, dropping stiffly into the wooden chair and staring at Cromwell impatiently. “Very well. What is it you wish to discuss?”

“I wish to discuss the prisoner Avian.”

His throat tightens. “What of her?”

“I know that you paid a visit to her cell yesterday afternoon. So, it stands to reason that you and she share a relationship. And given your… storied history with women, I can only speculate as to the nature of that relationship.”

Charles’ hand curls into an indignant fist in his lap. “You have no right to speak of our relationship, given your relationship to her of torturer.”

Cromwell has the gall to wince, lips pursing distastefully. “That’s not a role I relish, you know. I take no joy in the suffering of others.”

“But you will happily take from those whose lives are upturned as part of your reformation.”

“Does Your Grace forget that this is not my reformation – but the King’s? And that those whose lives are upturned were in direct violation of the king’s policies?” He shakes his head with a soft, weary sigh. “I assure you that the only joy to be felt is knowing that the money and lands previously hoarded by the corrupt have been restored to the king for use in bettering his kingdom.”

“In answer to your query - no, I’m very much aware of the king’s devotion to cleanse his church.” Charles’ voice tightens with the ghosts from the Pilgrimage of Grace still haunt his nightmares. “But the sentiment still stands – you cannot claim innocence in joylessly watching others suffer.”

Cromwell’s brow arches with a wicked edge. “I never claimed innocence.” He leans forward to rest his arms on his desk, folding his hands. “But I have no wish to quarrel with you at present. For the benefit of king and country, I fear we must ally in regards to our prisoner.”

“Ally?” Charles’ face draws in suspiciously as disgust creeps into his voice. “I will not help you torture her.”

“No, no – your relationship with her could yield far better results. I want to encourage you to use it. Use it to convince her to let go of her stubbornness, end her imprisonment, and enter the king’s service.”

Charles huffs a mirthless laugh. “I am not her keeper. If she’s of a mind to not accept the offer, there is little that I can do to sway her.”

“Why as I live and breathe, the infamous Lord Suffolk admits to a woman unmanning him. Perhaps she has cast a spell upon you? Or given you warts, hmm?” He arches a sly, challenging brow. “Personally, I wouldn’t let my cock anywhere near a witch, but I’m given to understand that you’ve never been much of one for discerning taste.”

Charles grits his teeth, fist flexing in his lap. “And how is insulting me supposed to convince me to ally with you?”

“Because you betray yourself. Your treatment of her at the demonstration was all too telling, careful though you were to hide it. You did well, right up until she passed out from that last powder and you rushed to her side. That flash of blinding concern on your face – impossible to conceal, and impossible to mistake if anyone cared to look.” Cromwell shakes his head in a mockery of disappointment. “I should hate to further report to His Majesty that the depth of his duke’s deception regarding this woman extends so much deeper than he knows.”

Blazing anger shoots through Charles, his fingers twitching with the urge to strangle the man sitting across the desk. He draws a slow, deep breath trying to reign in every prideful instinct. Killing Cromwell now will only reap an unrecoverable punishment no matter the truth of his words or his conniving manipulation. He fixes his gaze back to Cromwell with all the authority he has. “You may enjoy the king’s favor for now, but look no further than the list of your predecessors to see your own future. No one has yet satisfied His Majesty.”

“All the more incentive to see this witch installed to His Majesty’s pleasure. With your support.”

Charles forces a hard swallow, hoping he doesn’t condemn himself to an unredeemable fate. “I will speak with her. But I guarantee nothing.” 

Cromwell tips his head in acceptance, face solemn even as victory flashes in his eyes. “That is all I ask, Your Grace.”

***

Cromwell absently sips his wine, displeasure hardening the lines of his face as he stares into the crackling fire. Weeks pass, and yet still more things unravel at a worrying pace. Today’s disastrous Privy Council meeting still needles him, and Brandon’s haughty arrogance only grows bolder to so openly oppose him. To refuse all manner of cooperation. To undermine him at every opportunity. 

Helpless anger roils in Cromwell’s gut - and sends a shiver of fear creeping down his spine. He takes another sip – gulp – of wine, hoping to drown it. 

He shouldn’t have to concern himself with such trivial matters. The matters of state far outweigh everything else, and he can’t afford any distractions. Especially not with the current political climate and Henry still locked away with his grief. But dammit all if Brandon - and that damnable witch of his - aren’t thorns in his side. 

It should be a fairly simple matter. A life in the king’s service should be enviable. An easy request to fulfill, and the woman shouldn’t require so much convincing. Yet the prisoner has held true to her original convictions and still refuses despite the continued interrogation sessions. He sighs as a wave of disgust sours his stomach. He’s actually meant what he said to Brandon. He has no love of cruelty – unlike some other lords – but he can’t argue that it doesn’t work. That it doesn’t deliver results. 

Well. Usually.

But therein lies the crux of his conundrum. If he can't bring a simple witch under control, then how can he possibly expect to hold order in the kingdom? How?!

He also hadn’t been lying when he said that he couldn’t afford her any permanent damage. How else will she serve the king if her fingers become disfigured or if she loses an eye? But his mounting frustration resigns him to the realization that he needs something more effective than his current methods. And if Brandon can’t be enlisted to support convincing her to enter the king’s service, then clearly Cromwell’s leverage holds no power. 

A gentle knock on the door breaks him from his thoughts. He turns towards the door with a sigh, sitting up a bit straighter. “Enter.”

The door opens to reveal the sharp, pointed features of Edward Seymour. No matter the warmth of the room, the man’s holds always hold such a cold gleam, especially in dim shadows of late night. “My lord Privy Seal.”

Cromwell inclines his head. “My lord.”

Seymour’s brow furrows with a modicum of concern. “Forgive my observation, but you look quite taxed.”

“Hmm, nothing to forgive. Your observation is quite accurate.” The corner of Cromwell’s mouth ticks up as he gestures to the empty chair flanking his right side. “There’s wine, if you prefer.”

Seymour tips his head in gratitude as he approaches the small table between chairs, pouring out a measure of wine and seating himself next to the Cromwell, opposite the fireplace. “I do not mean to pry, but if I can be of assistance, I’d be honored.”

The man may make a good show of sincerity, but Cromwell takes no comfort in it. Edward Seymour’s ambitions are well known at court, especially since the death of his sister, the man’s just one heartbeat away from Lord Protector. He takes another sip of his wine, stalling for more time to reply. Maybe…  just maybe he can enlist Seymour to his cause. With something far more suitable to the man’s skillset. And probably - to Cromwell’s disgust - his pleasure. 

Cromwell wets his top lip. “There may yet be an opportunity, but first I would hear of your news that brings you to my office at this hour.”

Seymour’s mouth tilts apologetically. “My news is not so urgent. Just a report on the day’s end. But little changes when the king remains locked away in grief.”

“So, we will face yet another day without our sovereign.” He glimpses the subtle nod of Seymour’s head in the dancing firelight. “Then, we will continue to do as we must. The tragic death of His Majesty’s wife – your sister - is indeed the unkindest loss for any man to face. But that is exactly why we must comport ourselves with all due diligence for the maintenance of his kingdom. For nothing will please or irk him more than the state of affairs when he emerges from seclusion.”

Seymour nods his silent agreement, raising his glass.

Cromwell continues. “To that end, I firmly believe that we have an easy victory in front of us that we can claim for His Majesty. You remember Brandon’s witch, I trust?”

Seymour’s eyes spark with careful interest. “Of course. A most enlightening display. Whether or not her powers are derived from fornication with the devil, she does possess powerful knowledge.”

“We don’t know yet if she fornicates with The Devil, but I have no doubt that she has fornicated with a devil of this court.”

Seymour’s lips thin to a dark line of amusement. “I thought he seemed a touch familiar with her.”

Cromwell tips his head in acknowledgement. “And if her powers could be put to use in service of the king – just imagine it! Enemy armies rendered unable to fight just by breathing a simple powder. Our men would make scores of captures without injury. The king could subjugate any monarch he wished with a mere flick of his wrist. And that’s all to say nothing of her skills that are still hidden.”

“Clever. Resourceful. Any sovereign would be envious to have someone of her power in his service.” The man’s eyes narrow shrewdly as he regards Cromwell. “And most grateful to whomever procured her for his service.”

The corner of Cromwell’s mouth lifts smugly. “Indeed. And it is to that end that I propose your assistance would be valuable.”

The answering curl of Seymour’s lip takes a sinister shade in the flickering firelight. “Is she still installed in The Tower?”

“Indeed.”

“Have attempts been made?”

“Several. But the lady is… stubborn.”

Seymour nods pensively, eyes dropping to his goblet before sipping his wine. “And Brandon?”

Cromwell sighs with a stab of frustration. “I have sought to enlist him to leverage his relationship with her towards this goal. But now that he voices such public opinions against me, and His Majesty is indisposed to leverage directly against Brandon – I cannot be sure of the man’s involvement.”

“Does he visit her?”

“The guards say he visits every few days or so. He never stays for very long, and whether he encourages her to stay strong or yield to the king’s service – I cannot say.”

“Well.” The scheming edge in Seymour’s gaze reflects in his cold smirk. “Perhaps it’s time that we approach the situation differently. She’s already our captive and already a subject of His Majesty. Bound by God to serve and obey, even if she herself is in the Devil’s service. So, perhaps we should start looking at punishment, rather than coercion. And perhaps… just perhaps Brandon shouldn’t be spared, either.”  

[dangerouscommiesubversive]

Since I actually made sandwich loaves, I got to give one of my prized possessions a rare outing--this here is my Appalachian bread saw!

[halothenthehorns]

All in the Family

Chapter 144: Hermione's Helping Hand

The room was a very dangerous landing, each of them got a book to the head no matter where they landed. Frank was on a flaming red comforter on the bed with a dog eared copy, the title so faded he hadn't a hope of recognizing it until he flipped through a few pages, and even then did not follow the Muggle story.* Alice had a heavy tomb smash so hard against her forehead she saw stars, and it was over a copy of some muggle thing to do with the human anatomy a Healer would struggle to follow.

Lily groaned miserably as she removed a book on alchemy from her face, and Potter's glasses had broken where he'd faced planted a window with an interesting view of a Muggle neighborhood and still had a book on the windowsill crack a lens he couldn't even read the title of now.

Peter had to pull himself out from a whole pile of books, on top of which was Defensive Magical Theory, by Wilbert Slinkhard, and Regulus even found one on teeth he had to dislodge from his own.

Remus landed painfully on a desk, the book losing its place as the bookmark toppled out of sight he felt bad for, and Sirius even found a copy of Quidditch Through the Ages to his distaste for the first time in his life as he pulled it from where it had whacked his ear.

The silver book itself they were all supposed to be here for sat in the middle of the room with the air of innocence. For once.

"As if we haven't been traumatized by enough books already," James sighed as he tapped his glasses to fix them.

"If this room isn't Hermione's, then I'll kiss a centaur," Sirius happily informed the room at large.

"Brilliant deduction there," Lily rolled her eyes, but there was only amusement in her voice. "Did you figure that out before or after this?" She was holding a picture of Hermione in this very room, a still image of her sitting at this very desk with Crookshank's in her lap, the sun just visible on the horizon from the window.

The walls didn't house much decoration, it was simple yet charming to see so much of her personality packed into the comfortably sized room.

"The best part is, I bet this is only a quarter of the ones she owns," James grinned. "She takes most of them with her to school!"

Sirius laughed and Lily found herself smiling in agreement as Lupin tried the door, which mercifully opened. The others scattered about the house, some for the loo, some for the kitchen. Sirius made to do the latter, but lingered in the door jam to watch in fascination as Prongs hesitated, and then turned back to Evans.

There was a reluctance in him he'd seen a few times now, and he had a very good guess why James was suddenly so hesitant to engage with her. He'd been devastated by the news of Sirius' death, arguably more than him even, and it wasn't hard to follow his logic if he had to change something to keep it from happening it would be taking Harry out of the equation via her. He wished his brother wouldn't think like that, but he'd never liked Evans much himself to understand his fascination with her and so wasn't even sure how to urge him back.

When James turned back holding in whatever he'd been about to say though, Lily startled them both by asking, "so, do you know what a dentist is?" The tone was mild, maybe a little mocking, but she was now holding the book Regulus had spat out with a curious smile.

He would have expected James, as usual, to not actually know how to respond to her when she spoke like a normal human being. Instead he hesitated with an odd smile in place and said casually, "not really, but I got the idea. Teeth and such, Muggles need them cared for without a spell."

Prongs hesitated again, some torn expression lingering, before he softly asked as if speaking of her ill coming death, "how come you never took Care of Magical Creatures?"

Sirius snorted fantastically, earning a dirty look from both of them. He raised his hands in surrender and took a step back into the hall, where Remus came up and pulled on him out of sight. James turned back to watching her, still unsure if he should have asked. She'd gotten assurances on their first day from McGonagall, Flitwick, and Slughorn all the creatures came to no harm for their classes to commence. He'd watched her love of animals long after that, she'd taken to cuddling with every cat in the common room and watched the birds deliver post every morning despite receiving none of her own long after other Muggle-borns grew used to it, but that look of awe and longing lingered in her.

Just because he'd given up on the idea of her didn't mean he couldn't still learn more about her, right? It was something he'd wanted to know for years but obviously she'd never have answered before. Maybe if he tried without the flirting he'd get a better result.

And, it worked. She went a little red, but answered casually, "I was trying to prove something, to my parents, to Snape, myself. Taking Arithmancy and Runes, the harder and more difficult classes. I regret it a bit now."

Potter watched her, absolutely fascinated by her little speech it seemed. She kept waiting for that to wear off now that she was actually trying to talk to him on a regular basis, but it didn't seem to be happening.

"You can take it come NEWT year if you want," he told her, that damnable cheerful smile creeping back now as they managed the first casual conversation of their life. "Remus will lend you his notes for the OWL's next week if you want."

She laughed in surprise, then realized he wasn't joking. He really thought she was that smart she could take a class she hadn't been in for two years? "I'll, ah, take that into consideration," she tried to shrug.

He hesitated, seemed to decide he'd pushed her enough, and then finally left. He'd gotten her to laugh, that was more of an accomplishment he'd managed in his life already! He glanced the way two of his friends went, rolled his eyes, and called towards the kitchen, "hey Alice, want to show me how a muggle stove works!"

Lily blanched in fear of him burning the house down and snatched up the actual needed book, not bothering to pretend to herself she was smiling as she followed along and cracked it open, but paused to take in the rest.

The hallway was littered with cheerful hallmark signs such as 'Love, Life, Live,' and several more of Hermione through the years, but Lily kept watching the muggle photos despite the fact that they weren't moving in mild curiosity for several moments before it occurred to her why they seemed a little odd. Hermione was alone in each of them, smiling brightly, but the only one in focus. Not only no friends hanging off her arm in her primary years as she held up spelling awards and science fair projects, but her parents didn't seem in any of them either. One particularly telling one was a candid shot of a very young Hermione sitting in an empty waiting room, reading a book far too big for her lap. Only when she got to the very end of most recent photos hinted at who could have been there all these years, and it was an extremely elder lady, possibly her grandmother or even a nanny, the photo at such an angle it was clearly taken by her as well as she stood shoulder to shoulder with Hermione. The tender look of love in the older woman's eyes only leveled with the weary exhaustion in the folds of her skin. Beneath that was a hand drawn calligraphy plaque with the year and date, but no other sort of explanation except her socially awkward behavior from back at the first book.

The kitchen seemed to double as a study, there were heavy journals on multiple surfaces, Frank was flipping curiously through one that was ear marked with dates, names, and what the appointment was going to be for, another that Regulus was prodding his wand along curiously through every page seemed to house lots of studies and practices on how Hermione's parents could improve their work. She doubted he followed a word, even she probably couldn't.

The chapter title itself was unsurprising, and she went through it still laughing it was all about Harry's first act as Captain sorting out members of his team, indeed with Hermione's help. Wasn't this just a day of surprises.

Potter continued to rank highest of all in that regards. The look on his face when he found out what Hermione did was priceless.

The reason behind it she misunderstood.

"She cheated? On Quidditch! I'd expect this girl to snog Snape before I heard her do something like this!"

"She did set Snape on fire once during a game." Alice happily reminded as she swatted his hand away from the hot surface, again. He seemed to keep forgetting despite the red light and heat waves coming up from the innocent black circle. "Guess her bar goes out the window during sports," she finished with a giggle.

His flummoxed expression still seemed at war if he should be impressed or agitated at this, while Regulus was snickering relentlessly for the show as well as he said, "I thought it was brilliant, as if I want to sit around hearing about that McLaggen's temper for the games, he'll ruin what little fun we've been getting out of these."

His eyes tracked curiously as he seemed to realize his brother wasn't in here to give his opinion, but seemed distracted enough when Peter spoke, "think of it this way, you or Padfoot would have done it to some arse in the hallway if he was really saying half that shite. Does the location matter that much?"

"I mean, yes," he pouted, but if anything he looked more confused. "Quidditch shouldn't be trifled with," he finished with a hint of defiance, but eventually sighed and turned back to turning the stove on and off with the odd switch and all the numbers while she finished.

Remus let his fingers brush against Sirius' and subtly pulled his fingers before letting go. Sirius needed no further prompting before following him out of the room into what must be Hermione's parents room. Remus didn't care as he locked the door and then hugged Sirius.

He laughed in delight, immediately returning it as he said quietly into his neck, "I'm getting whiplash from you."

"I just wanted to make sure you know I'm grateful," Remus told him as he pulled back, having to remind himself not to let his hands linger. "For not beating Frank's face into a pulp, back in the apothecary," he elaborated.

The fact that Sirius never held his mood swings against him or even ever accused him of being moody because of the full moon made him wish he could snog his face off right about now. Merlin, James had barely been involved and he'd called him on being an emotional ass!

"Oh," Sirius' face did not settle into a promising expression, barely concealed anger still there, but he made such a valiant effort to push it back away Remus had to fight back the urge to kiss him again. "Right, you're welcome. If he had done it on purpose though, I can't say I'd have been able to stop myself." Moony and Prongs had made a valid point, better Longbottom occasionally forget the dangers than continue being a racist arse, but his point still stood there was a middle ground that wouldn't put Remus in pain! The Marauders all knew it, couldn't he?!

Remus really couldn't resist and let his hand brush along his cheek and settle down on his neck as he gazed into his eyes. Sirius hummed as always at the physical affection. Remus could have hugged him back in the apothecary and not been an arse about this too! This really would just have to be enough for him, he could never ask for better friends. He reluctantly let his hand drop back away with one more whispered thanks.

Sirius looked hurt though, to Remus' confusion. "Why do you keep doing that?"

"Doing what?" He denied, he really hadn't thought Sirius would realize he was starting to back off yet, as much else as he was dealing with.

"Remus, you've barely looked at me since the polyjuice prank," Sirius finally called his crap. "So if you're not mad at me, would you please say so?"

"I'm not," Remus instantly promised. Merlin if he was mad at Sirius for every stupid prank he'd never not be enraged at this one. "I'm, mad at myself." He finally reluctantly admitted.

Sirius' face clouded with concern. Even on top of dealing with James, Peter, and Regulus at once Padfoot hadn't once tried to cope a field on him for some fun away from them while in this room, and a traitorous bubble of hope still lingered in Remus' chest this could mean more to Sirius. They were just friends with benefits, he instantly reminded himself. Friends! Of course he cares, you know he does.

"Anything I can do to help?" Sirius was even the one to reach for his hand, their fingers naturally intertwining.

"It's, Harry," he finally gave a half truth, which was still a truth that the book provided. He couldn't believe he'd only been back in Prongs's kids life once so far this year with Sirius out of the picture. "Not even writing to him, I'm just, this future- I don't want to stop-" He stopped himself quickly before something stupid came out. 'Being there for you,' probably sounded way too intimate to Padfoot. Maybe if he'd actually been around Sirius during that awful Ministry fight he would have come back out of it and none of this would be thrown in their face so repeatedly!

What kind of heartless monster couldn't do the bare minimum to look after one of his best friends kids anyways? And he was complaining Sirius wasn't ready for more, he clearly wasn't capable of it either.

Sirius had such a beautiful smile, and one he so rarely showed anyone. A smirk, his teasing grin were all anyone but the Marauders ever got to see, and Remus drank his fill in now as Padfoot squeezed his fingers while mimicking as well, tracing his cheek before letting his hand rest on his neck as they naturally mirrored each other. Remus wouldn't dream of denying he instantly felt warm and assured as he leaned into the touch even before Sirius told, "this future's a mess Moony. Don't kick yourself about this poor kids life we have no control over. We'll find a way to fix this."

He spoke with such assurance it's like they should have heard the very words Evans was reading change to match. Remus was convinced Sirius could hypnotize the moon to never be full again in that moment as he leaned in and kissed him.

It was just sweet, and gentle. There was no randiness in either of them, just a silent promise as Remus leaned back that no matter what, his words would be true.

HPHPHPHP

*Let me know what you think Hermione's favorite book is. I personally always thought it was Sherlock Holmes.

[ofgraveconcern]

27th January 1591, Scottish schoolmaster Dr. John Fian is burned for witchcraft during the North Berwick witch trials. Lasting two years, during which 100 people were accused and tortured, the trials were the first major Scottish witchcraft persecution. They had begun after the Scottish King James VI, had sailed to Copenhagen to marry the Danish Princess Anne. Upon their return to Scotland the ship faced strange storms, that convinced the Danish Admiral that the storms were unnatural, and had been summoned into existence by witchcraft. Fian was accused of sorcery and confesed after torture of having a compact with the devil. He was then strangled and burnt on this day. The case was reported in a pamphlet published in 1591, called ‘Newes from Scotland, Declaring the Damnable Life of Dr. Fian, a Notable Sorcerer’. The pamphlet was further published in 1597, as part of King James VI’s dissertation on necromancy titled ‘Daemonologie’. It has been estimated that in Scotland between 1560 to 1707, 3,000 to 4,000 accused witches may have been killed. 29th January 1594, Scottish mathematician, physicist, and astronomer John Napier dedicates his work "Plaine Discovery of the Whole Revelation of St. John" to King James VI. It is ironic therefore due to the fact that Napier himself was accused by his neighbours of alchemy, and necromancy, the same dark arts that James VI’s work Daemonologie’ would highlight. Napier it was said would travel with a black spider he kept in a box, and also a rooster he had covered in soot to colour it black. In his work of this year, Napier predicted that the end of the world would occur in 1688 or 1700. Continued in the comments. #witchart #witchartwork #historymysteries #weirdhistory #macabrehistory #hiddenhistory #historicalmysteries #darkhistory #oddhistory #historicalstories #historicalstory #witchcrafthistory #witchyhistory #witchcraft #witchtrials #scottishhistory #houseofstuart #scottishwitches #witchhistory #jamesvi #16thcentury #17thcentury #witchcraftblog #historyofwitchcraft #witchcrafthistory #darkacademia #seventeenthcentury #kingjames #stuarts #witchcraft https://www.instagram.com/p/CKrNBdoHXAZ/?igshid=1ljw1cy2o9jhx

[ofglories]

"Medical staff rarely has anything interesting to discuss with patients. But they're always gossipping about patients like you with each other."

Did Mingze know that from experience?

Perhaps.

Still he watched Lu Zhi drink the tea with a careful eye over the fan, humming softly. The tea seller knew, of course, that the other Foxian disliked bitter tastes. In fact he knew the other man's preferences almost a little too well for someone who insisted they were simply a business relationship. But unfortunately even with honey there was little to be done to mask the horrid tastes of the medicinal herbs that would help Lu Zhi's healing along.

The fact that the pilot drank the entire cup with only a grimace made pride surge in him for a moment.

Just a single moment where painted lips raised into a smile behind the screen of silk, before they dropped again at the change in topic.

"You're a pilot of the Sky-Faring Commission, yes, I'm aware. A dangerous job I've often insisted you retire from as soon as you are able." An insistence that was always met with a laugh and Lu Zhi waving it away. Not that Mingze expected any differently, really. Some people were born for the skies. And the man before him was one of those people, even if it grated on him. How many times had he lost people he had considered friends to the dangers of working for the Sky-Faring Commission, to the orders of the damnable Ten Lords? It made the former alchemist scowl, eyes dropping to stare at the stark white bandages against Lu Zhi's skin. With the herbs in the tea and the expertise of the medical staff, at least, there would be no major permanent reminders once those were gone.

A blessing the pilot's friends were not able to share.

His ears drooped slightly, a sympathetic hum slipping past his lips as the other man spoke of the battle. The ambush. What was the Divination Commission doing to not have forewarned the pilots so they wouldn't suffer such loss? So that Lu Zhi would not need to have lost his friends and very nearly his life?

Mingze hated it.

This was the very sort of incompetence and poor planning that had driven him from the Alchemy Commission. Incompetence that bordered on the sort of casual cruelty a child would inflict on an insect from lack of care.

As tempting as it was to storm up there, to yell at both the General and the Head Diviner... There would be no point. So instead he inhaled slowly, calming the fury boiling in his veins. And instead picked up a piece of the soft, fluffy candy on his plate to offer to Lu Zhi instead. Not exactly what he would have normally allowed but... He had almost lost him.

And Lu Zhi had lost so much.

"Keep their memories always in your heart, but do not let the loss drive you to despair." With that said, Mingze flicked his tail imperiously. "Here, try these. For drinking your tea without complaint. They're a new recipe some of the shops nearer the port developed once the Alley started to get more busy. An entire mess of a tale I must tell you. You simply would be appalled at the nerve of those IPC idiots." The Foxian sighed dramatically, fanning himself lightly as he gestured in disgust. Not at all feigned. It had been a near disaster and the only good thing was the revival of the Alley.

   there's the briefest glimpse of a face that he longed since wished to witness, before it would disappear behind a wave of hair in his view, then a shoulder as mingze came into for a tight hug.

   lu zhi responded in kind, wrapping his arms into the warmth of the other man, the best reassurance that this wasn't some drug induced dream again but also support for the tragedy he'd been both a witness and part in, all the while struggling to ignore the rush of pain that spread throughout him. embarrassingly, lu zhi groaned about it, feeling all the more like an old man about it when in foxian terms he's on the younger side of things but being passed out in a coma and on bed rest for months would do that. adding along with that is the tiny peals of laughter at every insult thrown his way without argument, as he deserved it.

   "i can't say that the medical staff had the most interesting things to talk about, mingze," he replied, leaning forward to try to get another peek at the older man's face, pouting at his failure, as medical speak about his health and arguing with him that he should try eating all that herbal junk for the sake of his health was 'good for him, quit spitting it out.' besides that, they were busy people, that he'd rather not take from their job when there were others to check too.

   but he's content with the comfort of taking a seat at his regular spot, waiting patiently for whatever it is that mingze deemed to feed him. it would be infinitely better than hospital food, he thought, until lu zhi caught the whiff of very familiar herbs used in medicine wafting from his tea.

   man.

   it's at least sweetened, but the natural bitterness had him pull a face while swallowing it down. free is free, provided by mingze, so for both their sake the pilot didn't complain; mostly because he had to heal faster if he wanted anything sweeter than fruit and testing mingze's patience could mean it being delayed longer.

   he swirled his spoon through his soup, partially to allow it to cool and to delay just a little bit longer to give himself time to think. "well, you already know what i do for a living," lu zhi began, considering in comparison to mingze, his own life wasn't a secret. the busy life of a pilot for the luofu, how expected. though he could've lived life across the road from the tea parlor like one of those cheesy stories that keep getting passed around, lu zhi typically enjoyed what he did, as it gave him a sense of purpose, thinking he could save so many lives.

   an ideal that's challenged when his friends had died around him.

   swallowing his grief down, lu zhi explained it as simply as he could: "we were attacked, which isn't entirely new in this line of work, but this time we were too reckless. we were outnumbered. it's probably with the blessing of the reignbow arbiter that i'm still alive—" he stared down at his murky reflection in his soup, for a moment, then peered up towards the man with a wry smile. "but my friends weren't and i think i'm still trying to process that."

   such loss was merely expected. didn't mean it didn't make it any easier, because what could he do once he went back to that life and find the spots that were taken by his friends were simply replaced by others, just like that? more lives to throw out into the fray? and the sad part is is that lu zhi would continue to line up, because he knew that he's at least keeping someone else from having their lives taken if he remained in the fight.

   "...so that's what happened," the pilot continued with a sigh, plainly as there's no way he could sugarcoat it since he'd keep these memories close to him now. "mingze, unless you want to hear about the poor meals they kept serving me at the medical bay, there's not much else besides the coma, i suppose. maybe we should move onto the gossip to lighten things up."

[alchemic-elric]

You could have revived your mom. You just did it wrong.

Elicit a strong emotional response from my muse || Accepting 

“Shut the fuck up.” He snaps with a growl in his voice. “Don’t talk like you know goddamn thing ‘bout it.”  

It’s not possible. It’s not possible. It can’t be done. 

He’s seen the proof of it with his own eyes. Life only flows in one direction. People don’t come back from the dead. Once we’re gone, we’re gone. People don’t come back. People never come back. 

The tension in his jaw is visible as he locks it. What did they know about it? Nothing. They couldn’t know the truth of it all. They couldn’t have seen the failures. They couldn’t have seen the hell they walked through - fought through just to survive. 

Just did it wrong.  

They’re right. He did. He never should have touched that damnable alchemy in the first place. Some things are supposed to stay forbidden.  

[peaceinpandemonium]

"Words and their meanings have weight in the world of matter, shaping and reshaping realities through a most ancient alchemy. Even my own writings - so damnably powerless - may have just enough power to reach the right person and to tell the right truth, and change the nature of things."

From The Ten Thousand Doors of January by Alix E. Harrow

[voidsentprinces]

Rain

The Rain.

Always with the rain. The forsaken rain. The torrent of cloud’s mercy. The heavens open and the skies weep. How it scorned her. How it mocked her. Oh how those droplets fell with embittered servitude. Remind her that all that which laid before her was to fall. To drown in its own desperate struggles to make amends. As the very foundations of the world crumbled beneath its weight.

“How long?” She thought, “How long before the greed the Monetarists bleed Ul’dah dry? How long before the nobility of Doma burns itself? How long does Ala Mhigo stand on ground paved on the blood of its children? How long does the iron spires of Garlemald remain unshattered by Emet-Selch’s grand farce? How long before Gridania drowns in its own self-satisfaction as the very elements, they work to defend bend against them. How long before the Admiral goes down with her ship and Limsa Lominsa falls into that deep, deep chasm? How long will Ishgard suffer the ideals of a young Knight Commander?”

The heavens held no answer. Like her gods, the Twelve that watched over Eorzea. Remained silent, all it could do was rain. Rain the tears of an unseen Goddess. Pleading with the realm to continue existence in a bid to prolong her already crumbling existence. My how those Ascians cling. Cling to that God who flies in the night sky. Cling to the hope that all with return whence it came. Mocking those who summon lesser gods to the realm while expecting their own god to yield better results. Oh blackened night how it will swallow that misbegotten Emissary and his woeful kin. Even the Voice of the Mother is now silenced after being rejected by a child eons apart from this realm.

The corrosion of acid biting away at the foundations. Seven kin. Seven spiteful, intoxicating, ravenous, wanton, indolent, abhorrent, and vain kin. Conscious blights upon this realm. Conscious of their corrosive to the blind mortals. Who pay them lip service with every action or inaction. How delightful it must be for them never to know. The depths of their depravity. To feed them all and wonder why the well is poisoned.

How long had she slept? How long had she dreamed. Dreamed of wishes long since past. Of bonds long since broken. How long had it been the blackened rain poured upon her home land and her Gods gave her no answer as she burned in the void, since that poor soul defended her from the dark, gifted his shining armor whose light had long since snuffed out? How long has the abhorrent kin taken her arm and leg? How long had the indolent kin replace it with metal and forbidden alchemy? How long had it been since she repaid them all in kind by tearing their beating corrupted hearts from their chest?

Oh how they must of enjoyed their vacation. Lounging across the realm. Prancing about in false sense of freedom. How she would remind them. Remind them of all they took from her. How she would enjoy making the spiteful kneel before her, the intoxicated break, the ravenous starve. Oh how delightful to see the wanton suffer, for of the indolent knowledge to fall short, for the abhorrent to become an ember once more. And to see the vain’s face again fallen before her. How heavy the seven hearts were. How heavy her task was.

She would make them sink into the dark and remember the dark shadow. How they would remember the words she cut them with all that time ago. When she first bound them and brought them low.

“Look upon me and know, despair. For the eighth sin arrives to drown all in the black shadow of melancholy,” She would recite as she drove her blade through her backs, which they will be made to provide in tribute. Too long had these voidsent princes since run rampant in mortal court. She would ensure their place set right to her beckon call.

But, first she needed to escape this damnable rain.